Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Sweet heavens,” Claire breathed, as the massive oak doors of Rosewood Castle groaned open before her. For a second, she forgot to breathe at all.
After the freezing, muddy terror of the road, the great hall was an absolute assault on the senses. Roaring peat fires blazed in two massive hearths, casting a thick, golden warmth across the stone floors.
The air was heavy with the rich, savory scent of roasting mutton, boiled cabbage, and ale.
Dozens of clansmen, women, and hounds moved through the space, their loud, overlapping voices creating a chaotic symphony of life that felt miles away from the silent, threatening forest she had just escaped.
Two small children, their cheeks flushed pink with health, chased a bounding wolfhound pup right past Claire's sodden skirts, their bright laughter echoing off the high rafters.
Claire stood near the threshold, her jaw locked tight as she tried desperately not to show the tremor still lingering in her knees. She smoothed down her filthy, ruined blue velvet skirts, lifting her chin to adopt her finest London posture.
Daenae flinch, Claire. Daenae let them see the mud on yer velvet. If ye look like a victim, these people will treat ye like one. But sweet heavens, it is warm in here. It smells of real bread and safety.
"Move aside, ye great lumbering fools!" a sharp, commanding female voice barked from the crowd.
A short, stout woman with fiery red hair streaked with white came bursting through the cluster of warriors.
She wore a simple dark wool gown, but she carried herself with the authority of an empress.
The moment her bright hazel eyes landed on the travelers, she bypassed Finn entirely and marched straight toward Claire and Molly.
"Oh, look at the state of ye!" the woman cried, her face softening into an expression of fierce, maternal concern. "Dripping like drowned crows and shaking like leaves in November!"
Before Claire could utter a single polite greeting, the woman threw her arms around her, pulling her into an embrace that smelled of lavender, flour, and woodsmoke.
Claire froze, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides for a split second.
In London, embraces were calculated, stiff affairs.
But this woman held her with an overwhelming, unconditional kindness that caught Claire entirely off guard.
A sudden, tight knot formed in her throat, and her eyes burned with a fierce, unexpected rush of emotion.
Oh, god. Daenae cry. Not in front of the brute. But her arms feel just like me mother’s used to when the winters got too heavy.
"Janet, let the lass draw breath," Douglas said, walking up behind them with a weary chuckle.
The woman, Janet, pulled back, giving Douglas a sharp swat on his leather-clad shoulder.
"And ye! Letting a highborn lady be dragged through the bogs by those black-hearted raiders! If I find out ye let her carriage go near the low road during a gale, Douglas, I’ll feed yer favorite boots to the pigs. "
"It wasnae me fault, woman!" Douglas protested, raising his hands defensively while several nearby clansmen began to snicker. "The raiders were waiting in the ditch! Ask the Laird!"
Janet turned a critical eye on Finn, who was currently unbuckling his wet leather cloak. "Aye, and he looks just as sour as usual. Finn MacRae, ye bring a fine lady, and ye daenae even offer her a hot brick for her feet? Where are yer manners?"
"She doesnae want a brick, Janet," Finn rumbled, his deep voice sliding across Claire's nerve endings like a rough stone. "She wants a bath. And a quiet room."
"I can speak for me self, Laird MacRae," Claire shot back, stepping out from behind Janet’s protective bulk. She leveled a cool look at him, her gray eyes flashing in the firelight. "Though for once, he is correct. A bath would be lovely. Preferably one that doesnae involve river water."
Janet’s eyes darted between Claire and Finn, a sudden, knowing spark lighting up her hazel gaze.
"Oh, ho. The rumors travel fast, but the reality is far more interesting. Come along, sweet lass, and bring yer maid too. We’ll get ye out of those wet clothes before the old men in the corner chew off their tongues staring at ye. "
Claire glanced toward the far end of the hall and felt her stomach drop.
Sitting near the high table were four elderly men wrapped in heavy tartans, their white heads huddled together like ancient crows. The council. Word of Finn’s supposed betrothal had clearly outrun their own horses. They weren't just waiting; they were inspecting.
"Are those the gentlemen I am supposed to impress?" Claire whispered to Janet as they began walking toward the stone staircase.
"Gentlemen?" Janet snorted loudly. "Lass, that’s Old Morris and his brothers. They arenae gentlemen. They are just a collection of ancient aches and bad opinions. Ignore them until ye’ve had some hot broth."
An hour later, Claire sat cross-legged on a large, fur-lined bench in her new chambers, feeling human for the first time all day.
The copper tub in the corner was still steaming, the scent of dried meadowsweet filling the room.
She wore a borrowed kirtle of soft green wool, far too large for her, but warm enough to thaw her bones.
The heavy oak door rattled, and Finn stepped inside without knocking.
Claire immediately sat up straight, her fingers gripping the fur trim of the bench. "In London, a gentleman knocks before entering a lady's bedchamber, Laird MacRae."
"This isnae London," Finn said, repeating his favorite phrase as he closed the door behind him.
He had changed into a dry, dark gray tunic, his black hair still damp from his own wash.
He didn't look like an accountant now; he looked entirely like a king returning to his mountain stronghold.
He walked over to the small table near the hearth, setting down a silver goblet and a small wooden bowl.
"Janet sent this. Spiced wine and venison stew. Eat."
"I am nae hungry," Claire said defiantly, though her stomach chose that exact moment to let out a loud, traitorous growl.
Finn’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile breaking his stony expression. "Yer belly is a worse liar than yer tongue, Lady Claire."
Blast him and his green eyes.
Claire swung her legs off the bench and marched over to the table, her bare feet hitting the warm stone floorboards.
She snatched up the silver goblet, taking a deep gulp of the spiced wine.
It warmed her throat instantly, but as she set the goblet down, she realized Finn hadn't moved.
He was standing less than a foot away, watching her every movement with an intensity that made the skin on her bare arms prickle.
"Why are ye staring at me like that?" she demanded, her voice dropping.
"The council is waiting downstairs," Finn said, his gaze drifting from her eyes down to the loose neckline of the green wool kirtle, where the fabric slipped slightly, revealing the pale slope of her collarbone.
"They have already called a formal session.
They want to see the woman who claimed me name. "
"Then let us go down and get it over with," Claire said, reaching for her cloak on the chair.
Finn’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her forearm. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute. The heat of his palm seared through the wool of her sleeve, sending an intoxicating shiver down her spine. Claire’s breath caught in her throat as she looked into his dark emerald eyes.
"Ye stay behind me when we enter," his voice dropping into a low, possessive murmur. "Old Morris is going to press for details. Ye will let me do the talking, do ye understand?"
Claire tried to pull her arm back, but the movement only brought her closer to his broad chest. She held his gaze a moment longer, then let her shoulders drop. “Fine. I will let ye speak first. But if they press me directly, Finn, I willnae sit there mute like a doll.”
"Lass, ye daenae understand the danger here," Finn said, his head tilting down, his breath brushing warm against her temple.
"Every eye in that hall is looking for a reason to doubt this match.
If they think we are playing a game, they will tear us apart.
Ye belong to me for the next three weeks, Claire.
Every man in this valley has to believe that. "
He’s doing it for the show, Claire thought, a sudden, bitter pang twisting in her chest even as her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
He doesn't see me. He just sees a shield to convince his council. He’s caging me just like me father did.
"I am perfectly capable of playing me part, Laird MacRae," she whispered, her gray eyes narrowing as she forced herself to ignore the wicked, tingling heat pooling low in her belly from his touch. "Now release me arm."
Finn stared at her lips, his thumb twitching against her wrist, before he slowly let his fingers uncoil. He stepped back, his expression reverting to a cold, unreadable mask. "Get yer shoes on. We daenae keep the council waiting."
The atmosphere in the great hall had completely shifted. The children and hounds had been cleared away, and the long timber tables were now lined with the senior men of the clan.
Finn marched down the center of the hall, his hand resting heavily on the hilt of his broadsword. Claire walked half a step behind him, her hands folded neatly in front of her green gown.
"So," Old Morris croaked, leaning his elbows on the high table. He was a withered man with a beard that reached his belt and eyes like yellowed flint. "This is the southern bird who claims to be a MacRae."
"She doesnae claim it, Morris," Finn said as he took his seat at the center of the table, pulling Claire down into the heavy carved chair beside him. "She is mine. The arrangement was made in secret to protect her from her father’s enemies."