Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Finn stood at the threshold of the great hall, his jaw tightly set as he waited for the woman who was currently upending his entire life.
He had ordered the heavy iron bar on her bedchamber door for her own damn safety.
With a wounded Westerly raider still unaccounted for in the high passes, Finn was not about to take chances.
Yet, when he had opened the door to fetch her for supper, the Duke’s daughter had marched straight into his chest like a furious bantam hen, demanding to know if he kept all his betrotheds locked away like prize hounds.
She had been wearing nothing but a thin, white linen shift.
Finn closed his eyes for a brief second, his fingers tightening over the stone doorframe as the memory hit his gut.
The shifting firelight in her chamber had rendered that scrap of linen practically translucent.
He caught a glimpse of the soft, curving silhouette of her hips, the slender length of her bare legs, and the rapid, frightened rise and fall of her chest. It took every ounce of his restraint not to let his gaze drop, not to let himself appreciate the sheer, breathtaking beauty of the woman who had dropped into his lap.
MacSween's cousin, he reminded himself brutally, his pulse still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Keep yer eyes up, MacRae. If ye touch her, Leo MacSween willnae just demand an explanation; he’ll bring down the entire southern vanguard to peel the skin from yer bones.
"Are ye going to stand there brooding until the frost sets in, Laird MacRae, or are we going inside?"
Claire’s sharp, mocking whisper snapped him back to the present.
Finn opened his eyes, looking down at her.
Janet had managed to find her a dry gown of deep crimson wool.
It fit her far better than the borrowed kirtle from before.
Her hair was partially pinned up, but several stubborn curls had escaped, framing her flushed face.
"I am waiting for ye to remember yer manners, lass," Finn said, offering his forearm. "And to remind ye that when we step through these doors, ye are supposed to look like a woman who is madly in love with me.”
Claire placed her hand onto his forearm. Even through his doublet, the spark of her touch seared right through to his skin.
"Oh, I can assure ye, Laird MacRae," she said, giving him a feigned smile that made his stomach do a flip, "I have an excellent memory for every slight, and a Duke's daughter has more patient ways of ruining a man than a dirk ever could."
"A terrifying prospect," Finn muttered, though his mouth twitched up.
He led her into the great hall, and the sheer volume of the space washed over them. The hall glowed golden beneath the light of tallow candles. The air was thick with the rich scent of roasting mutton, spiced ale, and baked bread.
Children ran between the long tables, their laughter echoing off the rafters. A group of elderly clansmen argued loudly over a game of cards, slamming their ale down onto the oak table with theatrical fury.
As Finn walked through the room, his people greeted him naturally.
“Me Laird!” t hey echoed.
There were no terrified bows here, no forced pleasantries. Men raised their horns of ale with wide grins, and older women threw lighthearted jests about his permanent scowl.
A little girl no older than five came sprinting around the edge of a table, chasing a loose wooden hoop. She was on a direct collision course to slam into Finn's armored legs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw Claire stiffen, her hand tightening over his forearm as if she instinctively wanted to leap between them to protect the child from his fury.
Does she truly think me a monster? h e thought, a brief flash of irritation crossing his mind.
Instead of moving away, Finn simply stopped.
With a practiced, easy reflex, his large, battle-scarred hand shot out, catching the little girl one-handed by her waist before she could fall face-first into his iron sword belt. He lifted her an inch off the floor, stabilizing her easily.
The enormous, battle-scarred Highlander calmly listened while the girl, entirely unbothered by his size, began to ramble excitedly, her small hands gesturing toward the stable yard.
"Me Laird! Me Laird! I found a bird’s nest near the stables! It has three tiny blue eggs inside, and the mother bird went squawk when I looked at her!"
Finn crouched slightly, bringing his massive frame down toward her level, his green eyes fixed on her tiny face with absolute, serious attention. "Did ye touch the eggs, Elspeth?"
"Nae! I just looked!" the girl chirped, nodding vigorously.
"Good," Finn said, his voice dropping into a low rumble that lacked any of its usual harshness. "The mother bird willnae come back if ye leave yer scent on them. Keep a watchful eye from the doorway, but let them be. Understand?"
"Aye, me Laird!" Elspeth squealed, giving him a bright, gap-toothed grin before she snatched up her hoop and went laughing back toward her mother.
Finn rose to his full height, adjusting his plaid. He turned his head, finding Claire staring up at him, her gray eyes wide and remarkably soft, the defensive stiffness entirely gone from her shoulders. She looked at him as if she were seeing a different man.
"But yer clan is... wonderful," the words slipped out of her before she could stop them, her voice a quiet, breathless sound that cut right through the noise of the hall.
Finn felt a sudden, fierce warmth swell in his chest. He looked around the room, at the children, the old men, the roaring fires, and a deep sense of pride settled into his features.
"Everything here survives because we survive together, lass," he said softly, his gaze dropping back to her face. "The mountains arenae kind to those who stand alone."
"Aye! And they arenae kind to those who let the venison pie go cold either!" Douglas’s voice bellowed from the high table. The old warrior was already deep into his cups, his silver beard flecked with ale foam. "Sit down, Finn! Before Janet decides to give yer portion to the hounds!"
"If I give anyone’s portion to the hounds, Douglas, it’ll be yers," Janet shouted back, prompting a roar of laughter from the surrounding tables. "The lady looks like she hasn't eaten a real meal since she crossed the border. Sit, sweet lass, and ignore the old fool."
Finn led Claire to the high table, pulling out her heavy carved chair for her.
The gathering quickly turned into a celebratory feast. Plates of roasted root vegetables, thick barley bread, and rich, steaming venison pie were passed down the tables.
In the center of the floor, a young man pulled out a set of bagpipes, joined by an older clansman with a fiddle.
The lively strains of a traditional Highland reel began to echo off the stone walls.
Finn sat beside Claire, pretending to focus on his meat, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. There was a desperate, hungry look in her eyes, not for food, but for the unbridled joy of the people dancing. Her small fingers were unconsciously tapping a beat against the table.
She wanted to dance. He could see it in the way her lips parted, in the way her breath was faster.
"Ye want to dance," Finn stated bluntly, setting his goblet down.
Claire’s head snapped toward him, her cheeks warming with a fierce blush. "Nae. I daenae know yer steps, Laird MacRae. London dances are formal things. I would only make a fool of me self."
Finn noticed Old Morris watching them from the corner of his eye, his gaze calculating every interaction. We need to give them a show, Finn thought, but deep down, a far more dangerous, primal urge was clawing at his gut. He wanted an excuse to touch her.
Finn rose, extending his scarred hand down to her. "I’ll lead ye," he said, his voice dropping into a low command, his fingers wrapping firmly around hers and pulling her up. "Just follow me feet, lass. And try nae to step on me boots; the leather is fresh."
The surrounding clansmen cheered, parting for them.
The music turned into a deeper, heavier rhythm. He stepped directly into her space, caging her from the rest of the room.
As he placed his palm against the small of her waist, Finn’s breath caught in his throat.
Through her dress, he could feel the supple curve of her lower back.
Claire let out a sharp gasp, her gray eyes widening as her hand flattened against his broad.
He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs, her entire body going rigid.
"I told ye," his voice a rough, gravelly whisper as he looked down at her parted lips. "I have ye.”
He took the first step, guiding her into the rhythm of the dance.
Claire was hesitant at first, her boots catching on her skirts, but Finn didn't let her fall.
His grip on her waist tightened, his other hand capturing her slender fingers, lifting them.
He moved her with ease, his body communicating every turn before it happened.
Within a minute, the stiffness melted away. Claire found the beat, her natural Highland blood taking over as she began to spin and move. A genuine laugh escaped her lips.
"Look at them!" Douglas yelled from the high table, slamming his horn down. "The Laird’s found a woman who can out-step him!"
"Keep yer mouth shut, Douglas, before I come over there and shut it for ye!" Finn shouted over his shoulder.
As they danced, the physical reactions between them grew too intense to ignore.
Every time her waist shifted against his palm, he felt a heavy, primal ache settling deep in his belly.
She was so small compared to him, her head barely reaching his chest, yet she carried a fierce, electric energy that seemed to light up the entire hall.
He could see the beautiful flush spreading across her cheeks, the sweat glistening faintly at her temples.
Her breath was coming in short, ragged puffs, her chest rising and falling violently against his.
Every few steps, the wild spin of the dance brought her thighs brushing against his, the heavy wool of their garments doing nothing to hide the hard press of their bodies.
Claire looked up at him, only at him. Her fingers tightened over his knuckles, and she felt no fear. Her eyes held a spark that dared him to close the distance, and Finn understood. She was challenging him.
The music reached a frantic crescendo, the fiddle drawing out a final, triumphant note before the bagpipes stopped with a long sigh.
The hall erupted into thunderous cheers and clapping, the warriors stamping their boots against the stone floor.
Finn stopped, but his hand did not leave her waist. He stood in the center of the floor, his chest rising and falling in heavy gasps.
He kept her pinned against him, the heat radiating between their bodies.
Claire’s hands remained on his chest, her fingers trembling as she tried to draw air into her lungs.
"Ye... ye led me well, Laird MacRae," she whispered breathlessly.
Finn’s thumb traced a slow line over her hip. He saw the way her pupils widened at the touch, heard the hitched breath that left her lips. "Aye," Finn murmured, his voice raw. "But the dance isnae over yet, Lady Claire."
Before she could ask what he meant, a heavy, metallic clank echoed from the high table.
Old Morris rose from his bench, his eyes gleaming with a calculating light as he raised his goblet. The hall fell silent, the cheers dying away as the councilman leveled a dangerous grin at the couple in the center of the floor.
"A fine display, Laird!” Morris croaked. "It is clear to every man in this hall that the love between ye is fierce. The council has reconsidered our timeline. We willnae wait for the harvest feast to secure this alliance."
Finn felt Claire go rigid in his arms.
Morris’s grin widened. "The priest arrives from the southern glen in two days, me Laird. The wedding will happen then, ensuring the MacSween gold is ours. Giving the clan the heir we need before our enemies strike."