Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The stone corridor was freezing, yet Claire felt as though she were walking through the center of a blazing hearth.
Claire pressed her back against the rough granite of the passageway, trying to draw a steady breath. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, her fingers brushing her own swollen lips.
I can still taste him, she realized, her pulse stumbling wildly in her throat. The dark, intoxicating flavor of spiced ale, the wild wind, and the sheer, raw heat of him… it is still on me skin.
She could still taste him. It’s all she could think of.
"Lady Claire? Lamb, where in the heavens have ye been?"
Claire jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. She spun around, her heavy boots skidding against the floorboards.
Molly was hurrying down the opposite end of the corridor, muttering under her breath. She carried a thick linen towel over one arm, her round face pinched with maternal worry. The maid stopped abruptly the moment she saw Claire standing in the shadows.
"There ye are!" Molly exclaimed. "I was beginning to think ye'd gotten lost in these dark passages. The gathering will end soon, and I drew yer bath as ye asked. But the water will grow cold at this rate, and honestly, sweetling... ye look as though someone hit ye over the head with a pan."
Claire blinked. Once. Twice.
"What?" she managed to whisper.
"I said the water is cooling," Molly repeated gently, stepping closer and reaching out to tuck a wild, wind-blown curl behind Claire's ear. Her dark eyes searched Claire's face with tender concern. "And ye look stripped of yer senses. Are ye unwell? Did the noise of the hall become too much?"
His mouth against hers. His massive hand gripping her waist, pulling her flush against the hard, unyielding line of his body.
The dark, feral sound he made deep in his throat right before he tore himself away.
The memory of it all was enough to render her breathless, as if he had stolen more than just a kiss.
She had been raised in the finest drawing rooms of London, taught to maintain absolute composure, yet one kiss from a Highland warlord had shattered her.
"Ye’re flushed," Molly declared, her worry shifting into a gentle, protective suspicion as she examined Claire’s rosy cheeks. "Did somethin’ happen?"
"Nay, Molly, absolutely nothing happened," Claire lied smoothly, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge. She walked straight past the maid toward her chambers. "I only went out to the battlements to catch some fresh air. The great hall was simply too warm."
"Fresh air?" Molly fretted, turning on her heel to follow her mistress closely. "It is practically a gale out there! Ye’ll catch a chill in yer lungs, and then what will I do with ye? Ye must get into the warm water before the frost settles into yer bones."
"I am going, Molly," Claire warned, quickening her pace. "But the bath will grow cold if ye spend the rest of the night lecturing me."
"That is exactly what I have been trying to tell ye," Molly said with an affectionate sigh.
The copper tub sat in the center of the room, sending thick plumes of lavender-scented steam into the air.
Claire began fumbling with the laces of her bodice.
She felt an overwhelming need to wash away the memory of the storm, to scrub her skin until she stopped feeling the weight of his chest pressing against her.
"Let me help ye, before ye tangle the laces," Molly murmured softly, and expertly undid the ties. "Ye are safe here, Claire. Whatever it is that has ye so rattled, it cannae reach ye in this room."
But the danger isnae outside the door. The danger is inside me own head. I provoked him. He warned me nae to play games, and challenged him. And the worst part is... I wanted him to do it.
Finn returned to his study with the taste of Claire still in his mouth.
He stalked through the corridors, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a physical manifestation of his foul mood. The moment the heavy oak door of his private study shut behind him, Finn braced both of his hands against the edge of his desk.
Christ and all Saints preserve me. What is wrong with me?
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness only brought her image into sharper, more agonizing clarity. He could feel the soft press of her lips yielding beneath his.
He could feel the desperate way her hands had tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. She had tasted so sweet.
I am the Laird of Clan MacRae. I have spent years carving a stronghold out of these unforgiving mountains through unyielding discipline.
I daenae lose me temper. I daenae lose me focus.
And false or not, I absolutely daenae drag me betrothed into the shadows of a balcony and devour her like a starving beast.
He walked over to the side table and grabbed a crystal decanter of dark amber whiskey. He poured a heavy measure into a glass. The liquor burned a fiery trail down his throat, but it did not burn away the memory of her.
The door creaked open.
Finn set the glass down and smoothed his expressionless mask back into place. He adjusted the collar of his leather doublet, ensuring his breathing was perfectly level before he turned around.
Douglas stepped into the study, pulling the door shut behind him.
"We expect ye back downstairs," Douglas said carefully, breaking the heavy silence. "The music has stopped, and the men are finishing their ale. It is time for the Laird to dismiss the hall."
Finn straightened, lacing his hands behind his back. “Aye. I will be down in a moment."
He meant to sound authoritative, but his voice came out rougher than usual.
Douglas crossed his arms, studying Finn with a piercing gaze that had seen him through a hundred battles.
"Ye look miserable," Douglas observed bluntly.
Finn shot his friend a warning glare that usually sent men scrambling for apologies. "I am tired, Douglas. It has been a long week. Managing the border patrols, dealing with the council, and keeping our 'guest' from causing trouble."
Douglas snorted, "Aye, well. Marriage will do that to a man."
"It isnae a marriage, Douglas. Need I remind ye? It is a ruse.”
"Nae yet, it isnae," Douglas corrected dryly, turning his back to the fire to face his Laird.
He offered a knowing smirk. "Ye’ll get used to it.
The noise, the arguing, the way they look at ye when ye act like a stubborn mule.
Janet drove me mad the first year. Now I cannae sleep if she isn't snoring beside me. "
Finn almost laughed at that.
He could never get used to it. Because getting used to it meant accepting it, and accepting it meant letting her become a permanent fixture in his life. He knew the danger of that.
"I daenae intend to get used to anything," Finn said aloud, his voice dropping into a flat tone. He walked toward the door, retrieving his dark cloak from the heavy wooden hook. "I intend to secure our borders and send the lady safely back to her cousin."
Douglas watched him, the amusement fading from his face, replaced by a deep, quiet respect. He clapped a heavy, calloused hand against Finn’s broad shoulder, the gesture speaking of years of shared bloodshed and unwavering loyalty.
"Ye’d make a fine husband, me Laird," Douglas said quietly, his tone sincere now. "Ye already carry this clan on yer back. Ye feed them, ye protect them, ye bleed for them. The rest comes naturally."
Finn stared at the closed oak door, Douglas’s hand feeling incredibly heavy on his shoulder.
If only Douglas knew exactly how naturally certain thoughts about Claire have begun arriving, Finn thought, a grim, self-deprecating shadow crossing his mind.
"Let us go downstairs, Douglas," Finn commanded softly, stepping away from the older man's grip. "The men are waiting."
When Finn entered the great hall, the atmosphere was thick with the remnants of the evening's gathering.
The fires had burned down to glowing red embers, and the energetic music had ceased.
The younger warriors were gathered near the lower tables, finishing the last of their ale in a low, rumbling hum of conversation.
Finn walked toward the center of the hall, his presence immediately commanding the attention of the room. The murmuring tapered off into absolute silence as the Laird took his place.
He raised his hand slightly, and every man in the room straightened.
"The night is done," Finn's deep voice boomed across the stone walls, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the room without him needing to shout. "The watches are set at the outer gates. Get to yer beds. We have stone to move at the eastern perimeter at first light."
"Aye, Laird MacRae!" the men chorused as one, setting their horns down and moving toward the barracks with practiced discipline.
Finn watched them disperse. As he stood near the high table, his gaze drifted upward toward the gallery that led to the guest chambers.
She was up there. In his stronghold. He knew she was likely bathing by now, the hot water washing away the freezing chill of the balcony, leaving her skin flushed and soft. The image flashed through his mind with agonizing clarity.
"Laird MacRae."
Finn snapped his attention away from the gallery. Old Morris had hobbled over from his seat, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane. The councilman’s yellowed eyes were sharp, glinting with a stubborn, calculating light.
"What is it, Morris?" Finn asked coldly.
"Torquil and I have been discussing the arrangements," Morris croaked, a sly grin stretching across his wrinkled face.
"Since the priest arrives the day after tomorrow, we must ensure the southern glens are notified.
We wouldn't want yer bride’s family to think we wed her in secret like thieves.
I have taken the liberty of drafting the messengers… "
Finn’s blood turned cold.
He closed the distance between them in a single stride, towering over the elderly councilman.
"Ye will notify nay one," Finn commanded, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper that resonated with the unyielding power of the Devil of the North. The few remaining clansmen in the hall froze, sensing the volatile shift in the air.
Morris’s grin faltered, though he tried to hold his ground. "But me Laird, the alliance…"
"I gave ye me word that the wedding would happen," Finn interrupted, his green eyes burning with a fierce, uncompromising fire.
"Daenae push me, Morris. Ye have yer timeline.
I will handle me bride. If I find out ye have sent riders behind me back, or if ye overstep me authority in this hall again, ye will answer to me sword, nae the council. Do ye understand?"
Morris swallowed hard, his wrinkled throat bobbing. The fear in his eyes was genuine. He realized, perhaps for the first time, that the iron restraint of his Laird was fraying, and what lay beneath was lethal.
"Aye, Laird MacRae," Morris whispered, bowing his white head quickly. "As ye command."
"Good." Finn stepped back, adjusting his heavy sword belt. "Now get out of me sight."
As Morris hurried away, his cane tapping frantically against the stone, Finn looked back up at the dark gallery one last time.
He had two days to figure out how to stop a wedding he had promised to his clan without plunging his people into a civil war. He had two days to keep his hands off a woman who occupied all his thoughts.
God help me.