Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The storm was not just an inconvenience; it was a siege. For two days, rain hammered Rosewood Castle's stone walls, while the wind howled through the glens, trapping everyone inside. The sky was a dark, endless charcoal, and freezing mist cloaked the world beyond.
Inside, it was a golden sanctuary. Claire naturally slipped into clan life, not playing a role but living it, as days blended in the warmth of the hearth. She spent her time in the kitchen with Mrs. Campbell, preparing the meal amid scents of thyme, rosemary, and baking bread.
"Ye have a steady hand for an English lady," Mrs. Campbell noted, her voice raspy.
"My mother taught me," Claire said. "She said a home is only as good as the hearth that warms it."
"She was a wise woman," the housekeeper replied, tossing a handful of salt into the pot.
"A home is built of more than just stone, lass.
It is built of the people who break bread together.
Ye are starting to look like ye belong here, despite the fancy upbringing.
Even the mud on yer skirts looks like it belongs to the land. "
Claire smiled, though she kept her eyes on the carrots to hide the sudden moisture in her gaze. "I am nae so sure about belonging, Mrs. Campbell. I am still learning how to tell the difference between a Highland dance and a tavern brawl."
"There isnae much difference, truly," the older woman cackled, stirring the stew with a massive iron ladle. "The dance just has better music, and the brawls usually end with someone paying for the broken stools. Either way, everyone goes home with a story."
Mrs. Campbell leaned down to get the trays, but Claire was already ahead of her.
“I’ll get that for you, Mrs. Campbell.” She smiled at her.
Claire wiped her hands on her apron and picked up the heavy wooden tray. As she carried it into the main hall, she was greeted by a wall of warmth. Nearby, a group of elderly women gossiped shamelessly beside the hearth. Their voices rose and fell in a rhythmic, melodic pattern.
Claire listened to their snippets of conversation, mostly complaints about the price of ale and the poor quality of the latest shipment of wool, and felt a strange, aching contentment.
"Did ye hear about Callum?" one woman whispered loudly, leaning over her knitting. "He tried to bathe in the river yesterday, and the current dragged him all the way to the southern bend. He spent three hours shouting at a salmon because he thought it was a water kelpie coming to take his soul."
"Callum has spent too many years drinking sour mash," another replied, her needles flashing. "He wouldnae know a kelpie from a cow. I saw him talking to a goat last week, convinced it was his long-lost brother."
Claire stifled a laugh behind her hand, feeling the fire's warmth soak into her skirts. The absurdity of their lives was grounding, a stark contrast to the silent decorum of her father’s estate.
Nearby, warriors played dice with more shouting than strategy. Fergus, a hulking brute, was losing his shirt and accusing others of weighted dice.
"If that piece lands on a six again, I am throwing the table into the fire!" Fergus roared, his face turning a deep shade of crimson as the dice clicked against the wood.
"Maybe if ye practiced yer prayer beads instead of yer gambling, the dice would treat ye better," old Elspeth cackled from the hearth, not looking up from her knitting.
Fergus pointed a thick finger at her. "Ye are a cruel woman, Elspeth! Ye are supposed to be cheering for me, not mocking me misfortune!"
"I cheer for the man who shows a bit of sense, Fergus, and ye have shown none since the sun rose," Elspeth retorted, never missing a stitch.
The hall erupted in laughter, and Fergus grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer under his breath, only to be mocked further by his friends.
Claire felt a bubble of laughter rise in her own throat.
She was laughing harder than she had in months.
It was a sound so foreign to her, yet it felt as natural as breathing.
Even the children seemed to accept her now.
A small boy, his face smudged with soot, tugged urgently at the hem of her skirts. He held out a wooden horse, its front leg dangling by a single splinter of pine.
"Can ye, me lady?" he whispered, his eyes wide and hopeful.
Claire knelt, the damp grass soaking into the hem of her gown, but she didn't seem to notice. She took the toy, her fingers moving with a practiced, steady grace as she fished a length of twine from her pocket.
"It is a noble steed," she said, her voice light, though her brow was furrowed in concentration. "It would be a shame to leave him lame."
With a few deft loops, she lashed the limb back into place, pulling the knot tight with her teeth. She smoothed the twine down, checking the leg's stability before handing it back.
The boy clutched the horse to his chest, looking at her as if she had performed a miracle rather than a simple repair. He flashed a gap-toothed, worshipful grin, a sudden, unexpected warmth swelled in her chest that she didn't quite know how to handle.
"There," she said, her smile wavering slightly. "Good as new.”
How did I become this woman? Just a few weeks ago, I was in London, drowning in lace and expectations. Now, I am mending toys and laughing with women who have forgotten more about survival than I will ever know. I feel a peace here that I never found in the grand ballrooms of the south.
"Lady Claire," Douglas called out, his voice booming over the din of the hall.
He was sitting on a bench, looking entirely ridiculous as two little girls carefully braided ribbons into his silver-streaked beard.
"Come tell these wee ones that the monsters in the hills are not real.
They seem to think I keep a dragon in me boot. "
Claire stood and walked over, suppressing a smile. "Well, Douglas, do ye keep a dragon in yer boot?"
"I keep a very angry polecat , which is much worse," Douglas said with a straight face.
The little girls gasped, their eyes wide.
"Tell them the truth, Douglas," Claire teased, sitting beside him. "The only dragon in this castle is the one who keeps the keys to the pantry."
"Aye, that is Mrs. Campbell," one of the girls whispered, looking toward the kitchen with newfound respect.
As hours passed, music filled the hall. Fiddlers and bagpipers, bored of the rain, set up near the hearth. Highland reels echoed off the walls, sending clansmen dancing through the warmth.
Claire lingered near the musicians, bobbing her foot to the tempo. She had said earlier she used to play the violin for her family when younger, never expecting it to lead to her holding a fiddle.
"Try then, Mistress!" a young lad shouted, his face red from dancing. "Show us if ye have the fingers for it!"
Claire laughed happily and hesitated before singing herself into playing her instrument. The wood and bow felt awkward at first, but the music came naturally, recalling Highland rhythms her mother had hummed.
She closed her eyes, fingers flying, and the hall came alive—dancing faster, cheering louder.
Claire played with passion, her body swaying, hair loose and wild, feeling the music pull the dancers into perfect sync.
For moments, she forgot her titles and felt a deep belonging, immersed in the rhythm of struggle and joy.
She finished with a joyful crash, and the hall cheered wildly, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration.
Then, as her eyes opened, she saw Finn across the hall, watching her intensely—still, silent, with burning green eyes that seemed to sear her.
Her breath caught; the warmth turned hot, the crowd's cheers faded into a buzzing.
Finn’s gaze was hungry, making her feel as if she’d ignited the room and herself with her music, reaching out to him in a question only he answered. Without a word, Finn turned and left into the storm, the doors shutting behind him, bringing cold back into the room.
Claire stood in the sudden, ringing silence, the bow still trembling in her hand.
Good. Let him go. I’ve no need for a man who treats a moment of joy like a betrayal of his own rigid honor.