Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Finn stood near the far wall, his back braced against the cold stone of a pillar, watching Claire move through his hall .
She has nay right to look that radiant. She has nay right to make this hall feel so full, so complete, when I ken she is meant to leave. Every smile she gives them is a piece of me resolve being whittled away. I am watching a fire that is slowly consuming me, and I cannot turn away.
The way her hands moved across the fiddle strings, so nimble and confident, while loose curls fell into her face and danced with every movement, nearly drove him mad.
It was a torture he had invited upon himself, watching the way her body swayed in time with the music, her spirit so bright it felt as though she were burning the very air around her.
He remembered the feel of those hands, remembered the way they had brushed against his arm, and the memory made his blood boil with a mixture of desire and resentment.
Stop staring. Look at the grain reports. Look at the perimeter guards. Do anything but look at her.
But he could not. Everyone around her looked happier—guards smiling, kitchen staff dancing, air smelling sweeter.
Finn was furious at himself for feeling brighter.
Her laughter, the firelight on her throat, her defiant playfulness overwhelmed him.
A man of silence, he was losing control, and it terrified him.
"Me Laird?"
Finn jumped, his head snapping toward the voice. It was Angus, one of his younger scouts, holding a platter of roasted meat.
"Aye?" Finn growled, his voice deeper than usual.
"The fiddler is asking if ye want the next reel to be something slower," Angus said, grinning. "He says the Mistress has the spirit of a banshee when she plays, and the men are getting worked up."
"Tell him to play whatever the hell he wants," Finn snapped, his gaze immediately darting back to Claire. "And tell him to quit gawking and focus on his strings."
"Aye, Laird," Angus muttered, backing away with a confused look.
Finn watched as Claire laughed at something the fiddler said, her head tilted back, her throat exposed in the golden light. He felt a sharp, stabbing jealousy that she could share that part of herself with anyone, even a musician, when he was the one who had spent nights guarding her safety.
How could one woman hold so much power? She was supposed to be a tool, a political convenience, but she is becoming the very air I breathe.
The more I fight it, the more I feel myself unraveling.
My men are watching her with admiration, me housekeeper is treating her like a daughter, and I—the one who should be the most vigilant—am the one most enchanted.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He left.
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots sounding like thunder against the stone floor, and strode toward the heavy timber doors.
The transition to the outdoors was brutal.
Rain poured heavily outside the hall, a freezing curtain of grey that should have been a mercy.
It did nothing to cool the fire raging beneath his skin.
The cold was meant to be a relief, a sharp, biting counterpoint to the heat that had been building in his chest all evening, but it felt like nothing against the internal burn.
He paced the courtyard, his boots sinking into the mud, his mind a frantic, untamable mess of frustration.
He paced until he was breathless, the rain soaking his clothes and plastering his hair to his skull, yet the image of her, her flushed skin, the way she had looked at him, remained seared behind his eyelids.
I am a fool. I am a fool to think I can control this. I am a fool to think that I can survive her presence. She is a storm of her own making, and I am the one standing in the path of the lightning.
A moment later, he heard cheering erupt behind him, followed by the frantic, uneven cadence of footsteps hurrying through the rain.
He stopped, his shoulders tensing, his jaw set like granite.
He did not have to turn to know it was her.
The scent of her, that faint, elusive lavender, seemed to cut through the rain.
Claire stopped several feet away, clutching her cloak tightly around herself as if trying to hold her own fragmented composure together.
Her hair was already plastered to her face, and her gown was soaked through, but she did not seem to notice the freezing conditions.
She looked like a ghost of the woman who had been dancing just moments before.
"Did I offend ye?" she asked breathlessly. "I ken it was inappropriate. I only got carried away. I would never disrespect yer musicians.”
Finn turned slowly, the rain dripping from the sharp angles of his face.
He stared at her, standing there in the downpour, rain soaking through her curls, while music started to echo again faintly behind them from the hall.
She looked frail, yet there was a stubborn fire in her eyes that refused to be quenched by the storm.
She is standing there in the rain, drenched and shivering, asking if she offended me, he thought, his heart slamming against his ribs.
She has nay idea that the offense is not the music, but the way she makes me heart beat like a common soldier’s.
She has nay idea that I am moments away from losing everything I have fought to protect.
I could scream. I could drag her into the keep and lock her away, and yet here I am, letting her stand in the freezing dark.
"Everyone was having a good time," Claire insisted softly, her voice barely a whisper against the wind. "Why did ye leave? Did the music pain ye so?"
"The music is fine," Finn bit out, his voice rasping, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her. "The noise, however, is a distraction I can ill afford."
Claire took a step forward, her head tilted as she searched his shadowed face. "A distraction." She wiped a stray drop of rain from her lashes, her gaze sharpening with a mixture of defiance and curiosity. "Ye’ve faced raiders without blinking, me Laird. A fiddle undoes ye?"
Finn finally looked at her, his expression tight, his jaw set against whatever he was fighting to keep buried. "Ye're nae a fiddle, Claire."
"Then what am I?" she countered, “A coward?”
Finn let out a harsh, jagged laugh. "A coward? Ye know nothing of cowardice, Claire."
"I daen ae?" she challenged, stepping into his personal space. "Why are ye holding back? Why do ye treat me like a threat to be managed when we both know that is not what I am?"
"Ach, just stop," he thought, his fingers curling into his palms until the skin of his knuckles went white.
"I am nae a threat," Claire whispered, her voice softening, her eyes searching his. "I would never act against ye, Finn. I would never do a thing without your permission."
She insisted she would never do something without requesting his permission first, her voice full of a sincerity that made his gut twist. It was too much.
The contradiction of her, this highborn Englishwoman playing a Highland tune, this delicate thing surviving in his harsh world, was enough to shatter him. He could not take it anymore.
"Permission?" Finn laughed, the sound hollow and dangerous. "Ye think ye need permission to destroy me?"
He crossed the distance instantly.
He did not walk; he lunged. He closed the gap between them, his hands finding her face, his thumbs brushing against her wet skin before his mouth crashed onto hers.
He consumed her mouth while Claire gasped softly against him before gripping his wet hair in both hands and kissing him back with equal, reckless desperation. The rain drenched them both, cascading down their backs, but between them, there was only a searing, desperate heat.
What the hell am I doing? Violet trusted me. MacSween will kill me. Worse, perhaps, if there is any worse than death. Claire might actually break me . She is a storm of her own making, and I am the fool who opened the door. I am a man lost in a sea I cannot navigate.
He felt her fragile, desperate strength pulling him closer, the curve of her waist beneath her soaked velvet dress.
For a moment, he forgot the council, debts, and war at his door.
He only felt her, her frantic heartbeat against his.
Each touch was surrender he wasn't ready for but couldn't resist. He kissed her savagely, teeth grazing her lip, tongue demanding a response she gladly gave.
She wasn't just kissing him back; she was answering his unspoken challenge.
"Finn," she moaned into his mouth, the sound a plea and a demand all at once.
He couldn't help himself. He moved one hand down, his fingers spreading over the small of her back, arching her into him until she was flush against his hard, straining length.
He could feel the shivers racking her body, but they weren't from the cold; they were from the sheer, unadulterated shock of their connection.
He pulled back just enough to gasp for air, his forehead resting against hers.
"Do ye ken what ye are doing to me?" Finn groaned, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to rattle the very air between them.
Claire stood frozen, her heart drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs.
She didn't know the mechanics of this, nor its language, but her body seemed to have its own primitive knowledge.
She reached out, her fingers trembling as they fisted into the heavy, soaked wool of his tunic.
She didn't pull him in, nor did she push him away; she simply held on, anchored by the sheer, terrifying heat of him.
"I think ye already ken," she breathed, her voice barely a tremor in the dim light of the stables. "But... it frightens me."
Finn’s eyes darkened, shifting to a stormy shade. He closed the distance with a guttural sound. When his mouth touched hers, it was tentative, testing her reality. It wasn't a practiced kiss; it was raw, hungry, and deep. Claire gasped, her sound lost against his lips.
She had never known a man’s mouth could be so firm, demanding, yet gentle.
His hand cupped her jaw, a rough, searing touch that made her knees water.
She reached up, hands tentative on his shoulders, feeling tension in his muscles.
He leaned into her, pressing her against the stall.
He tasted of rain and cedar, deepening the kiss, sparking heat in her belly that made her whimper.
Finn shifted, drawing her closer. The friction of his wet clothes was maddening, overwhelming her senses.
He kissed her jaw, his lips trailing fire toward her pulse point, she tilted her head back, a low sound escaping her, unfamiliar.
His ragged breath hit her skin, his hands restless—tracing her waist then pressing against her spine, holding her as if she might shatter.
Every touch was exploration: clumsy on her part, restrained on his, a dance of two terrified of the fire they had lit.
She was lost in his scent, his strength, and how his heart pounded with hers. The outside world—the war, council, duty—ceased. Only the wet wool and their racing blood remained, the terrifying realization she was becoming someone new.
Finn suddenly tore himself away, chest heaving with effort, his hands lingering on her shoulders, gripping her gown as if fighting the urge to pull her back.
"Aye, ye do that," he muttered roughly against her swollen, trembling lips, his voice a low, jagged vibration. He stepped away, putting a pained inch of space between them. "Next time, request leave first."