Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"Mistress! Lady Claire!"
The faint voice grew louder as Molly, near the courtyard edge, held a flickering lantern, searching for her lady. Finn, frozen and breathless, remembered her ghostly lips on his. He glanced at Claire, still motionless, her lips swollen, chest heaving under her damp gown.
"Did ye hear me, Claire?" he demanded roughly, his voice a low vibration that barely cut through the storm. "I am nae playing a parlor game. Ye must understand the fire ye are stoking."
Claire did not blink. She held his gaze with a steady, breathtaking defiance that made his pulse hammer wildly in his throat. The voice called out again, much closer this time, echoing loudly off the high stone walls.
"I shall, then," she whispered, a daring spark returning to her grey eyes.
She gathered her soaked skirts in both hands, offered a mocking, perfectly executed curtsy right there in the freezing mud, and turned her back on him.
Finn watched her walk away, his jaw clenched tight.
She moved with quiet dignity, intercepting her frantic maid and disappearing into the shadows of the heavy timber doors.
I should walk away. I should put a locked door and a hundred armed men between us before I ruin her completely.
He stayed out in the punishing weather for a long time, needing the ice to freeze the reckless desires right out of his head. When the cold finally seeped deep enough into his bones to numb his skin, Finn turned and walked toward the main entrance.
He pushed the heavy oak doors open, stepping into the antechamber. He intended to march straight to his solar. But as he reached for the iron handle of the inner doors, a sudden commotion erupted from the outer gatehouse behind him.
"Open the gates!" a perimeter guard shouted from the watchtower. "We have a rider!"
"Hold yer positions!" another guard yelled back. "Identify yerself!"
"It is MacRae colors!" the first voice roared. "He is wounded! Open the gates now!"
Finn shoved the outer doors open and sprinted back into the rain, his hand dropping instinctively to the heavy iron hilt of his broadsword. The massive iron hinges of the main gates groaned loudly as two sentries pushed them wide.
A horse stumbled violently onto the wet cobblestones. The beast was lathered in dark blood, its chest heaving with utter exhaustion. A man was slumped over the saddle, his fingers tangled uselessly in the coarse mane.
"Help him!" Finn roared, crossing the courtyard in long strides.
Douglas appeared from the armory a second later. Together, they reached the horse just as the rider lost his grip and slid sideways. Finn caught the man before he hit the mud. The metallic stench of fresh blood immediately overpowered the crisp scent of the rain.
"Me Laird," the man wheezed, his head rolling back against Finn’s arm.
It was a young guard from one of the factions that set out earlier in the day. A deep, jagged slice cut across his ribs, and an arrow shaft was snapped off clean in his left shoulder.
"Who did this to ye, lad?" Douglas demanded, grabbing the horse's reins to steady the panicked animal.
"Enemy banners," the messenger choked out, coughing weakly. "They hold the southern pass. I couldnae make out whose colors in the dark and the rain."
"Stay with me," Finn ordered, his voice tight and controlled. "Douglas, clear the hall."
Finn hoisted the bleeding man into his arms, ignoring the warm blood soaking into his own wet clothes. He turned and carried the wounded messenger directly toward the great hall, kicking the heavy inner doors wide open with his boot.
Everyone was still laughing and dancing. The fiddlers were playing a fast, joyful reel.
"Clear a table!" Finn shouted, his voice echoing fiercely off the high stone rafters. "Get Mrs. Campbell and fetch a bowl of water! Move!"
The music died. The clansmen parted like the sea, their faces grim and pale. Finn carried the man to the nearest heavy wooden table, gently laying him down upon the planks.
Claire was there immediately. She had barely managed to dry her hair, and she was wearing a fresh gown of simple dark wool, but she did not hesitate. She rushed forward alongside Mrs. Campbell, her hands grabbing a stack of clean linen from a nearby serving cart.
"Step back, Claire," Finn ordered sharply, gripping her wrist before she could press the cloth to the man's bleeding side. "Ye will ruin yer gown. This is nae a sight for ye to see."
"Damn the gown, Finn," Claire snapped back, her grey eyes flashing with absolute defiance. She yanked her wrist from his grip. "He is bleeding to death. Hand me that knife, Mrs. Campbell."
Finn watched in stunned silence as Claire took the sharp kitchen knife and expertly cut away the ruined, blood-soaked tunic. Her hands were trembling slightly, but her jaw was set with fierce determination.
"Hold the cloth exactly here, Lady Claire," Mrs. Campbell instructed, pointing to the deepest part of the wound. "Press hard. Daenae let up, nay matter how he screams."
"I have it," Claire promised.
"Fetch the willow bark and some strong ale. He needs something for the pain immediately." Mrs. Campbell ordered a maid next to her. "We need more linen!" She then shouted to the kitchen maids who were hovering nervously in the doorway. "And fetch the stitching needles. This wound is deep."
"I am pressing as hard as I can," Claire replied, her voice strained. She looked up at Finn, her eyes wide with alarm. "He is losing too much blood. Is there a healer in the keep?"
"We are our own healer, me Lady," Douglas answered grimly, stepping up beside the table. "Keep holding it exactly like that."
Finn's fingers brushed her over the bloody linen, causing a sharp shock and drawing his gaze to hers. His hand stayed, resting on her wrist, feeling her pulse—proof she was still warm and alive. Her swollen lips showed his lack of restraint.
"Tell me exactly what happened, lad," Finn urged the messenger, keeping his voice steady. "How many men did you come across?"
"Two dozen," the boy rasped, his head thrashing side to side.
"They came out of the treeline near the river.
They slaughtered the caravan guards. They left me alive specifically to carry the message.
" He then gasped, "Water." He turned to Finn, his hands blindly gripping his wet sleeves.
"Laird MacRae. I must speak with ye about the message. "
"Drink first," Finn commanded gently, taking a cup from a pale-faced servant. He held it to the man’s cracked lips. "Slowly, lad. Daenae choke."
The messenger swallowed greedily. He forced his eyes open, searching wildly until he locked onto Finn’s face.
"The southern borders," the man gasped once he gulped the last of the water, his grip tightening on Finn’s arm. "The ambush last week. The surviving riders."
"What of them?" Finn asked, keeping his voice dangerously low so panic would not spread through the crowded hall. "Did they reach Ross?"
"They talked," the messenger choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as Claire pressed harder against his side. "They spread the word across the glens. They told everyone that the Devil of the North has taken a bride."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the immediate area. Douglas cursed softly. Finn felt the blood freeze in his veins. He deliberately refused to look at Claire.
"What exactly are they saying?" Douglas growled, leaning heavily over the table.
"Word has spread that ye've taken a bride and mean to secure an heir quickly, me Laird," the messenger continued, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper.
"The rival clans are circlin' like wolves that scent a transition of power comin'.
They mean to strike before yer bloodline is secured, before the succession locks and the MacRae name stands unshakeable again. "
They think I am vulnerable, Finn thought, his mind racing through tactical defenses. They think me focus is on a woman instead of the war. And God help me, they are nae wrong.
"Do ye ken who commands them?" Finn demanded.
"Nay, me Laird," the boy winced in agony. "Only that they're gathering, and gathering fast. Word among them is that the MacRae clan will fall because their Laird is too busy warming his bed with English silver.”
He passed out.
Claire flinched. The tiny movement did not escape Finn's notice. He placed his large hand gently over hers on the bloody linen, silently steadying her trembling fingers.
"See to his wounds," Finn instructed Mrs. Campbell quietly. "Give him the willow bark and keep him warm. If he wakes again, I want to ken immediately."
Finn stood up to his full height, turning his back on the bloody table. He looked at Douglas and the other senior warriors who had gathered around the center of the hall. The festive atmosphere was completely dead.
"Council room," Finn ordered. "Now."
Finn didn't wait to see if they followed. He hurried up the narrow stone stairs to his private solar, pushed open the oak door, and entered the dim room filled with a massive wooden table covered in faded parchment maps.
Douglas closed the door after the last warrior and barred it. Six men, including old Robert Grant, sat inside, along with four others loyal to Finn. Finn placed his palms on the map table, which was curling beneath his fingers, but did not sit.
"Say it plainly," he said. "All of it."
"Someone holds the southern pass," Douglas said, tracing a scarred finger along the worn parchment. "If the messenger's numbers are true, nearly thirty men now. Mercenaries, likely, bought with silver from more than one purse."
"Thirty men cannae hold a pass against us," one of the younger warriors muttered.
"They dinnae need to hold it," Robert Grant said, his voice like gravel dragged over stone.
"They need only to be seen holding it. Every clan between here and the coast will hear of it by week's end, and they will ask themselves whether the MacRae still commands respect, or whether he means to sit on a betrothal forever while his lands go unprotected by an heir. "