Chapter 20 #2
The heavy oak door opened behind her. The hinges gave a low, groaning protest. She knew it was him before she even turned around.
Some traitorous, newly awakened part of her had begun cataloging his presence like a sixth sense, the subtle shift in the air pressure, the way he favored his left boot ever so slightly from some old battle injury he'd never explained to her.
"Ye werenae at breakfast," Finn said.
"I wasnae hungry." Claire finally turned from the window, forcing herself to meet his gaze.
He looked terrible and devastatingly handsome all at once. He'd changed his shirt and washed the blood from his hands, but the events of the night had left their mark.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes. Something heavy and dark sat on his broad shoulders, pulling the corners of his mouth down into a grim line.
"Is the messenger boy still with us?" she asked, needing to bridge the space between them with something other than the memory of the rain.
"Aye. Mrs. Campbell says he'll keep the arm, if the fever doesnae take him first." Finn crossed the room slowly.
He stopped just a few paces away, close enough that the faint, intoxicating scent of cedar smoke, rain, and warm skin drifted toward her, yet far enough that the empty air between them felt like a physical barrier.
She tried her best not to take one step closer to him.
"I am sorry," Claire said softly, her hands twisting in the fabric of her skirts.
Finn's brow furrowed. "For what?"
"For bringing this to yer door. I ken why they attacked him, Finn. They are testing you. They ken you have taken a bride, and they want to see if this alliance makes ye weak. If they can draw ye out. It is me fault that boy is lying in the stillroom."
"Daenae be absurd," Finn snapped, the sudden harshness in his tone making her flinch.
"Ye daenae control the greed of the southern clans, Claire.
They have been lookin' for an excuse to test the borders since the winter thawed.
If it wasnae you, it would be a dispute over a stolen horse.
Daenae presume to take the pressure of highland politics onto yer own shoulders. "
"But I am the catalyst," she insisted, refusing to back down. "And because of me, yer men have to bleed."
Finn looked away, a muscle ticking hard in his jaw. He stared at the unlit hearth for a long moment, the silence stretching taut between them. "I've been thinkin' on the roads south," he said finally, his voice devoid of any inflection.
Claire's stomach plummeted. The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath her feet.
"Once they're passable again," he went on, his gaze still fixed on the stones of the fireplace, "I mean to see ye to MacSween lands meself. I'll gather an escort of me best men. Ye'll be safe."
She heard the words perfectly well, but it took her a moment to process them, the way it sometimes took a second for a deep cut to actually register the pain. Molly's teasing words from the kitchen evaporated, replaced by a cold, rushing panic.
"Ye're sending me away."
"I am seein' ye to safety." His jaw worked furiously before the correction came out. He finally turned his eyes back to her, and they were guarded, shuttered tight.
"Are ye?" Her hand shot out behind her, gripping the stone windowsill.
She needed something solid that wasn't him.
"Some weeks ago, yer men carried me trunks up from the gatehouse as though I were staying the winter.
Yesterday, ye kissed me in the rain like the world was ending.
Now I'm to be handed off to me cousins like a parcel sent to the wrong address? "
"It isnae like that, Claire."
"Then what is it like, Finn? Please, illuminate me." Her voice was rising, echoing off the high ceilings. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks remarkably like a man deciding me fate over breakfast without once consulting me on the matter!"
His hand came up to drag violently through his dark hair, a rough, unpracticed gesture.
He was a man far more accustomed to giving orders on a battlefield than explaining the intricacies of his own heart.
"Ye heard the messenger last night. Every rival clan between here and the coast now kens I've taken a bride, but havenae yet secured her, havenae yet gotten an heir on the way.
That's the openin' they're waitin' for. The moment we wed and an heir's comin', that door closes.
Until then, if any of them wished to bring me to me knees without crossing a blade with me, they'd only need to take ye. "
"Then let them try." Her voice climbed, thin and fierce, surprising them both with its ferocity.
"I have held a dying man's wound shut with me own two hands, Finn MacRae.
I have survived the journey here, the whispers of your council, and the cold of this keep.
I am nae made of glass. I willnae shatter just because the wind blows from the south! "
"I ken that better than any man alive."
The raw, ragged certainty in the way he said it made her gasp. He took a sudden step forward, closing half the distance between them. The sheer size of him, the heat radiating off his body, was overwhelming.
"That isnae why I'd have ye gone," he rasped.
"Then why?" She stepped toward him before she could think better of it.
She was close enough now that she had to tip her chin up to hold his gaze.
Close enough to see the exhaustion lines around his eyes, close enough to feel the chaotic, rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Give me the truth of it, at least. If ye are going to exile me, ye owe me that much. "