Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Open the gates and clear the bailey!" Douglas bellowed over the howling wind.
Claire stood on the sheltered stone steps of the keep, watching the massive iron grates swing inward as riders poured into the muddy courtyard, their horses lathered and blowing hard against the cold.
"Friend or foe, Douglas?" she called, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
"Sinclair banners, me lady." Douglas lowered his broadsword.
"Come to see for themselves whether the rumors from the south hold any truth," Finn added, stepping out from the heavy oak doors to stand beside her. He wore his leather cuirass over a fresh shirt, and his face gave nothing away as he watched the men dismount.
"Is that Ewan Sinclair at the front?" Douglas asked, squinting through the mist.
"Aye," Finn said flatly.
"Well met, Finn MacRae!" A young Highlander strode toward the steps, wiping rain from a sharp jawline and grinning as though the weather owed him nothing at all.
"Ye picked a miserable day to ride north," Finn said, not moving from his spot on the stairs.
"The glens dinnae wait on sunshine to start talkin'." Ewan stopped at the bottom step, hands on his hips. "What news, Finn? What are they sayin' down south?"
"We'll talk of it once I'm properly thawed," Finn said, waving the question off, and only then did his eyes find Claire and stay there.
He pulled his soaked bonnet from his head slowly, as though he needed the extra second to look at her properly. "By all the saints. The rumors in the glens dinnae do ye justice, me lady."
"Ewan Sinclair, Lady Claire," Finn said, and something in the flat delivery of it carried more warning than any raised voice could have.
"A true honor." Ewan offered a bow despite standing knee-deep in mud.
"The honor is mine," Claire said, smiling.
"Just Ewan, please. Titles feel too heavy in this rain."
"As ye wish, Ewan."
"I must ask." His eyes glinted with mischief. "How does a man like MacRae secure a bride of such wit and beauty?"
"A very demanding contract," Claire said quickly, eyes bright.
"Ah, that explains it. Finn could never manage the charm on his own." Ewan laughed, loud enough to carry across the bailey.
"Inside, Ewan," Finn said.
"Only if Lady Claire allows me to escort her."
"I would be delighted." Claire stepped forward and set her hand in the crook of his offered arm.
Finn watched the whole of it in silence, his jaw set hard enough that a muscle jumped visibly along the line of it.
Inside the great hall, he reached the high table first and pulled out the chair to his own right before Ewan could offer his arm again. "Sit here, Lady Claire."
"Thank ye." She settled into it, smoothing her skirts.
"I'll take this one, then," Ewan said easily, dropping into the chair on her other side.
Finn's knuckles went white where his hand rested on the table, but he said nothing as the hall filled with loud, rain-soaked soldiers and the smell of hot broth.
"So, Lady Claire. How d'ye find the Highlands?"
"Cold," she said honestly, wrapping both hands around a cup of cider. "And extremely wet."
"An acquired taste," Ewan said, accepting a tankard from a passing servant. "Builds character."
"I believe I have quite enough character already."
"Nay such thing as too much, me lady."
Finn poured his own ale and said nothing, staring at a fixed point above the fire.
"Ewan's a widower," Douglas offered from across the table, an attempt to draw Finn back into the conversation. "Lost his wife three winters past."
"I am so sorry," Claire said, turning to Ewan with real sympathy.
"Thank ye." A flicker crossed his face, there and gone. "She was a lovely woman. Told me I talked too much to spend a whole life mournin', so I try to find somethin' to laugh at every day since."
"She sounds like she was wise."
"She was." He drank. "And have ye found a reason to laugh today, me lady?"
"I have indeed."
His grin came back full force. "I'm sittin' next to the most fascinatin' woman in Scotland."
"Ye flatter me too much." Claire laughed, a little color coming into her cheeks.
Finn's grip on his cup tightened until the metal creaked faintly under his fingers.
She should be sitting with the widower, he told himself. I should feel nothing watching it. The thought did not hold. It never held, not for longer than the length of one of her laughs.
"Tell me," Claire said, breaking a piece of bread in half, "what do the Sinclairs do for amusement?"
"Tell stories. Race horses across the moors."
"I'm fond of riding."
"Then ye must visit. I've a grey mare that would suit ye down to the ground."
"Lady Claire doesnae travel," Finn said, cutting through it like a blade laid flat on the table.
Claire blinked at him, surprised, missing the dark look he sent across at Ewan.
"She's safe enough here," Finn added, quieter, holding Ewan's eyes a beat too long.
"Of course, Laird MacRae." Ewan's smile didn't dim. "But a lady needs a change of scenery now and then."
"I'm quite content where I am," Claire said, trying to placate the situation.
"Then I'll bring the stories to ye instead." Ewan launched into a tale about a Highland cow that had wandered into his hall during a formal supper and eaten an entire centerpiece off the table, gesturing with both hands to show the size of the beast.
"You are absolutely inventing that," Claire said, laughing behind her hand.
"On me honor, me lady. I chased it out with a broom."
"A broom?"
"It was the only weapon to hand. A sword's useless against a stubborn cow."
Her laugh rang out clear over the noise of the hall, and Finn's shoulders went rigid beside her, though she didn't notice, too caught up in wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye.
She's so full of life. The thought sat in his chest like a stone. And she's wasting an evening of it beside a man who brings her nothin' but fear and a locked door.
"Have ye ever tried reasonin' with a Highland cow, Finn?" Ewan asked, trying to pull him in.
"Nay," Finn said, not looking at him.
"Stubborn beasts, they are."
"I can imagine," Claire smiled, sipping her cider.
"Almost as stubborn as a MacRae," Ewan said, winking at her.
"I believe that." She glanced sideways at Finn, amused, and missed the way his jaw had gone tight enough to ache.
"Does he ever speak at supper?" Ewan whispered loudly, leaning in.
"Only to give orders," Claire whispered back, a smile tugging at her mouth.
"Terribly exhausting."
"It is."
"Perhaps I should teach him a joke or two. I once taught a hound to dance."
Finn felt his control fraying, one thread at a time, with every easy laugh that passed between them.
"Tell me another," Claire said.
"Did I ever tell ye about the time I fell through the ice on the loch?" Ewan launched into it before she could answer, arms wide, describing how he'd lost both boots in the freezing water and walked three miles home in wet socks trying to impress a girl who only laughed at him from the bank.
"I cannae blame her," Claire said, laughing so hard she had to set her cup down.
"A tragic day for me pride."
"But a fine one for a story."
"Exactly. Pride's temporary. A good story lasts forever."
"Ye're a philosopher as well as a storyteller."
"I've hidden talents, me lady." His voice dropped, just slightly, into something warmer.
Finn's hand closed around the edge of the table hard enough that the wood bit into his palm.
Mine! Something low and possessive snarled in his chest, drowning out every reasonable thought he tried to summon in its place.
"D'ye play the fiddle, Ewan?" Claire asked.
"I attempt to. I sound like a dyin' cat."
"I could teach you sometime, if ye like."
"I'd be honored, me lady." Ewan inclined his head politely.
Something hot and violent moved through Finn's chest, fast enough to steal his breath.
"We could practice after supper," Ewan said, leaving his hand where it was.
"I would be delighted." Her eyes were bright, delighted, unaware of the man beside her going rigid as stone.
"I'll warn the men to cover their ears," Ewan joked, and Claire laughed again, the sound clean and sweet, cutting through the noise of the hall and landing somewhere in Finn like a blade finding a gap in armor.
"Enough."
The word came out low, barely more than breath, but it dropped over the table like a dropped blade, and Claire's laugh died in her throat.
"Finn?" She turned to him, startled.
He stood. The heavy chair scraped hard against the stone floor, loud enough to turn heads three tables down.
"Me Laird?" Douglas asked, setting down his knife, sensing the shift in the air before he understood it.
Claire's stomach dropped as she took in the stillness of him, the way every line of his body had gone taut and controlled, a man holding something back by sheer force.
"We've perimeter defenses to see to," Finn said, his voice giving away nothing at all.
"Now?" Douglas frowned. "In this weather, in the dark?"
"Now." No room in it to argue.
He gave a short nod to his senior men and turned, not once looking down at her, and walked the length of the hall with his boots striking hard against the stone.
Ewan glanced between Claire's face and Finn's retreating back, understanding dawning slowly. "Ah. Everythin' said in good faith, me lady. I meant nay disrespect to yer laird."
"I ken," Claire said quietly, watching Finn's back. "Ye did nothin' wrong."
"He's an intense man, that one."
"He is." She felt the sudden cold at her side where his warmth had been a moment before.
Finn shoved the oak doors open and was gone, out into the corridor, without another word.
"Will ye still teach me the fiddle?" Ewan asked gently, trying to draw her back.
"Perhaps another time." Whatever joy had been in her voice a minute ago had gone out of it.
"As ye wish, me lady." He gave her the space to sit with it.
Claire stared at the empty chair beside her, hands twisting in her lap, while the noise of the hall slowly climbed back to its usual roar around her.
Why did he storm off like that? She turned the moment over and over, searching for what she might have done, and came up with nothing at all. Perhaps that’s simply how lairds behave when their allies co me calling.