Chapter Three
They camped at dusk in a narrow valley where the land folded inward between two ridges. A creek ran over pale stones nearby, babbling softly in the dark. Above them, pines climbed the slope in black ranks, and farther off the first true shoulders of the Highlands rose beneath a bruised sky.
The beauty of it was severe.
Not gentle like English woods in autumn.
This land did not invite. It watched.
Claire was lifted down from the horse at last. Her legs nearly failed her, but she refused the satisfaction of letting anyone see it. She straightened her cloak, set her shoulders, and accepted a cup of water from a young warrior with more dignity than she felt.
“Thank you,” she said.
The lad blinked as though startled she had manners before he scampered away.
Lachlan, standing near the fire, observed the exchange with an unreadable expression.
“You expected me to bite him?” Claire asked, not meeting his gaze.
“I expected nothing,” he retorted and went back to stoking the fire.
“Then you are less foolish than you look.”
One of the warriors choked on a laugh and disguised it badly as a cough.
Lachlan’s gaze slid briefly to the offending man, who instantly became fascinated by his horse.
Claire folded her arms. “How far have we come?”
“Far enough ye’d freeze before finding England again tonight.”
“Then I may flee tomorrow?”
His gaze reached her and a full grin broadened his mouth. “If ye wish to be chased.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “Would you chase me yourself?”
The man’s interest remained on her for a moment too long, deepening the green with challenge, maybe? “Aye.”
The simple word curled low in her stomach for reasons she did not care to examine.
She pushed it aside and focused on freedom, not the burgeoning desire for this rough man before her.
She had no experience whatsoever with men like him.
Yet her traitorous thoughts lingered on the man who had prevented a marriage she had never wanted.
A marriage she’d only learned of the eve before.
Her father demanded her attendance in his study.
A stranger stood near the window, the shadows cloaking his appearance.
Was it the man who stood before her now?
No, no it couldn’t have been. The hidden man was much smaller than the broad man.
And surely, she’d have detected the scent of heather and peat.
When her father stated her impending marriage, he’d done so with a cold, clipped tone. No emotion saved for his only daughter—his only child. Once he’d finished his instructions, he’d tipped his head in dismissal.
And what had Claire done? The most foolish attempt to plead with the man.
Her parting words hurled through the study with loathing and hurt.
“Mother would have stopped you,” she had yelled. “She would never allow you to wed me to a man I did not know.”
He’d steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the tip and said, “Your mother is dead. She is no longer relevant.”
No longer relevant? The stoney iciness of his words shattered her heart.
More than that, they told her the man’s mind was determined and to sway his decision would prove futile. How she missed the man who taught her Shakespeare.
Claire remembered the way the room had tilted then, how she had dug her nails into her palms simply to remain standing before him. She shook the horrid memory aside and sat before the fire.
They ate in near silence, though it was not the brittle silence she had expected. The men spoke softly. Someone told a story in Gaelic and it drew quiet laughter. The fire snapped. The scent of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and wet pine filled the air.
Not raiders.
A people.
A home carried with them.
Claire looked at the shadows of the ridges against the darkening sky. “Tell me something true,” she said suddenly.
Lachlan, seated opposite her, glanced up.
“One thing,” she pressed. “No riddle. No half-answer. No threat dressed as courtesy.”
His jaw worked once. Then he said, “I did not take ye for vengeance.”
Surprised, she asked, “Then why?”
He shrugged. “I took ye because leaving ye in England was worse.”
Claire’s heart skipped. How had he known? What did he know of her father, their properties and the plan to wed her to a stranger?
The firelight threw bronze into his hair. His face remained difficult to read, but not empty. Never empty. More like a door barred from the inside.
She stared at him. “You are very determined to be mysterious.”
“Nay,” he said. “I’m determined to keep ye breathing.”
That was worse. Far worse.
Because it sounded honest.
# # #
The camp settled by degrees.
Men rolled into blankets. The horses quieted. Clouds thinned enough to reveal a smear of stars above the ridge, though the moon remained hidden. Lachlan stood apart at the edge of the firelight, looking over the narrow valley where mist collected in silver strips along the burn.
He heard her before he saw her.
“Do all Highlanders keep watch like ghosts?” Lady Claire asked.
He turned. She had wrapped her cloak tight and come only a few paces from the fire.
“Only the handsome ones.” He cringed. He had not meant to say it.
Her brows rose. “Then I shall keep an eye out for one.”
God save him.
“There’s the banter,” he said dryly.
“You began it.”
“Aye, English Rose. A rare tactical error.”
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of water over stone and distant peat. She looked up at the ridge, and moonlight broke free just long enough to silver the line of her cheek.
She canna sleep, he thought. Nor could he.
“Ye should rest.”
A grunt echoed off the surrounding pine and he found the unladylike sound charmed him.
“And you should answer questions.”
“Those are two very different burdens.”
Her mouth twitched as though she fought a smile. “Have you always been insufferable?”
Her quick wit wrought a grin. “Near enough.”
She hesitated, then asked more quietly, “Am I truly safe with you?”
The honesty in the question hit him harder than accusation would have.
Lachlan stepped no closer. “Aye,” he said. “With me, ye are.”
He watched the answer land in her eyes.
Not trust. Not yet.
But something had shifted.
Enough to make the situation fraught with temptation and danger.