Chapter Five
The chamber they gave her was not what Claire expected.
It was spacious by fortress standards, with a wide bed hung in blue wool, a small hearth with a fire burning steadily, and a narrow window looking over the loch.
Late light rippled over the water below in bands of pewter and pale gold.
A carved chest sat at the bed’s foot. An armoire against the wall near the door. A basin steamed on the washstand.
Comfort and consideration.
It disarmed her more than chains would have. Worse still, some traitorous part of her wanted to be grateful for it. Gratitude felt far more dangerous than anger.
Maddy moved about the room with brisk efficiency. “’Tis broth coming. Fresh linen too. Ye’ll find the latch works from the inside if ye wish privacy.”
Claire turned, surprised by what the woman said. “You do not fear I will escape?”
Maddy snorted. “Out into a Highland night with cliffs, bogs, and weather eager to kill? Ye may if ye like. Saves me carrying extra blankets on the morrow.”
Claire could not help it, she laughed.
The sound startled them both.
The maid blushed and tipped her head.
When Maddy left, Lachlan remained near the threshold, not fully entering. As though he had set an invisible boundary and meant to honor it.
“This chamber is either courtesy or strategy,” Claire said.
“Can it no’ be both?”
She studied him. “You have a vexing habit of sounding reasonable while doing outrageous things.”
The right corner of his mouth tipped upward. “A laird must cultivate talents where he can.”
“Are all Scottish men smug?”
He winked. “Only the tall ones.”
The answer nearly made her smile again, which was intolerable.
She folded her hands to hide it. “Am I confined?”
“Nay. The hall, bailey, and near grounds are open to ye. Beyond the walls, ye’ll have an escort.”
“Guard, you mean.”
He shook his head and humor fled his green eyes. “I mean escort. Guard sounds rude.”
“And kidnapping does not?”
Now he laughed. A rumbling of his chest. How the sound endeared her, had her nearly taking a step toward him. “I’ve admitted that part was rude.”
The banter faded. Quiet settled between them, made deeper by the crackle of the hearth and the wind combing past the outer stone.
Claire became abruptly aware of his size, his stillness, the way he looked at her—not like a conqueror appraising his spoils, but like a man keeping himself under severe control.
It was not comforting.
It was worse.
It made her curious.
“You keep saying I am under your protection,” she said. “Protection from whom?”
His face closed a fraction.
“From what’s coming.”
A shiver skittered down her spine at the ominous tone of his words. “And what, pray tell, is coming?”
His gaze moved once toward the window, to the darkening loch and the hills beyond. “Something with teeth.”
Before she could demand more, he bowed his head slightly. “Rest, Claire.”
A grin pulled on her mouth. Her name in his voice did strange things to the air.
He left her with firelight, silence, and far more thoughts than any woman ought to have on her first night in a Highland keep.
# # #
He should not have said her name.
Not like that.
Not as though it belonged naturally in his mouth.
Lachlan descended the tower stair with controlled steps while his mind refused all control at all.
The keep below glowed with evening life.
Men returned from the outer fields. Dogs barked.
The kitchens smelled of mutton and onions and fresh bannocks.
Ordinary things. Useful things. Things which ordinarily grounded him.
Instead, he heard her voice.
Am I confined?
Protection from whom?
She asked questions like a barrister laying a trap.
And every truthful answer brought him closer to revealing dangers he had sworn to contain alone.
In the hall, he paused by the high table while the steward brought him the day’s accounts. Numbers, grain tallies, winter stores. He read none of it.
Because upstairs, in the blue chamber overlooking the loch, sat an English lady who had looked at him with fury, intelligence, and something he was afraid might one day become understanding.
Understanding would be disastrous for her.
Desire was worse.
Want struck him tight and low in his body.
He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered an oath under his breath.
Maddy appeared as though summoned by bad temper. “Ye look like a man arguing with himself.”
“I’m winning,” he said.
The old woman smirked. “Liar.”
She moved on before he could answer.
And the damned woman was right.