Chapter Twelve
Claire did not sleep.
Every gust of wind sounded like hoofbeats pounding against the roof, windows—her head.
Every creak of wood made her imagine soldiers breaching the gate and storming the keep.
She lay beneath the thick wool blankets staring at the dark beams of the ceiling, fear and uncertainty consuming her thoughts.
Had her father come for her? Had her betrothed?
At some point near dawn, she rose and wrapped herself in her plaid. She nuzzled her nose in the wool. The warm material smelled faintly of peat and the outdoors.
When she had seen the plaid folded at the foot of her bed, she had clutched her chest. The piece of fabric seemed too dear for a guest. When Maddy arrived to announce the evening meal, she had helped Claire arrange the plaid around her shoulders like a hooded cloak.
When Laird Cameron’s gaze found hers in the great hall, heat rushed through her and bloomed high upon her cheeks.
Anyone with eyes would notice if he continued to look at her so—intently, hungrily—as though he meant to claim her then and there, before all and sundry, with no regard for propriety at all.
His gaze should have prompted fear. Yet none clutched her. An awareness shifted over her—longing—an unfamiliar ache settled low within her, and she had boldly met his hungry gaze with her own.
Even now, her face flamed. The man befuddled and intrigued her.
Drew her thoughts when she least expected it.
She tried to push thoughts of him aside as she left her chamber.
All to no avail. His handsome face remained in her thoughts.
His green eyes and strong jaw. His protective nature and honesty.
When had a man been as honest with her as Laird Lachlan Cameron?
Certainly, her father held little company with the truth. If only she had known just how much he had lied to her.
The laird’s honesty intrigued her. It spoke to the character of the man as did the way the clan revered him, sought him for guidance, and frankly, loved him.
Her respect for him grew each day.
And his intelligence? His mind worked strategically and considered all—the clan, the keep, and the land.
Thinking of the man urged her to see him. Unreasonable behavior for a person in her circumstance, however Claire could not stop herself.
The keep corridors were quiet, lit only by guttering torches.
She followed the sound of distant voices down a spiral stair.
The training yard below lay slick with rain, but Lachlan stood there regardless, speaking with two warriors while the wind whipped his plaid behind him.
Claire stepped into the archway.
“You do realize storms do not pause for strategy meetings?” she called.
Lachlan turned.
Rain streaked across his face, yet he looked entirely at home in the weather as if he were born to it, a man risen from the peat and heather.
A flash of a smile curled his mouth. “Neither do enemies.”
She descended the final steps.
“Then perhaps you should allow the person they came for to assist.”
The warriors exchanged startled looks.
The laird studied her carefully. “You would help defend the keep who kidnapped you?”
Claire lifted her chin. She possessed more strength than people assumed, she always had. Her survival of the kidnapping and indulging in the horrid meal of haggis proved as much.
“I would help defend the people who gave me bread instead of chains.”
The yard fell silent.
Something in the laird’s expression changed.
Respect. Admiration. Deep and unmistakable.
It sounded ridiculous, but her heart surged. Filled her chest with longing. More so, with happiness, an emotion kept dormant in her life.
The thought of facing whatever came next without him felt strangely unbearable.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “That I believe.”
# # #
He had underestimated her.
Not her intelligence—it had been obvious from the first hour.
But her loyalty.
Lady Claire Ashford had known Raven’s Berry only a handful of days, yet she already chose to stand beside them rather than apart.
It should have relieved him. Instead, it made the danger sharper, the stakes higher.
Because if English riders reached these walls and demanded her return, she would face a choice. And the choice could break her.
And Lachlan knew with painful certainty he would rather fight England itself than watch that happen.
She made her way into his every thought. The way the rain dripped from her plaid and traced down her cheeks just as he wished to run his finger along her fine skin. The golden glow of moonlight framed her as if she were an angel, ethereal and a precious entity standing next to him.
Again, desire raced through his blood. This had become something deeper. Desire had given way to longing, and longing frightened him far more—an alarming shift at this junction in their relationship and the fact the English headed their way.
He’d been lonely these past few years. Tired of running the keep without a woman at his side. Someone to share the day’s events, make decisions together, to make love—hold his bairn in his arms.
Lachlan shook his head to clear the sentimental thoughts and headed to his chamber.
He opened his trunk and retrieved his father’s correspondence.
He found the letter his father wrote before his death.
One line captured his attention more than the rest, “If Edward Ashford proceeds, the lass will be lost.”
He folded the parchment.
He closes it immediately, unable to bear the idea of losing Claire.
Lachlan pledged to protect her as he did all within his keep—but more fiercely still, for the English Rose had taken root in his heart.