Chapter Thirteen
The storm cleared the following afternoon.
Wind drove the last clouds east, revealing a sky scrubbed clean and bright. The glen below Raven’s Berry shone in fresh color—wet grass blazing green, the loch churning a hard blue beneath sun.
Claire rode with Lachlan along the ridge above the keep. The view afforded them an advantage over their enemy.
“See,” Lachlan said as he pointed to the south. “They camp in the valley below.”
Fear skittered up her spine. She shaded her eyes in order to inspect the enemy. “They are so close.”
“No’ to worry, m’lady.”
But she did. She worried for herself and the clan. Danger lurked just a valley below and at some point, it would come for a reckoning.
Neither of them spoke for some time. The silence between them had changed since the previous night.
It was no longer empty or merely companionable—it thrummed with something unspoken, something alive. An awareness settled between them, fragile as spun glass and twice as dangerous. It frightened her… and yet, it thrilled her all the same.
“Your men respect you,” she said at last, if only to steady her thoughts.
“They respect the position.”
She turned her head, studying him in the dim light, a soft smile touched her lips at his modest reply. The man beside her was many things—commanding, unyielding, quietly fierce—but humble was not among them. Not truly.
“That is not the same thing.”
He glanced at her then, his gaze sharper than before, as though he sensed the deeper meaning beneath her words.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you respect the position?”
Claire held his gaze, her breath catching for the briefest moment. How could he ask such a question? Had she not proven her loyalty in every choice she had made, every risk she had taken?
“I respect the man who stands in it.”
Her voice was quiet, but it did not waver. The truth of it settled between them, heavier than the silence that had come before.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The air between them grew unexpectedly tender—subtle, fleeting, but unmistakable. As though her words had struck deeper than he had expected or perhaps deeper than he wished.
And suddenly, the space between them felt far too small.
# # #
The cliffs above the western sea had always been his refuge.
When burdens grew too heavy, he rode here and let the wind tear his thoughts apart.
Now he brought her. What did his actions say to his clan? Did they think him a fool swayed by a comely lass?
At times, his lairdship exhausted him. Admitting such, even if just to himself, felt cowardly. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of others, do for others, as his father and his grandsire had during their leadership.
They dismounted near the edge where the land dropped steeply to the crashing surf below.
Sea wind roared upward, lifting her hair and cloak.
Lady Claire stepped toward the cliff and stared out across the endless water.
“It feels like the edge of the world,” she said softly.
“Aye.”
The single word carried more weight than it ought, low and certain, as though it had been forged somewhere deep within him.
She turned to him, searching his face, the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair. She fought them with one hand and laughed in annoyance.
Lachlan caught a loose curl before the wind stole it again.
Claire's breath caught.
The smile faded from his face.
His hand lingered longer than intended. Behind them, waves crashed against the rocks below, breaking the moment. Lachlan withdrew his hand.
“And yet you chose to bring me here.”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. His gaze drifted past her, out across the sweeping horizon—the rolling heather, the loch catching what little light remained, the wild, untamed beauty of the Highlands stretching endless and unyielding.
Then he looked back at her.
“Because if the world ends,” he said, his voice betraying his emotions, quiet but sure, “I would rather ye see its beauty first.”
The words were too honest. Too close to the truth he had no business speaking.
He saw the moment they struck her—the sharp intake of her breath, the way her lips parted as though she might speak yet could not. His heart gave an unfamiliar tug with some unknown emotion in answer.
The moment stretched between them, taut as a drawn bow.
He felt it as surely as he felt the wind rising around them, whipping at his plaid, tugging at her skirts, howling across the cliffs like a warning he had no intention of heeding. Neither of them seemed to hear it. Not truly.
Lachlan moved toward her.
She did not step back.
That alone was enough to undo him.
Every instinct he possessed—every hard-earned lesson of control and distance—told him to move away, to put space between them before he forgot himself entirely.
He did not.
Instead, Lachlan stepped closer.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As though he offered her the chance to flee—even as every part of him willed her to stay.
His gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there a heartbeat too long before lifting again, searching her eyes—for hesitation, for fear . . . for any sign she would deny him.
She gave none.
Instead, she held her ground. Her breath came unsteady, her pulse a wild flutter at the delicate curve of her throat, her gaze rose to meet his as though drawn by something neither of them could resist.
God help him, it would have been easier—safer—had she turned away.
He leaned in.
And she followed.
The world narrowed to the space between them, to the warmth of her breath, to the quiet surrender in her eyes. Lachlan lifted his hand, his fingers brushing her cheek with a reverence betraying him.
Distant shouts shattered the moment.
He stilled, the spell breaking as sharply as if struck. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into his palm as though he could still feel her.
Instead of claiming her, he bowed his head, resting his forehead against hers. Her breath came ragged against his face, each exhale a temptation he had no right to take.
His next choice could ruin her far more surely than tearing her from England and dragging her to Raven’s Berry ever had.
“Sorry, my English Rose,” he muttered, the words rough and insufficient.
Hurt flared in her blue eyes—sharp, unmistakable—quickly chased by a spark of anger.
“I’ll no’ ruin you further than I already have.”
The words felt like a blade turned inward, carving restraint where desire had nearly taken hold.
But even as he spoke them, he knew the greater danger was not in ruining her—it was in wanting her too much to ever let her go.
For the first time, the thought of losing her frightened him more than the men hunting them.