Chapter Fourteen
Night returned with clear skies and sharp stars.
The keep had relaxed slightly as scouts reported the English riders had turned east toward another pass.
For now.
In the great hall, music replaced tension. A fiddler played near the hearth while clan folk shared ale and stories.
Claire watched the scene with quiet fascination.
“This place feels alive,” she said with joy.
An emotion missing from her life in England.
There, she followed her father’s directive.
Lived a lonely existence without company save her maid Beth.
There was no heartbeat in their manor, no soul.
She almost chuckled thinking of her father watching the scene before them.
His scowl cutting his face in two and how he would order her to her chamber and away from the savage Highlanders.
“’Tis.”
She glanced at Lachlan, refocusing on their conversation and leaving thoughts of England to the side. “And you are the heart of it.”
He shook his head, his red hair waving about his shoulders. “Nay. I only keep the walls standing.”
There was no hesitation in it. No false modesty. Only truth, plain and unadorned.
Claire studied him more closely now, as though seeing past the laird, past the strength and command, to something quieter beneath. The man proved humble after all.
“You truly believe that.”
“Aye.”
She smiled softly. “Then perhaps the Highlands are not the only things here shaped by stone.”
The comment lingered between them.
She watched the subtle shift in his expression, the way her words seemed to settle into him, not dismissed, but considered. The moment stretched, quiet and charged, and she felt it, felt the space between them change once more.
When he looked at her again, the room faded.
The chatter dulled to distant murmurs, the music softened until it was little more than a pulse beneath her own. Even the candlelight seemed to dim at the edges, leaving only him—his gaze, intent and searching.
His green eyes flashed as they narrowed slightly, studying her with a focus so intense it made her breath catch. Surely, he knew. Knew her regard for his men, for him. Knew something had shifted between them since the cliffs.
Then, without a word, he reached beneath the table and took her hand in his.
The intimacy of it startled her, a small breath catching in her throat—but she did not pull away.
Instead, she let her fingers rest within his grasp, acutely aware of the warmth of him, the rough calluses along the ridge of his fingers. This was no courtly touch, no practiced gentleness. This was real. Grounding. And far more thrilling for it.
She lowered her gaze, peering at him through her lashes, studying the strong line of his jaw, the controlled stillness of him. He gave no sign he knew she watched him so closely, no hint of the effect he had on her.
Until his fingers tightened around hers in a slow, deliberate squeeze.
A quiet acknowledgement.
Her composure wavered and her thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the cliffs—the wind, the nearness, the moment had nearly unraveled them both. The possibility she might never discover what would have happened hurt far more than she cared to admit.
Everything had changed since then.
And as she sat beside him now, her hand held firmly in his, Claire knew with a certainty both steadied and unsettled her.
There was no going back.
# # #
He had held himself in check for days.
For duty.
For caution.
For the cold, unrelenting truth, wanting Lady Claire Ashford could cost them both more than either could afford.
He had avoided her when he could. Spoken little when he could not. Kept his distance in halls suddenly too small whenever she entered them.
And still—he was aware of her.
Always.
The sound of her voice across a crowded room.
When he observed her helping the other women with their chores.
The time he’d witnessed her shaping dough with such a look of pleasure on her face, a swift arrow of desire pierced his loins.
And when she wiped her brow, leaving a mark of flour, he nearly succumbed to the urge to grab her and head straight to his chamber.
The lift of her laughter, softer now, as though she, too, felt the shift between them. The way her gaze would find his, unbidden, as if drawn by the same force pulling him toward her since the cliffs.
When she looked at him across the hall—firelight dancing in her hair, her eyes bright, her smile unguarded, something inside him finally gave way.
Restraint cracked.
He crossed the room before he could think better of it. Stopped before her.
“Walk with me,” he said. His words were low, controlled, but not quite steady.
Claire rose without hesitation.
Her actions alone nearly undid him.
They stepped out into the night, the great doors closing behind them with a muted thud. The air was cooler, fresher, carrying the scent of water and stone and the distant promise of rain. Above them, the sky stretched vast and endless, scattered with stars burning like quiet witnesses.
The loch lay dark and still below, its surface catching faint glimmers of light.
For a time, they walked in silence.
Not strained. Not empty.
Aware.
Lachlan felt it in every step, every breath—the nearness of her, the brush of her sleeve when the path narrowed, the quiet rhythm of her presence beside him.
At last, he reached for her hand.
Slowly. Giving her time.
She did not pull away.
Her fingers slipped into his as though they had always belonged there, and the simple contact struck deeper than it had any right to. Warm. Steady. Real.
He exhaled quietly, his thumb shifting against her knuckles without thought.
“Tell me about it,” he said after a moment, his tone tempered by something he did not name. “England.”
It was not a demand. Not a test. He wanted to know.
Claire glanced at him, surprise flickering across her face before softening into something more thoughtful. “There is not so much to tell,” she said lightly, but felt the need to pull from his grip. “It is . . . orderly. Predictable.”
“Aye,” he murmured with a low chuckle. “Sounds dull already.”
She allowed a quiet laugh—soft, genuine—and he felt it like a spark beneath his ribs.
“There are gardens,” she continued, her voice gentler now. “My father took great pride in them. Everything trimmed and shaped just so. Roses trained along stone walls, hedges cut to perfection. Nothing left to chance.”
Lachlan glanced at her, imagining it—and failing. He could not picture her contained within such careful lines.
“And did ye like it?” he asked.
She was quiet for a moment, and she clenched and unclenched her hands.
“I did,” she said at last as if wondering the same herself. “It was, it was safe.”
Safe.
The word settled heavily between them. He’d ripped her from safety to save her from further dangers. Lachlan didn’t have the words to tell her what had motivated him to steal her from England, no matter how much he longed to do so.
He grasped both of her hands within his to each her tension and feel the warmth of her. He pulled and she stumbled closer to him.
“And your father?” he asked, softer now. “Was he a hard man?”
Claire’s gaze shifted from right to left as if she feared others would stumble upon them. Then her expression turned inward.
“No,” she said, her voice softening. “Not hard, at least not when I was a child. Exacting, yes—he held to order, to discipline. But there was kindness in him. Once.”
She paused, her gaze drifting as memory took hold.
She crossed her arms before her chest, trying to bring comfort in the uncomfortable conversation.
“After my mother died, something in him changed. The edges of him grew sharper. He held tighter to his rules then, as though they might keep his world from breaking further. As though if everything remained in its proper place nothing else could be taken. Coldness filled the entire space of him. And now cruelness.”
Lachlan let out a quiet breath, something sharp edging beneath it. “Aye,” he said. “Men like your father have never seen the world as it truly is.”
She looked at him then, not offended—but searching.
“And you?” she asked. “Your world? Was it always as it is now?”
A faint huff of something like amusement left him, though there was little humor in it.
“The Highlands dinna leave much room for illusions,” he said. “Ye learn early what matters. What must be defended. And what it costs when ye fail.”
His gaze shifted to her, drawn despite himself. He reached for her, then let his arm fall to his side. “I was not raised among roses, m’lady.”
“No,” she said softly. “You were not.”
But there was no judgment in her voice. Only understanding of what he meant. A warning of something.
He released her hands and they walked on, their steps slower now, the space between them gone entirely. The wind moved gently across the water, lifting strands of her hair, brushing them against his shoulder.
He did not move away.
He could not.
Instead, he reached for her, wrapping his arm around her as he pulled her against him.
“I should not be doing this,” he said quietly.
“Walking?” she asked, a hint of teasing in her tone.
“We are no longer walking.”
Claire nodded. “Yes, I can see.” She tipped her head to the side and a slight grin curved her mouth. “What are you doing, Lachlan?”
His gaze dropped to her, something deeper flickering there.
“Wanting to know you.” Wanting you.
The unguarded truth of it settled between them.
And still—
He did not let her go.