Chapter Fifteen
Claire’s hand rested in Lachlan’s—warm, steady, and too tempting in ways she could not fully name.
“You realize,” she said softly, with humor laden in her tone, “this is how scandals begin.”
He grunted. “Scotland has little patience for scandal.”
Claire stopped short and stared at the man next to her. “England thrives on it.”
“Then perhaps it is fortunate we are not in England.” He turned slightly toward her.
Claire’s heart beat faster.
Moonlight caught the green of his eyes. Humor and desire glimmered in their depths.
“You are very certain of your charm tonight,” she said, secretly thrilled his attention rested solely on her, prodding her nerves to tingle from her hand straight up her arm and to her heart.
“Nay.” His voice dropped. “I’m certain only of one thing.”
“And what is that?” she said in a breathy tone.
“The thought of Raven's Berry without ye has become difficult to imagine.”
The words were not whispered. They were simply true.
Claire searched his face for deception or calculation.
She found neither.
Instead, she found a man who had stolen her for reasons she still did not fully understand—and who now looked at her as though she might be the one force in the world capable of undoing him.
“Lachlan,” she said. His name felt different on her lips. Softer. Closer. As though it belonged there.
Something changed in his expression the instant she spoke it—something unguarded, almost fierce—and her breath caught.
He stepped toward her, and she did not retreat.
The space between them vanished.
Something inside her fluttered wildly as his hand lifted, slower this time, as though he gave her the chance to refuse him. But she did not. She could not. Not when he looked at her so intently, as though the world had narrowed to her alone.
His fingers brushed her cheek, warm and steady, sending a shiver through her, unrelated to the night air.
“My English Rose,” he murmured.
His endearment unraveled the last of her restraint. She leaned toward him. Just slightly. But it was enough.
When his lips met hers, the world stilled.
The kiss stole her breath—not from force, but from the depth of it. From the way it felt as though something long held at bay had finally broken free. His hand steadied her, not demanding, but certain, as though he needed to know she was real.
For a fleeting moment, she forgot everything—England, duty, consequence.
There was only him.
Only the warmth of his mouth, the quiet intensity of the way he held her, as though she were something both precious and perilous.
And when the kiss softened, deepened into something more tender, something lingering rather than claiming, her heart tightened in a way that both frightened and thrilled her.
The wind whispered across the loch, the stars burning bright above them, but Claire barely noticed.
Because in that moment, she knew—
Nothing between them would ever be the same again.