Chapter Thirty
The forest held its breath.
Lachlan moved through the shadows just beyond the hollow, every sense sharpened, every step measured. The shout had come close—too close—and he would not risk her again. Not now. Not when he had already nearly lost her once.
Never again.
He paused, listening. Branches shifted in the distance. Voices, faint now, moving away, spreading wide in search. The English were casting a net.
Let them search where he was not.
He waited until the sounds thinned, until the night settled back into uneasy quiet. Only then did he turn back toward the hollow.
Toward her.
Claire sat where he had left her, pressed against the curve of the tree, one hand braced at her side, the other resting lightly in her lap. Her face was pale, but her eyes—God, her eyes—were fixed on him the moment he returned.
Not afraid, not uncertain and waiting for him.
Something soft stirred within him as he crossed the distance between them quickly, dropping to a crouch before her.
“They’ve moved past,” he said.
She nodded, relief flickering across her features. “You came back,” she said.
His heart clenched at the worry weighting her words. “I said I would.”
“Yes,” she murmured. “You say many things with certainty.”
“And ye doubt me still, English Rose?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “That is the trouble.”
Lachlan stilled. There was something in her voice, something pulling at him, deeper than duty, deeper than instinct. He reached for her without thinking, his hand settling at her waist as he checked the bandage once more.
“Ye’re bleeding less,” he said, though his gaze remained on her face now, not the wound.
“That is twice you have said so,” she replied. “I am beginning to believe you.”
A faint ghost of a smile touched his mouth. The truth sat heavy between them.
“You should hate me,” he said suddenly.
Claire blinked. “What?”
“For taking ye,” he said, the words rough now, dragged from somewhere he did not often allow himself to go. “For bringing ye into this. For the war that followed.”
Her gaze did not waver. “I did,” she said.
The honesty of it struck clean.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened. “And now?”
Claire drew a slow breath, her fingers curling lightly against his sleeve as though anchoring herself before she spoke. “Now I see a man who could have used me,” she said. “Could have traded me, controlled me, handed me back for peace.”
Her voice softened. “But did not.”
Lachlan held her gaze. She was right.
“You chose me,” she continued.
The powerful words landed between them.
He tucked a few strands of hair behind her delicate ear. “I did,” he said.
A ghost of a smile curled her mouth. “And that is why I do not hate you,” she said.
The forest closed around them, narrowing the world to the space they shared. To her. To him.
Nothing else.
“Ye should go back,” he said after a moment, though the words felt wrong even as he spoke them.
Claire’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“To England,” he said. “When this ends. When it’s done. Ye should go.”
Her heart clenched as his words. She schooled her features to stop her scowl. “Why?” she asked.
He looked away briefly, toward the darkness beyond the trees. “Because this place—this life—’tis no’ meant for ye,” he said. “’Tis harsh and unforgiving. ’Twill take more than it gives.”
“And England would not?” she countered.
He did not answer because he knew. He knew her life would be harsher.
Claire shifted, wincing slightly, but she did not pull away from him. “I was never safe there,” she said quietly. “I simply did not know it yet.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “And here . . .”
She hesitated for a heartbeat. “I have never felt more alive.”
Lachlan’s hand tightened slightly at her waist. “Claire,” he said, her name rough on his tongue.
She leaned closer and he could feel her breath against his skin.
“You told me I matter,” she said softly.
“Aye.”
“Then do not send me away as though I do not.”
The truth of it hit him harder than any blade. He thought to protect her to spare her. And instead, he had nearly pushed her from him.
Lachlan reached up, his hand finding her face, his thumb brushing lightly along her cheek. “I am trying to keep you safe,” he said.
“And I am trying to stay,” she answered. Her heart clenched as she waited for him to say more, to claim her and alleviate her fear she would have to return to England.
Their eyes locked, no more distance or pretense.
Only truth.
“I do not want to go back,” she said, her words trembling now—not with fear, but with the weight of what they meant. “I do not want England or what my father planned. I do not want a life where I am something to be placed and used.”
Her hand rose, covering where it rested against her face. “I want this,” she said.
“Claire—”
“I want you.”
The words fell between them, soft and certain.
Lachlan went utterly still, she had spoken without retreat or misunderstanding.
She watched him, breath held, as though the world itself balanced on what he would say next.
# # #
For a moment he said nothing. He had spent years holding himself apart, holding everything apart—duty, loss, desire, and love. Especially love.
Love could be taken, broken, and used against him.
He had learned that once and would not—could not allow it to happen again.
Claire shifted slightly, she flinched as pain flared. Lachlan’s focus snapped back instantly. His hand tightened. “Easy,” he murmured.
She gave a faint, breathless laugh. “See?” she said softly. “You cannot even pretend not to care.”
“Pretend?” he echoed, his voice low. His desire for her was controlled by an unraveling tether. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her closer—careful of her injury, but firm enough she could not mistake it. “I havena’ been pretending,” he said.
Claire’s breath hitched, her blue eyes searched his face. Surely, they reflected the longing in his own gaze.
“Then what have you been doing?”
“Fighting it,” the honest admission came roughly from him.
“Why?”
“Because if I let myself—” He stopped, words mattered. Once spoken they could not be taken back.
Claire’s gaze softened. “Then stop fighting,” she whispered. “Please.”
The world stilled. The forest. The wind.
Lachlan looked at her, at the strength in her, the fire banked in her eyes and the firmness of her jaw. The woman who had stood beside him in battle.
Who had chosen him, not out of necessity, but out of will.
“I care for you.” The words left him before he could stop them, before he could temper them or hide them.
They hung in the air between them, raw and unshielded.
Claire’s eyes widened slightly, then they softened, emotion deepened with shimmering tears They filled with something matching what surged through him.
While she longed for other words, life-altering words, she banked the longing knowing the man before her bore the weight of the Highlands upon his shoulders.
“I know,” she said without surprise. Her coy smile brought out his own grin. Her hand tightened against his. “And I for you.”
Truth settled between them—steady, unshakable.
Lachlan drew her closer, his forehead resting against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath of what they had both just given.
No war, no past, no future. Only this. Only them.
And for the first time since the horns had sounded Lachlan allowed himself to believe they might survive what came next together.