Chapter Thirty-One
The Highlands did not welcome her gently.
They tested.
Dawn broke in slow layers—ashen gray giving way to pale gold—mist coiling through the glen like breath from something ancient and watchful.
It clung to the heather, drifted across the burn below, and curled around the rising stone of Raven’s Berry as though the land itself had not yet decided whether to claim her or cast her out.
Claire sat before Lachlan in the saddle, her back pressed to the solid heat of him. His arm held her firm at the waist, steady without force, his presence more anchor than restraint.
Each step of the horse jarred her ribs.
Each breath reminded her she had been hurt.
And still—
She had never felt more certain.
“Ye’re quiet, Claire,” he said, his voice low against her ear.
The sound of it stirred something precariously soft in her chest. “I am deciding,” she replied.
“Aye?” There was the faintest shift in his tone. “Sounds ominous.”
Despite everything, her lips curved. “It is.”
His hand tightened briefly—just enough to be felt, not enough to be questioned. “Then I should be wary.”
“You should,” she said softly. She let her head rest back against him for a single moment and felt the way his breath caught. Her heart stuttered.
“I meant what I said,” she added. She did not need to repeat it. The words still lived between them. I want you.
“I ken,” his burr husky and filled with no hesitation or doubt.
“And you?” she pressed.
Silence stretched full and weighted.
“I donna give words I donna intend to keep,” he said.
Claire closed her eyes briefly. His words were not poetry, they were better and truthful.
The horse picked through the brush and the path rose. Raven’s Berry came into view.
The keep stood against the morning—scarred, smoke-streaked, unbroken. The gate had been reinforced with rough timber. One tower bore blackened stone where fire had kissed it too closely. Figures moved along the walls, slower than before, but steady.
Alive and still fighting. Tenderness stole over her as the clan worked together, such a lovely sight. Raven’s Berry was no longer a place she had been taken, it was a place she had chosen.
The guards saw them as Lachlan slowed the horse
A shout broke the quiet. “Laird!”
More voices followed—sharp, urgent, relieved.
The gates opened.
Claire straightened despite the pull of pain in her side. Her fingers tightened slightly against Lachlan’s arm. Not to seek comfort, not asking, just grounding herself in their connection.
They rode through the gate. Clansmen stopped their toil and watched them. Conversations died mid-word. Eyes turned to measure and weigh what their presence meant. Questions filled their gazes, mixed with the chatter whispering about.
Claire felt it settle over her like a second skin. Their uncertainty was not lost on her. Lachlan dismounted first, then turned to help her down. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary at her waist, steadying her.
Or perhaps steadying himself. She stepped forward before he could and shifted to stand beside him.
Maddy reached them first, her stride sharp, her eyes sharper. She took Claire in—every detail. The bandage. The blood. The exhaustion Claire refused to show, but the woman gleaned it regardless.
Then she looked to Lachlan. “Ye brought her back.”
He chuckled. “Aye.”
Maddy’s gaze returned to Claire. “And ye came back.”
Claire met her eyes. “I chose to.”
A flicker—quick, almost hidden—passed through the older woman’s expression. Claire recognized it as approval.
Before Maddy could respond, Shamus pushed through the gathering crowd. He looked between them once, taking in more than he said, and let out a breath.
“Thought we’d be dragging ye out of an English pit,” he muttered to Lachlan, gripping his shoulder. He cut his gaze to Claire. “Ye’ve a talent for trouble, lass.”
Claire lifted her chin. “I prefer to think I survive it.”
“Aye,” Shamus said with a ghost of a grin. “That ye do.”
The rest of the clan hovered, and not all faces were easy. A warrior near the armory muttered something under his breath. Another crossed his arms, gaze hard, unconvinced.
Claire felt their disapproval in a wave of questions and distrust.
She turned toward the clan. Wind stirred through the bailey, carrying the scent of smoke, damp earth, and iron. Somewhere, a hammer struck metal in slow, steady rhythm.
Claire drew a breath, gathering courage, then she stepped forward. “I will not return to England.”
Her voice carried farther than she expected. Stronger than she expected.
“My father does not own my future,” she said. “Nor does the Crown. I am not a treaty. I am not a prize to be taken and traded.”
The murmurs hummed through the bailey.
She did not falter. “I stood on your walls,” she continued. “I worked beside your people. I bled here. And when I had the chance to leave . . .” Her gaze flicked to Lachlan. “I came back.”
Heavy silence blanketed the bailey and ricocheted off the keep’s stone walls.
“I am not asking to remain,” she said clearly so they could all hear and understand her unyielding resolve. “I am telling you—I will.”
The words settled like the smirr misting from heaven.
No one moved.
Then Maddy stepped forward. “She’s no’ wrong,” she said.
All eyes turned toward the old woman. “She stood when others would have run,” Maddy went on. “She worked without complaint. And she came back when she had every reason no’ to.”
Shamus nodded. “She’s earned her place to stand.”
“Aye.” Another voice joined.
Then another.
Not all, but certainly enough. Enough for the balance to shift.
Claire faced Lachlan and found him already watching her with a hungry gaze. A man measuring consequence.
“Ye meant it,” he said quietly.
“I did.”
His jaw tightened—not in anger. “Say it again,” he said.
“I am not leaving,” she said softly, only for him to hear the whisper of her words. Something broke loose in his expression then, something fierce, something raw.
“Grand,” he said.
The word sounded like a vow.
Claire moved closer, his heat enveloped her, tied him to her. “Even if you were going to send me away,” she said.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Aye.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought it would keep you safe.”
“And now?”
His hand lifted—hesitated—then settled at her side, careful of her injury, but firm. “Now I ken I was wrong.”
The tight expression on his face told her the cost of his words.
Claire softened against him. “Then stop choosing for me. I choose you.”
The clan faded away and they were left with no audience. Lachlan’s hand tightened slightly.
His voice dropped and he tipped his head in close to her. “And I choose you.”
Lachlan’s words, the strong line of his shoulders and the resolved glimmer in his eyes told her his words were raw and absolute.
Around them, the keep moved again—life resuming, work continuing—but the moment held, carved out of everything else.
The war was not finished. The danger had not passed.
Their choice would not be undone. Not by her father or England.
Not even by the storm still tumbling their way.
She had chosen the Highlands and Raven’s Berry.
More importantly, she had chosen him.
And this time no one would take her choice away from her.