Chapter Thirty-Five
Claire did not look back.
Not when the stones disappeared into mist or when the Highlands gave way to lower, softer hills. Not even when Raven’s Berry vanished entirely from sight.
If she allowed herself even one glance—one weakness—she would break.
And she could not afford to break.
The English soldiers rode in tight formation around her.
Not cruelly. Not roughly. But with unmistakable intent.
She was not a guest. She was an asset.
A prize reclaimed. A risk contained.
Claire sat straight in the saddle, her hands steady on the reins despite the long hours and the ache creeping through her body. She kept her gaze forward, her expression composed—every inch the daughter Lord Ashford had raised.
Let them see what they expected.
It would make it easier.
They reached camp at dusk. It sprawled across a rise overlooking a narrow valley—orderly, efficient, unmistakably English. Tents stood in rows. Fires burned in controlled lines. Guards moved with disciplined precision, their armor catching the last light of day.
Nothing like the Highlands.
Nothing like Raven’s Berry.
No laughter drifting on the wind or children racing through the yard. No sense of life beyond purpose.
Dread crept over her, but she did not let it show.
“Dismount.” The command came from one of her father’s captains.
She did so without assistance. A small rebellion. A necessary one to keep her focused.
Her father approached as the last of the horses were handed off. “You have traveled well,” he said.
“I have traveled before,” Claire replied.
His gaze lingered on her face, as though searching for cracks. “Come,” he said. “We will speak inside.”
His tent was larger than the rest. Not ostentatious. But unmistakably his.
Inside, it was arranged with the same precision as everything else, maps laid out on a central table, candles placed at measured intervals, chairs positioned with exacting symmetry.
Control everywhere.
Claire stepped inside and let the flap fall closed behind her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Lord Ashford turned to her fully. “You surprised me today.”
Claire met his gaze. “Did I?”
“Yes.” His tone was almost thoughtful. “I had expected resistance. Tears, perhaps. A scene.”
A flicker of memory rose, years of carefully contained obedience, of silence mistaken for compliance.
“You raised me better than that,” she said.
Something like approval touched his expression. “Indeed.”
Silence stretched.
“Why did you come?”
The question was quiet. Not accusatory. Not yet.
Claire walked slowly toward the table, her eyes flicking over the maps. She recognized none of the markings, but she recognized the intent.
Positions. Movements. Strategy.
War, already in motion.
“I told you,” she said. “To prevent bloodshed.”
“And you believe you have done so?”
She allowed a casual shrug. “For now.”
A pause.
“And what do you intend to do when now ends?” he asked.
Claire lifted her gaze to his. “Adapt.”
A faint smile curved his mouth. “There she is,” he said ruefully. “The daughter I remember.”
Claire felt the words like a chain laid carefully around her throat. “I am not the same girl,” she said.
“No,” he agreed. “You are more unpredictable now.”
The honesty of it unsettled her. He circled the table slowly, studying her from a new angle. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you feel for him?”
Claire’s breath caught.
Of all the questions this one surprised her.
She held his gaze. “I love him.”
The words fell without hesitation, without apology.
Her father exhaled, not with surprise exactly, but something sharper.
“Love,” her father repeated. As though tasting the word. “And you believe it is enough to stand against what is coming?”
“I believe it is worth standing for.”
He watched her for a long moment, his gaze shifting from amusement to disgust. “Love is a weakness.”
Claire’s spine straightened. “No,” she said. “It is a choice.”
“It is a liability.”
She shook her head. “It is a reason.”
“It clouds judgment.”
She scoffed. “It clarifies it.”
Silence cracked between them like ice.
Her father’s eyes hardened. “You speak like someone who has not yet paid the cost of such beliefs.”
Claire stepped closer. “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I am the only one of us who understands the cost.”
A flicker of something volatile passed through him. “You presume much.”
“I have lived it.” The words landed heavier than she intended. But she did not take them back.
He turned away then, pacing once across the length of the tent. When he spoke again, his voice had cooled. “You will remain here,” he said. “Until this matter is resolved.”
Claire folded her hands loosely before her. “And what matter is that?”
“The Highlands.”
Claire did not flinch. “And how do you intend to resolve it?”
He stopped. Turned. And for the first time she saw it clearly. Not just control. Not just strategy. Ambition.
Cold. Calculated. Expanding.
“The Highlands have resisted integration for too long,” he said. “Fragmented leadership. Unreliable alliances. A constant drain on resources.”
She pointed at him. “You mean they do not bow to you.”
“I mean they lack order.”
Again, she scoffed. “They lack your order.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
Claire felt something inside her settle. This was not about her. Not truly. It never had been. The ruse about the Crown was merely an excuse to invade.
“You plan to take it,” she said.
“I plan to bring it under control.”
Claire’s jaw tightened and she gripped her hands within the folds of her skirt. “And you believe I will stand by and watch that happen?”
His gaze sharpened.
“I believe,” he said slowly, “you will come to understand your place in it.”
“And what place is that?”
“A bridge.” The word landed softly. Deadly in its implications.
“You are both English and tied now to the Highlands,” he continued. “You can ease the transition. Prevent unnecessary resistance.”
Claire rubbed her brow, disbelief swirled in her mind. The man had lost all grip on sense if he thought she would help him. “You want me to help you conquer them.”
“I want you to help bring stability.”
Unable to help herself, Claire strode to just a step before him. “You want me to betray them,” she accused.
“I want you to fulfill your duty.”
The word snapped something in her. “My duty,” she said, very quietly, “is not to your ambition.”
“And who decides your duty?” he asked as he shifted the maps on the table. He appeared bored with their conversation.
Claire held his gaze. “I do.”
Silence, heavy and final.
Her father studied her as though seeing her clearly for the first time. Not as a daughter. Not as a piece on the board. But as something else entirely.
Something that could not be easily moved.
“Very well,” he said at last. The words were calm, too calm. “We will see how long your conviction holds.”
A chill slipped through her.
“Until then,” he continued, “you will remain under guard.”
Claire inclined her head slightly. “Of course.” She had expected nothing less.
He moved toward the tent flap, then paused.
“One more thing,” he said without turning.
Claire waited.
“If you attempt to warn them or to interfere. You will force my hand.”
The threat hung in the air. Unspoken in detail and clear in intent.
Claire did not respond.
After a moment, he left.
Claire stood very still listening. The sounds of the camp drifted in faintly, boots on earth, low voices, the crackle of fires.
Order and discipline and control.
She exhaled slowly. Then moved to the table to view the maps.
Her eyes scanned the markings again—this time more carefully. Patterns. Paths. Supply routes. Movement lines.
She did not understand all of it, but she understood enough. Enough to see this was not a threat. It was already in motion.
Claire’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. “All right,” she murmured.
Her father thought he had brought her here to control her, to use her, to bend her back into the shape he required.
A slow calm settled over her. He had made one mistake. He had brought her close. Close enough to see, learn, and act.
Claire lifted her head, her gaze steady, sharp, and entirely unafraid. “You taught me well,” she whispered into the quiet. “Now let us see what I choose to do with it.”
Outside, the wind shifted and somewhere beyond the camp the Highlands waited.
And so did Lachlan.