“Very well,” she murmured.
Nodding to her, he stepped back, holding the door open wider.
Hazel walked past him on unsteady legs. As she crossed the threshold into his solar, warmth enveloped her—the heat from the hearth, the acrid notes of burning peat and beeswax candles. Weapons—a claidheamh-mòr and a polearm—hung from the pitted stone walls, as did a large tapestry depicting a sea battle. A desk sat near the window, covered in parchments, quills, and a clay jar of sealing wax. Two high-backed chairs flanked the fireplace.
And charging toward her with his tail wagging furiously was Faolan.
The massive wolfhound planted his front paws on her shoulders, nearly knocking her backward. His tongue swiped across her face in enthusiastic greeting.
“Faolan, down!” Craeg's command was sharp, but the dog ignored him completely.
Despite everything—the tension, the fear, the confusion cramping her gut—Hazel laughed. She wrapped her arms around the hound’s shaggy neck, burying her face in his rough fur. “Good eve, lad. Aye, I’m pleased to see ye too.”
Faolan whined with joy, his entire body wiggling.
“He’s never that excited to seeme,” Craeg muttered, feigning annoyance.
“That’s because I give better scratches.” Hazel’s fingers found the sweet spot behind Faolan’s ears, and the dog’s eyes rolled back in bliss.
Craeg moved to the small table near the hearth, pouring wine from a clay jug into two wooden cups. His movements were careful, controlled—but she marked how tense his shoulders were.
Finally, Faolan released her and padded over to collapse in front of the fire with a contented groan. Hazel smoothed down her skirts, suddenly acutely aware that she was alone in the laird’s solar with him. At night. With the door closed behind them.
Shite.This was exactly what she’d wished to avoid.
“Here.” Craeg pressed a cup into her hand. Their fingers brushed, and hunger clenched low in her belly. Just the merest touch had her aching for him.
This was bad. Very bad.
Taking a grateful sip of wine, she cast Craeg a veiled look. “How is Archie?” she asked, needing to fill the silence with something, anything.
“Still alive,” he replied, a groove appearing between his dark brows.
“And his fever. Is it—”
Craeg set his cup down with more force than necessary, cutting off her question. He turned to face her fully, and the look in his eyes stole her breath. “I sent a missive to Hamish Macquarie today.”
Her stomach dropped. “What?”
“I’ve broken off the betrothal … to Isla.”
The cup nearly slipped from Hazel’s fingers. “But the alliance—”
“Can go hang itself.” He took a step toward her.
Dizziness crashed into Hazel. Reaching out with her free hand, she groped for the back of the nearest chair, needing something solid to hold onto. “Ye don’t know what ye’re saying.”
“I do.” He closed the distance between them in two strides.
“Craeg.” Her voice broke on his name.
Reaching out, he took the cup of wine from her and set it down on the mantlepiece. “Ye consume me.” His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs stroking across her cheekbones. “I can’t think of anything else.”
Her pulse went wild. “But ye have responsibilities.”
“The devil take my responsibilities.” The words exploded from him. “Do ye think I care about duty when all I want is ye?” He broke off then, breathing hard.
The confession hung between them, stark and desperate. Hazel’s throat started to ache. “No, Craeg. Ye’ll wed Isla Macquarie,” she said, her voice shaking. “Soon. That’s how this ends.”
