Chapter 13
Later that evening, Gracie slipped into the nursery and paused, smiling at the sight of Rose and Eden curled beneath their blankets, lashes resting on rosy cheeks. Their soft breathing filled the room like a gentle tide, and her heart warmed at how quickly they had come to matter to her.
She turned quietly to Hannah, the nursemaid, and whispered, “Hannah, would ye show me to the library?”
The woman nodded with a fond smile and murmured, “Of course, miss.”
They walked the corridor together.
“I wish to find a book that might interest the girls,” Gracie said softly, glancing back toward the nursery. “I want to make them happy, and that means searchin’ for new stories, for I’ve grown quite enamored with the wee girls.”
Hannah’s eyes softened as she replied, “They’ve taken to ye already, miss, and stories from yer lips will be their greatest treasure.”
At the tall oak doors, Hannah opened the way and curtsied.
“Here we are,” she said, then left Gracie alone in the hush.
The library opened before her like a cathedral of thought, shelves climbing high along stone walls, heavy with leather-bound volumes and the scent of aged paper.
Moonlight filtered through narrow windows, gilding floating dust and casting warm pools upon long tables, and Gracie stepped inside with reverence, feeling as though she had entered a sacred place where every story waited to be born again in a child’s wonder.
The library lay in evening hush, candlelight gilding the spines of ancient books.
She halted at once, for in the far corner sat Jaxon, bent over a volume, flamelight tracing the strong line of his jaw.
A small gasp escaped her before she could stop it, for she had not expected him there in that quiet sanctum.
He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers across the room, surprise flickering into calm.
“I am sorry,” she said quickly, fingers tightening around her skirt, “I dinnae ken anyone was in the library.”
Jaxon closed the book and rose, his voice gentle as he replied, “Nay apology needed, lass, the castle is yer home now, and ye may come to the library if ye please.”
She relaxed a little and gestured toward the candlelit table, asking, “What are ye readin’?”
He held up the tome and answered, “A book on dealin’ with dry wells, for one of our villages, Glenmoor, suffers sorely.”
“That is interestin’,” she said, meaning it, for she had never thought of land as something one must learn to heal.
Jaxon nodded, then added, “Ye will be accompanyin’ me there, Gracie, when I go to see to it.”
Her breath caught, and panic rushed through her as she blurted, “I daenae ken how to be a lady in front of yer people, Jaxon, I truly daenae.”
He studied her with faint surprise and asked, “What do ye mean, when ye are the daughter of a laird and a lady, both good leaders?”
She shook her head, cheeks warm, and confessed, “They never trained me, for they wished me carefree, thinkin’ I would never bear such duties.”
Jaxon considered her words, then said, “Then do as ye did with Rose and Eden this morn, treat our people with that same kindness.”
Gracie’s brows drew together, and she asked, “Were ye spyin’ on me?”
He lifted a hand, half-smiling, and replied, “Nay, I merely saw ye from me study window, and I’ve nay interest stalkin’ ye while ye play in the mud like a child.”
The teasing lilt in his voice meant to ease her fear, yet it struck her pride instead, and her mouth thinned. Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.
“I was nae behavin’ as a child,” she said quietly, “I was makin’ them happy.”
Jaxon’s smile faltered. “Aye, and ye did so well,” he answered, though his tone still bore that careless edge.
Gracie folded her arms, wounded more than she wished to admit, for she had thought he saw her effort, not merely her dirt-stained hands. The candles crackled, and the warmth of the room felt suddenly cold.
“I am tryin’,” she said, voice low, “to be what ye need me to be.”
“I ken that,” he finally said, softer, “and I daenae doubt yer heart.”
But the wound lingered, and Gracie’s gaze slid away from him.
She turned toward the shelves, pretending to search for a book, though the letters blurred before her. The library that had moments ago felt like refuge now felt like a test of wills.
“I was merely teasin’, lass, can ye nae take a joke?” he finally said breaking the quiet.
She folded her arms tight across her chest and answered, “Aye, I can take a joke, but I see nay humor in bein’ belittled.”
He stepped closer, voice low, “Ye twist me words, and I daenae ken why ye’re so quick to bristle.”
She took a step of her own, refusing to yield ground, and said, “Because every word ye speak feels like a reminder that I daenae belong here. Nor was I to be yer wife, but yer brother's.”
Jaxon’s jaw tightened, and he muttered, “Ye are me wife, and this is yer home now, whether ye wish it or nae.”
Gracie shook her head, heart pounding, for she felt both claimed and cast adrift in the same breath.
“I never asked for to be the wife of a laird until that day at the church,” she said, voice trembling despite her will, “and yet I am tryin’ with all I have.”
Jaxon answered sharply, “And I expect to be wed to a lass who doesnae flinch at every jest I make.”
Her eyes flashed, and she retorted, “Then perhaps ye should learn that words cut deeper than blades.”
Their argument drew them together, steps narrowing until the space between them vanished.
Gracie became keenly aware of his height, his warmth, and the steady rise of his chest before her own.
Her breath hitched as her bodice brushed his tunic, and the nearness made her dizzy.
She refused to retreat, though every instinct screamed that she stood on the edge of something wild.
Jaxon’s voice dropped to a growl as he said, “Ye’re playin’ a dangerous game, lass, standin’ so close and bein’ so feisty with me.”
The words struck her like heat, and color flooded her cheeks. She realized in a heartbeat how easily anger could become something else entirely. With a small gasp, she stumbled back, breaking the spell that had wound tight between them.
“Best mind yerself, Gracie, for ye ken nae what fire ye stir.”
She drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, and replied, “I stir naught but truth, whether ye wish to hear it or nae.”
His gaze lingered on her, dark and unreadable, and she felt both exposed and strangely seen. The room seemed to pulse.
“We will be leavin’ in two days’ time for the village.”
Gracie opened her mouth to respond, yet no words came, for her heart still thundered too loudly. He nodded once, as though sealing a decree, and turned toward the door.
She watched him go, torn between relief and regret, and the library felt suddenly vast. Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with the strange ache of standing so near him and yet so far.
Gracie pressed her palms to the edge of the table, grounding herself in the cool wood.
She wondered if every clash between them would end this way, in heat and hurt entwined.
Long after the door closed, she remained where she stood, heart still racing.
She had meant only to defend herself, yet she had glimpsed something in him that frightened and intrigued her in equal measure.
Jaxon was not merely a laird of stone and law, but a man of fire, and she felt its pull even now.
As the candles burned low, Gracie knew their journey would test far more than her courage.
Later that night, Gracie stood by the hearth, loosening the pins from her hair as candlelight flickered across the chamber. She had just slipped into her nightgown when the door opened behind her. Jaxon entered with the quiet confidence that always unsettled her.
“I am tired of sleepin’ on the floor,” he said, his voice low with honest fatigue.
Gracie swallowed and turned to face him, her heart already quickening. “Ye are welcome to the bed,” she managed, “so long as ye keep yer hands to yerself, until I am ready.”
He studied her for a moment, then sighed and replied, “I can do that, lass, for I am very exhausted as it has been a trying day.”
She climbed into the bed and watched him in the mirror as he undressed, her breath catching despite herself.
Candlelight traced the planes of his shoulders and the strength of his arms, revealing the lines of muscle beneath skin warmed by firelight.
Her gaze drifted to his torso, to the firm planes of his stomach and the power in his thighs, and a heat stirred within her that she did not yet know how to name.
She looked away, embarrassed by her own curiosity, yet unable to banish it.
Jaxon slipped beneath the covers beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight.
Gracie lay rigid, every sense alive, wondering if he could hear her heart pounding in her chest. The warmth of him radiated through the blankets, a steady presence that made her feel both safe and undone.
She clasped her hands atop her stomach, afraid that even a breath might betray her thoughts.
He turned toward her, his expression gentler than she expected. “Goodnight, wife,” he murmured, and before she could answer, he leaned in. His kiss was slow and lingering, a quiet promise rather than a demand, and it left her breathless.
Then he broke away and rolled onto his side, turning his back to her.
Gracie lay staring into the dark, her lips tingling and her thoughts spinning. She felt more alive than she ever had, caught between anticipation and restraint. Within moments, she heard the steady rhythm of his breathing deepen into sleep. He was gone to dreams, while she remained wide awake.
Her mind replayed the warmth of his mouth and the weight of his presence beside her.
She shifted beneath the covers, trying to still the restless energy humming through her.
The chamber felt smaller now, filled with what had not been said and what had almost been done.
Even the fire seemed to crackle with quiet amusement at her turmoil.
She turned onto her side, facing him, though he could not see her. The line of his back rose and fell, solid and real, a reminder that he was no longer a distant figure of duty. He was her husband, sleeping an arm’s length away. The knowledge both thrilled and frightened her.
Gracie closed her eyes and tried to summon calm, yet her thoughts refused to settle.
She imagined the days ahead, the journey, the people who would look to her as Lady.
Each vision carried Jaxon within it, a constant presence she could no longer escape.
The future felt vast and uncertain, but no longer empty.
At last, exhaustion crept over her in slow waves.
She drifted in and out of sleep, caught between dreams and waking, aware of every movement he made.
Though he did not touch her, his nearness filled the night.
And so she passed the hours in quiet restlessness, her heart learning a new rhythm beside his.
When morning light crept through the windows, April fastened the laces of Gracie’s gown, her fingers deft and gentle. Gracie stood before the mirror, studying her own reflection with a furrowed brow.
“He is the most frustratin’ man I’ve ever known,” she muttered, smoothing the fabric at her waist. “I daenae ken how to act around someone like him, April, for every word feels like a test.”
April smiled softly and adjusted a ribbon at Gracie’s shoulder. “When ye say someone like him, do ye mean him bein’ a faither?” she asked.
Gracie shook her head at once and replied, “Nay, the girls are a blessin’, truly, and I adore them already.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s him as Laird, and as a man so closed off, as though there is a wall of stone about his heart.”
She turned from the mirror and clasped her hands. “I daenae ken how to draw near to him, though I wish to, for he is me husband after all.” Her voice softened with confession, and she lowered her eyes. “And I feel small beside him. I’m sure he’s known many women finer and fairer than I.”
April scoffed in gentle disbelief and said, “That is pure nonsense, miss, for ye are very beautiful yerself.”
Gracie gave a half smile and replied, “Ye are kind, but kindness is easy when ye are a friend.” She exhaled and waved a hand as though brushing the thought away. “Let us speak of somethin’ else, for I daenae wish to wallow in me own foolishness.”
She paused, then said quietly, “But I daenae ken how to be a lady, April, and that frightens me more than anythin’.”
April tied the final knot and stepped back, listening.
“If they ask me thoughts on this drought, I can offer naught, for I ken naught of such matters.” Gracie’s brow creased again as she added, “Me parents never taught me, for they believed I’d never need to be anythin’ but their daughter.”
Her hands twisted in her skirt as she went on. “They wished me carefree, without duty, and now I stand in a place where duty is all.”
April’s expression softened with understanding. “At Castle McDougal,” she said, “Lady McDougal was like a maither to the folk, always askin’ who lacked bread, who needed blankets, who had lost a child or a cow.”
Gracie looked up, intrigued despite herself.
April continued, “She dinnae speak of ledgers or treaties, but she kent every hearth and every sorrow.” She smiled at Gracie and added, “Ye may nae ken the ways of bein’ a lady, but ye ken how to be a carin’ woman.”
The words settled over Gracie like a shawl.
“A carin’ woman,” Gracie repeated, tasting the thought.
She pictured Rose and Eden, their muddy hands and bright laughter, and felt a quiet certainty stir. “I ken how to listen, and I ken how to care,” she said slowly.
April nodded and replied, “That is the heart of it, miss, for folk remember kindness longer than orders.”
Gracie turned back to the mirror, yet she no longer saw only her own doubts. She saw a path, faint but real, that did not require her to become someone else.
“Perhaps I can learn the rest in time,” she murmured.
April placed a reassuring hand on her arm and said, “Aye, and until then, ye will already be doin’ more than ye ken.”
A knock sounded at the door. April opened it to a maid bringing a morning tray of hot tea and porridge. Gracie drew in a steadying breath, feeling less like an imposter and more like a woman with purpose.
She straightened her shoulders and said, “Thank ye, April, for remindin’ me who I am.”