Chapter 8
Connor lifted his head first.
The training yard was quiet except for Violet’s rough breathing beneath him. Her fingers were still curled into his shirt, twisted into the linen as if she had meant to push him away and forgotten how.
His palm was pressed against the damp grass beside her head, and her lips were parted, red and swollen. For one brief moment, he could think of nothing but lowering his mouth to hers again.
He had kissed her. He had wanted her at that moment, and he had moved first.
All of a sudden, as if the spell binding them both broke free, Violet’s eyes narrowed.
“Move,” she said.
Connor moved.
He pushed himself off her at once and stood, though standing gave him no advantage over the blood thrumming in his veins.
Violet sat up quickly, brushing grass from her gown with hands that were not as steady as she likely wished them to be. Her face was flushed, and she would not look at him for longer than a heartbeat.
“This was a bad idea,” she muttered.
Connor reached for control the way he would usually reach for his blade. His voice came out even. “The lesson or the kiss?”
Her flush deepened. “Both.”
He shrugged, in a bid to lighten the atmosphere. “The lesson was useful.”
“The lesson was meant to help me protect John.” She stood and shook more grass from her dress, keeping some distance between them as if distance had become another rule she could enforce with sheer will. “This did not help.”
“It taught ye something,” Connor pointed out.
“Aye.” Violet finally looked at him, and the anger in her eyes was too bright to be only anger. “That I should stay far away from ye.”
The words struck cleaner than he had expected.
He let his hands fall to his sides before they could curl again. “There is nothing wrong with wanting yer husband.”
“Well, ye arenae me husband yet now, are ye?” she scoffed.
“I will be soon.”
“Nae if I strangle ye before the priest arrives.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying the steady frustration behind hers. “Well, that would complicate the ceremony.”
“Good.”
The sharp exchange did not hide the truth. Not from him. Not from her either, judging by the way her gaze dropped to his mouth before snapping away.
Violet stepped back. “No more training.”
Connor studied her. That was retreat. Not merely from the kiss, but from the place where it had happened as well. From the touch, the lesson, the damp grass, the feel of him above her.
“Afraid ye might learn too much?” he teased.
She went still, and for a moment, she did not speak.
The silence told him more than any confession could have.
Then she gathered herself, chin lifting. “Goodbye, me Laird.”
She turned and walked back toward the castle.
Connor remained where he was and refused to follow. Instead, he watched her go, the yellow trim of her gown catching what little light dawn offered.
He could still feel her lips on his, could still feel the weight of her wrist, the pull of her body as they rolled, the sudden heat when she kissed him back instead of turning away.
When she passed beneath the archway, he let out a short, humorless laugh.
War had not undone him. Nor had treaties, raids, councils, letters, clan quarrels, or Lachlan’s messes. He had handled them all with a clear head and a steady hand.
It had to be her. She was the one who would get him to break.
Hilarious.
His thoughts had yet to settle when he heard the sound of familiar boots crossing the yard behind him.
“It is a bit soon for yer bride to be running away from ye, is it nae?” Alex drawled.
Connor did not turn. “On the contrary, I think it took her too long.”
Alex came to stand beside him, saying nothing at first. That alone made Connor want to dismiss him.
After a beat, Alex looked down at Connor’s hands. “Aye. I’ll pretend I daenae see ye trying to murder the air.”
“Wise,” Connor said.
Alex accepted the warning better than he accepted silence. “Letters have arrived.”
Connor turned then, grateful for business and irritated that the gratitude existed. “From whom?”
“Half the Highlands, judging by the pile,” Alex replied. His tone had changed, the humor tucked away because he had enough sense to know when Connor’s temper sat close to the surface. “Congratulations from some. Questions from others. And then there’s one from Laird MacAdair.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Jack Hudson wrote?”
“Aye. Sealed properly. I thought ye would do the honor of opening it.”
Connor rolled his eyes. “How courteous of ye.”
Alex did not waste a beat. “Could be a trap.”
“Well, I hope it isnae. I daenae believe the blood between us is bad enough to warrant something like that.”
Alex nodded. “Aye. It wasnae like ye left his sister out in the cold for a random woman who broke into yer castle two weeks ago or anything—Wait a minute!”
“One of these days, Alex, I’ll have yer tongue.”
Alex nodded once. He then shifted his weight, and Connor read the hesitation before the man spoke.
“There is another,” he said.
Connor’s patience thinned. “Who?”
Alex swallowed before responding. “Lachlan.”
The name settled between them with more weight than the dawn air deserved.
Connor nodded once. “Bring them.”
Alex did not ask whether he meant all the letters or only that one. He left the yard and returned with the small stack tied with a cord, the two important ones set at the top. Connor took them and walked back to the study without another word.
The room looked as he had left it, with some papers stacked on the desk and the quill set near the inkwell. He set Laird MacAdair’s letter on the desk first, then set Lachlan’s beside it.
His brother’s letter was worn at the edge, as if it had passed through too many hands before reaching him. That suited Lachlan too well.
Connor stood over the desk, looking down at the two sealed problems. He didn’t know which one to deal with first, but he knew one thing.
The taste of Violet’s lips lingered on his like a mistake he wanted to repeat.
Violet reached the nursery too quickly. She knew it the moment Moira looked up from the rocking chair with John in her arms.
Violet had meant to enter calmly, perhaps ask after him as any sensible woman would. Instead, she stepped through the door with her cheeks hot, her breath unsteady, and grass still clinging to the hem of her yellow-trimmed gown.
It was the running, she told herself. The cold dawn air. Hell, it was the embarrassment of being thrown to the ground during a lesson.
It was anything. Anything but the ghost of Connor’s mouth on hers.
John stirred at the sudden movement, his small face turning toward her. That was enough. Violet crossed the room at once and held out her arms.
“May I?” she asked, already taking him.
Moira let him go, though her gaze narrowed slightly. She did not resist, which Violet appreciated more than she could say. If Moira had asked why she needed the baby so urgently, Violet might have said something foolish.
“‘Tis shaping up to be quite a lovely day, me Lady,” Moira said.
Violet drew John close and adjusted his blanket with a hand that was not quite steady. “It is, is it nae?”
“Are ye saying that to me or the bairn?” Moira asked, setting aside the small cloth she had been folding before picking up the baby.
“Whichever one is less troublesome.”
“Then the bairn,” Moira said, with a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.
John made a soft sound against Violet’s chest, a sleepy little complaint that loosened something tight behind her ribs. His warmth seeped into her, and his head fit beneath her chin.
The nursery smelled of rosemary, clean wool, and the low fire in the grate. These were innocent things. Useful things. Things that did not brace their hands on the grass beside her head and kiss her as if every rule she had made was a locked door he had decided to open.
She pressed her cheek against John’s cap and breathed.
Moira watched her for another moment before speaking. “Are ye all right?”
“Perfectly.” The answer came too quickly.
Moira’s eyebrows rose, but her tone stayed mild. “Aye. That is why ye look as if ye ran out of a burning chapel.”
Violet kept herself busy with the edge of John’s blanket. “Training is tiring.”
“The Laird trains the men every day.” Moira reached for a folded linen and smoothed it across her lap. “I have yet to see them come back blushing.”
Violet’s head snapped up so sharply that Moira lifted both hands, the linen caught between her fingers. “I only meant ye look warm.”
The maid was not laughing at her. That was the trouble. Moira’s eyes were too kind, her manner too careful. Teasing would have given Violet something sharp to push against. But Moira was being kind, and kindness made Violet feel like she should give answers she didn’t have.
“I am warm because yer Laird believes dawn is an appropriate hour for throwing people to the ground,” she huffed.
Moira’s expression shifted, but she did not press. Instead, she looked at John, whose tiny fist had wiggled free of the blanket.
“He does favor dreadful hours,” she said quietly. “Alex says it is because sleep cannae argue with him.”
Violet almost smiled. Then she remembered Connor above her, his hand braced beside her head, his lips parting hers, his eyes dark with the same shock she felt.
The almost-smile died before it became dangerous.
Moira stood and moved to the cradle, straightening the little blanket folded there. “It is fine to be nervous before yer wedding, ye ken.”
Violet went still. “Why in God’s name are ye telling me that?”
“Because sometimes it helps to ken that fear isnae shameful.” Moira kept her attention on the cradle as she spoke, as if giving her the mercy of not being stared down by kindness.
“I am nae afraid of the wedding.”
“Nae?”
“There is no reason to be nervous.” Violet shifted John higher, using the movement to buy herself a breath. “It is only business, so John can have two parents.”
Moira’s hands paused on the blanket. She did not turn at once. When she did, her face held no accusation, which made the question worse.
“Do ye believe that?” she asked.
Violet looked down at John. His eyes were open now, unfocused and blue. Jane’s eyes. He looked at her as if she held the whole room in place, as if he knew nothing of vows, bargains, lairds, kisses, or the very act of lying badly to nursemaids who saw too much.
Because he didn’t.
“I promised him a story,” Violet murmured.
Moira glanced at the baby. “He cannae understand stories yet.”
“Good. That means he cannae complain about me taste.”
The excuse was thin. Moira let her have it.
Violet left the nursery with John in her arms and walked to the library as if she had chosen it for his benefit rather than her own escape.
The room was empty when she entered. Tall shelves lined the walls, and a chair near the window had a cushion worn soft by use. A thin layer of dust lay on the higher books, though the lower shelves looked like they had been used often.
Someone in Moore Castle reads, then.
However, she refused to wonder whether it was Connor.
She chose a book with a plain brown cover and sat carefully, keeping John tucked against her with one arm while she opened the book with the other. His hand opened and closed against her bodice, catching the fabric once before slipping free.
“Now,” she said, finding the first line. “We shall improve yer mind.”
John blinked, and she began to read.
She made it through three sentences before the words lost all meaning and all she could think about was Connor’s mouth and the pressure of his body above hers. She could even feel the pause before he had kissed her.
She hated it so much that she had not turned away.
Why hadn’t she turned away?
Something in her made her stop and stare at the page while John made a small sound.
“We shall begin again,” she told him. “Yer future mother has apparently lost the ability to read one sentence in the proper order.”
He waved his fist.
“Daenae look at me like that. Ye are much too young to judge.”
She found the line again and forced herself to continue.
The words settled in her for a little longer this time.
A man in the story had gone to a river. Or perhaps a road.
Violet could not tell because her mind kept returning to grass under her back and Connor’s hand near her shoulder, his fingers spread wide against the ground as if he had been holding himself away from her by sheer force.
She closed the book halfway.
“This is exactly why one must be sensible,” she murmured, quieter now. “Men with swords and dreadful manners are nae to be encouraged.”
John yawned.
“Aye, laugh if ye wish. Ye werenae the one being kissed by a man who gives orders as if the Lord himself appointed him steward of everyone’s lives.”
The words were ridiculous because John could not understand them. That was why she could tell them to him. He could not ask whether she had liked the kiss. He could not ask whether she had gripped Connor’s shoulder. He could not ask why her mouth still remembered his.
Violet pressed the book against her lap and drew John closer.
“We will be sensible now,” she whispered. “No more lessons and no more arguments in private rooms. I also willnae let him stand close enough to me again.”
The vow sounded firm in the quiet library. It needed to be firm. She opened the book again, determined to prove she could read to an infant without losing a battle to her own thoughts.
At that moment, however, the sound of voices grew beyond the library door, stopping her halfway. Again. One voice was unfamiliar, low and hurried, but the other voice was much quieter, deeper, and entirely too easy to recognize.
Connor.
His voice paused outside the library door, and John shifted against her chest. Violet held him tighter and slowed her breathing lest she be heard.
So much for distance.