Chapter 9
The next morning, Connor entered the breakfast hall expecting some kind of noise.
The long table had already been laid, with the bread cut and stacked near the butter, porridge steaming in bowls, and cups placed in straight lines as if the servants feared he might notice if one sat crooked.
The men who were already seated fell quiet when he walked in, and a maid stepped back from the table with a jug in hand.
Connor saw all of that first. Then he saw the empty chair.
Violet’s chair.
He had not been looking for her. There was no sense in looking for a woman who had declared an end to their lessons, fled the training yard, and spent the previous day turning his castle into a place that felt less ordered than it had before she entered it.
He had expected her to appear at breakfast because she liked complaining too much to miss the opportunity. She would probably have dropped a remark about how chilly the morning was or say something sharp about his manners. The chair, however, remained empty.
He took a seat anyway, and when he couldn’t bear it anymore, he decided to speak.
“Where is Lady Violet?” he asked.
The maid with the jug paused. “She ate in her chamber, me Laird.”
Connor looked at her. “Why?”
“She said she wished to spend the day with the bairn.”
The hall was too quiet, and he hated it, which was funny because he had always preferred it that way.
Further down the table, Alex lowered his cup. “Peace came early, then.”
Connor turned his head, and Alex looked down at his plate and tore off a chunk of bread with more care than the bread deserved.
“Did ye have something useful to add?” Connor asked.
“Nay, me Laird,” Alex replied. He spread butter slowly, eyes downcast. “Peace is quieter than I thought ye liked, that is all.”
Connor eyed him long enough for two men nearby to remember their food with sudden urgency. Then he picked up his cup.
“Eat,” he grunted.
The hall obeyed.
That should have settled it. Violet had chosen her room and the baby.
Great. There would be fewer arguments, fewer interruptions, fewer moments where his attention went somewhere useless because she happened to enter the room, distracting him with her face and her borrowed clothes as if she meant to conquer the place one disapproving look at a time.
So why did he feel so empty inside?
He finished his breakfast without tasting much of it.
In his study, later that morning, the work waited where he had left it. Work was clean, and the letters on the desk had a purpose. Connor chose to open Laird MacAdair’s letter first.
The seal had been pressed with care, the fold neat enough to signal restraint. The words inside did the same.
Lady Thalia’s honor remains untouched by Clan Moore’s conduct. Trade and border matters could be discussed under fresh terms. The broken betrothal need not become hostility, provided Clan Moore understands that nearby clans would watch how the matter of the child is handled.
Connor swallowed and let out a slow breath.
This was not a threat. He knew threats when he saw them. No, this was something different. This was courtesy with sharpness underneath it.
It had always been the kind of courtesy he understood. A nameless baby had been left at his gate, and then two weeks later, he came across a bride no one had expected. Every laird with sense would be watching to see whether Clan Moore grew weaker.
He drew a clean sheet toward him and began writing a reply. The words came easily enough and his fingers moved fast over the paper. That was always one thing he could trust, his zest for giving a proper response to diplomatic messages.
Then his gaze moved to Lachlan’s letter.
It sat at the edge of the desk, the fold uneven and the corner blotted.
After taking a few moments to rest and gather the rest of his strength, Connor grabbed the letter and broke the seal.
The handwriting was as uneven as he had expected, and the ink had smeared near the middle.
The whole thing looked as if it had been written by a man who had either drunk too much or slept too little.
Brother,
I heard what was left at your gate. I know what you think of me, and I will not ask you to think better. Only this.
Please be gentler with him than you were with me.
Connor’s fingers tightened on the paper. “Ye bastard.”
Lachlan had no right. No right whatsoever to write from whatever tavern, bed, or gutter had taken him and speak as if Connor had been the one who abandoned duty.
The memory of a conversation he had once had with Lachlan resurfaced, interrupting the myriad thoughts in his head.
“If Father had been like me, we wouldnae have buried half our blood.”
He remembered Lachlan’s face and how it had twisted with grief and drink and fury all tangled together.
“But we wouldnae have had a family to begin with, Brother. We would have had soldiers that obeyed yer every word.”
Connor folded the letter once, hard enough to crease it badly. His father’s gentleness had gotten people killed, but his rules had kept people alive. That was the truth. That was the spine of Clan Moore. No clan survived on soft wishes and open doors.
Still, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, the thought came.
Was that how people saw him when he tried to protect them? A cage with guards and food?
He did not ponder it for long before he stood.
“Damn it all.”
He crossed to the door and opened it. Alex was in the passage, speaking to a guard in a low voice. He stopped when he saw Connor’s face.
“Saddle me horse,” Connor ordered.
Alex glanced past him toward the desk. “So which problem are we riding from?” he asked.
Connor cut him a look.
Alex nodded once, as if he understood. “The village, then.”
Connor did not answer. He collected his sword, stepped past him, and marched through the castle with the kind of speed that moved servants out of his path before he reached them.
At the outer yard, his horse was brought quickly, and he mounted and turned toward the main road. As he rode beneath the upper windows, he did not look toward the nursery wing.
But he could not resist the urge for long. No one stood there. He saw no flash of colorful fabric or chestnut-brown hair near the glass.
He faced the road again and pressed his heels into the horse’s flanks. The village would have clear problems.
He needed something to clear his mind. Something to take his thoughts off the fact that stood before him, clear as day. The fact that he might very well be the villain in Lachlan’s story.
A few hours later, he was leaving the last cottage in the village with two repairs ordered, one dispute settled, and the same irritation he had carried from the castle still lodged under his ribs.
The village had received him as it always did. He knew more than anything that it worked better when clear decisions were made. That, right there, was the truth Lachlan never cared to remember.
At the store shed, the elder congratulated him on his upcoming nuptials and asked after MacAdair in the same breath. Connor heard the question beneath the politeness.
“We will have no cause to raise steel against MacAdair,” Connor said.
The elder exhaled. “Good, me Laird.”
Near the cottage that led around the village corner, he watched a small boy cry over a scraped palm. Despite Alex’s subtle warnings, he moved closer, then crouched, inspected the hand, and nodded.
“Ye arenae dying.”
The child stared blankly at him and started to wail even louder.
Alex coughed into his fist, and Connor looked at him. “What?”
“Comforting, me Laird.”
Connor took a coin from his purse and held it out. “For bravery.”
The boy hiccupped, stared, and took it. His mother dipped her head, hiding a smile.
That should have ended the matter. Instead, Connor thought of John growing quiet against his chest at the gate. Then Violet holding him near the garden right before the attack from the intruder.
Eventually, he mounted again and turned back toward Moore Castle.
Violet had turned John’s care into a proper campaign.
If she was not going to think about Connor, his mouth, his hands, or the appalling fact that she had kissed him back in the damp grass before dawn, then she needed enough work to keep her mind disciplined.
John was excellent work. Tiny, warm, demanding, and innocent of every foolish thing that crawled around in her head.
“How often does he feed?” she asked, watching Moira fold a cloth.
“Often enough,” Moira replied.
John made a small sound, as if accepting the charge.
“And does he cry after feeding?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it is just him throwing a temper tantrum.”
“He is much too young for temper.”
Moira glanced down at him. “Tell him that.”
Violet touched the stack of clean cloths on the shelf, then dropped her hand. The nursery was Moira’s domain. She would not march in and rearrange it simply because of what she was going through in her own head.
“May I?” she asked.
Moira’s face softened with quiet surprise. “Aye.”
“I daenae wish to take over.”
“Ye did break into the castle to find him,” Moira reminded her, folding another cloth.
Violet winced. “That isnae usually how I offer help.”
“Ye are here now. It doesnae matter anymore.”
That small answer held enough warmth to steady her thoughts for some rather odd reason.
She moved the rougher cloths to one side and made a mental note to send for softer fabric from home. John deserved better against his skin than scratchy linen chosen by warriors who likely thought any cloth without holes counted as luxury.
The day dragged on as bells rang and trays arrived. The servants crossed the passage with messages, water, and wood. The men left the yard and returned again.
Even with Connor gone, the castle seemed to move according to his breath. Everyone seemed to be under his spell, whether he was present or not.
For some reason, that annoyed Violet more than it should.
Moira brought a tray at midday and set it beside the chair. “Eat, me Lady.”
“I am nae hungry,” Violet said, adjusting John’s swaddle.
“The Laird asked that meals be sent if ye didnae come down.”
Violet looked up too quickly. “He did?”
Moira paused. “The kitchens ken such things.”
“That isnae an answer.”
“Nay,” Moira agreed. “But it’s as much as ye’re getting.”
Violet picked up the bread because refusing to eat would only prove she had noticed. She ate half of it while pretending not to listen for the clip-clop of horses’ hooves in the yard.
Later, she carried John to the library with two folded cloths, a small blanket, and a book she had no intention of understanding properly. She had nearly convinced herself the day had improved without Connor in it when riders entered the lower yard.
Her body reacted before sense could stop it.
She looked toward the window.
Nay. Absolutely nae.
“We arenae looking,” she told John.
He blinked up at her, as if she had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world.
She didn’t relent. “Aye. Because we are sensible. Also, because looking would imply interest, and we have none.”
John kicked beneath his blanket.
“Daenae argue. Ye are supposed to be on me side.”
She took one step toward the window before she caught herself. Ridiculous. She had crossed countries, broken into a castle, faced Henry Tolford, and survived the dungeons. She would not be defeated by the possibility of seeing a laird return on horseback.
“Me Lady?”
She turned too quickly. “If it is the Laird, tell him that I daenae—”
“It isnae the Laird.” A maid stood in the doorway, panting slightly. “‘Tis yer sister. Lady MacBain. She has arrived.”
For a moment, Violet froze.
Hannah.
A wave of relief came first, sharp enough to hurt, after which fear followed, because Hannah would see too much. She had loved Violet through sickness, grief, fury, and stubborn silence. She would take one look and know this was not merely a forced wedding, not merely a baby, not merely outrage.
“Take him,” Violet said, placing John carefully into Moira’s arms as soon as she stepped in through the side door. Her voice was less steady than she wanted. “Please.”
Moira’s expression softened. “Go.”
“I am perfectly composed.”
“Aye,” Moira said. “Ye are.”
Violet left.
She reached the upper corridor just as Hannah swept in below, traveling cloak still fastened, cheeks flushed from the road, and worry plain on her face.
Her sister had not waited for some kind of ceremony to welcome her. She never would have, especially where Violet was concerned.
Violet gripped the banister. For one moment, she forgot the kiss, the dungeons, the wedding, and every lie she had told herself since dawn.
Then Hannah looked up and saw her.
“Violet.”