Chapter 11
The next morning, Connor stopped outside the nursery with a sealed letter in his hand and Violet’s laughter on the other side of the door.
He had been on his way to his study. There were letters to answer, a messenger waiting for instructions, and a wedding to reduce into lists, names, rooms, guards, food, ale, witnesses, and priestly time.
Every matter waited somewhere ahead of him.
Still, he stopped. Inside the nursery, John made a small, cooing sound. Violet answered with a low laugh, warm and easy, meant for the baby alone.
“And that, wee one, is how one survives a castle full of lions and dragons,” she said.
Connor’s hand lifted to the doorknob. He had every right to enter. It was his castle, his nursery, his ward, his future wife.
The thought came clean and practical.
Then Violet spoke again, still bright, still too deliberate.
“Nay, daenae make that face at me. I am sure there are worse afflictions than being surrounded by dragons and lions. Probably armed men who scowl at walls. Like me future husband.”
Connor’s hand dropped from the knob. She knew he was there.
He could open the door and make her answer for the insult. He could ask after John or even stand in the room until her careful distance had nowhere to hide. Instead, he walked on, her voice following him until he reached the bend in the corridor.
At the midday meal, Hannah made certain that Violet appeared. Thank God.
Connor rose slightly when Violet entered, because excessive courtesy was the only weapon he had left that did not make him look like a fool.
“Violet,” he greeted.
She paused as if he had struck her with good manners. “Me Laird.”
“I trust ye slept well.”
“Perfectly,” she answered, taking the seat Hannah had clearly chosen for her. It was far enough from him just for caution and close enough to keep all courtesy intact.
“Good,” he said.
“Good,” she echoed.
Across from Violet, Hannah lowered her eyes to her plate, and the corner of her mouth curved. “If being polite could draw blood, ye would both be dead,” she murmured.
Connor watched as Violet’s cheeks flushed. He reached for his cup and decided that if Lady MacBain wished to fight battles with smiles and quiet comments, she was better armed than half the men in his yard.
A few minutes later, He left the hall with his temper intact and his patience thin.
In the study, Lachlan’s letter remained on the edge of the desk, where Connor had placed it and moved it away twice already. Each time, his gaze returned to it as if the sealed words had reached across the room and caught his jaw.
Alex came in with a report from the yard a few minutes later and stopped near the desk.
“Ye have read that letter enough to memorize it,” he remarked.
Connor was sanding a letter to a neighboring laird. “Then I need nae read it again.”
“That wasnae what I meant.”
“Well, for now, it is what I choose to hear.”
Alex accepted it for what it was and handed over the report.
Connor scanned the names, marked two men for extra drills, and cut one request for leave down by three days because the western gate still needed stronger watches after Henry Tolford’s intrusion.
“Lady Violet asked whether the nursery windows catch a draft at dusk,” Alex said, too casually.
Connor looked up. “Why are ye telling me?”
“Because ye had the shutters inspected twice yesterday.”
“And…?”
“And she noticed.” Alex’s expression remained admirably neutral. “She notices plenty, that one.”
Connor set down his quill with care. “Test me patience elsewhere.”
“Aye, me Laird,” Alex said, stepping back. “I will go find a safer cliff.”
He left before Connor had a better comeback than simply chasing him away.
Again that afternoon, Connor went to the nursery after Moira reported that the cradle’s side rail had loosened. Violet was there with John in her arms, while Hannah sat near the fireplace with sewing in her lap.
He inspected the rail, tightened the peg himself, and turned when John kicked a blanket half loose. Violet reached at the same time, and their hands touched over the baby’s little leg.
It was nothing. It should be nothing. Only skin against skin and a brief brush of fingers. So what was this shudder that traveled down his body like a violent wave of wind?
Violet pulled back too quickly, and he did the same.
“Forgive me,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “For touching me hand?”
“For reaching at the same time.”
“It is a blanket, Violet.”
“Aye,” she said, her fingers curling into her gown.
Hannah watched the entire thing silently.
Connor adjusted the blanket himself and left before the room could grow smaller around him.
That night, sleep gave him no mercy. The dream he had began with damp grass beneath his hand and Violet beneath him, her breath catching as she stared up at him with challenge in her eyes.
It felt like he was reliving what he knew from memory. It felt like what he had known. His mouth on hers and her fingers gripping his shirt. The stunned heat he had felt in his loins when she kissed him back.
Then, the dream suddenly changed. She did not push him away. Her hand slid into his hair instead, and her mouth opened even wider under his. His lips left hers and moved lower, to her neck and then her chest, and an intoxicating scent filled his senses. Then his eyes snapped open.
What the—
He looked down.
The sheet was tented; there was nothing subtle about it.
He was fully hard, uncomfortably so. He reached down and gripped himself through the linen with a rough exhale, not moving, just holding his length like he could reason with it.
His jaw tightened as he squeezed once, and his breath hitched before he let go.
He dropped back against the pillow and pressed the back of his hand over his eyes.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
Somehow, her absence had become more dangerous than her defiance.
Violet had sorted the same stack of cloths three times before Hannah took it gently from her hands.
“Ye are going to wear a hole through them,” Hannah chided gently.
“I am checking the softness.”
“Against what? Yer temper?”
Moira, kneeling near the linen chest, lowered her face, but Violet saw the smile she tried to hide.
The family room had become a place of lists and folded things.
A plethora of fabrics lay over the back of the chairs.
A gown waited near the screen with one sleeve pinned for adjustment, and a ribbon sat in Hannah’s lap, threaded halfway through her fingers while she watched Violet with too much caution.
Violet reached for the next stack before Hannah could stop her. “How many cloths does John go through in a day?”
Moira leaned back on her heels. “More than ye think and fewer than we would all prefer.”
“And his heavier blankets?”
“In the chest in the nursery,” Moira said.
“The softer ones?”
Moira paused. “Ye already asked that yesterday.”
Violet’s hands stilled on the stack. “Did I?”
“Aye,” Hannah drawled, tying the ribbon into a loose bow. “Twice.”
John slept in the cradle near the fireplace, his eyes closed ever so peacefully.
Violet had requested that another cradle be placed in the family room to ensure more ease and at the moment, she knew she made the right decision.
She looked at him and made herself breathe slowly.
There were things she could learn. Making him laugh, perhaps, or even sleep schedules.
“The Laird trains before the first meal, rides out after messages, and hears disputes after noon?” Violet asked.
Moira’s hand stilled inside the chest. Hannah looked up from the ribbon.
Violet cleared her throat. “I only ask because the household depends on such things.”
“Of course,” Hannah said.
“Daenae say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“I ken ye, Hannah. Ye are probably already writing some kind of sermon in yer head.”
Hannah considered her. “Nay. A hymn, perhaps.”
Violet folded a cloth sharply. “It is better if we keep matters clear. John needs stability. Connor needs order. I need…”
Hannah waited for her to finish. Violet disliked the waiting more than any question.
“I need the wedding over with.” The answer sounded thin even to her own ears.
Moira, merciful woman that she was, rose and carried a bundle of linen toward the nursery. Hannah dropped the ribbon in her hands and lifted one of the gowns.
“The seam is uneven,” Violet said at once, grateful for the distraction.
Hannah smoothed the fabric. “It willnae matter when ye are walking.”
“It matters to me.”
“Right, how could I forget? Everything made of fabric matters to ye.”
Violet walked to Hannah and pressed her hand on the sleeve of the dress. The gown was better than the borrowed brown one, though still not quite hers. The fall of the fabric was decent, the hem plain, and the cream color kind enough. Her mother would have noticed the seam before Violet said a word.
Her smile faded at the thought of her mother.
“I wish Ma could see it.”
Hannah froze, and suddenly, the air shifted. John gave a soft sound from the cradle, and Violet looked away before her face could betray her.
Hannah set down the gown. “Again, if ye want a way out, say so. Aiden and I will help ye.”
Violet looked toward the sleeping baby. “John needs me.”
Hannah’s voice remained soft. “That is still nae the same thing as settling down.”
“It is enough.”
“Is it?”
Violet had no straightforward answer, so she rose and crossed to the cradle. John slept on, unaware that half the castle was tying itself into knots around him.
Later that afternoon, she found Connor in the nursery with John in his arms. He stood stiffly at first, as if the baby were a treaty written in a language he distrusted.
Then John made a small sound, and Connor adjusted his hold without looking down, his hand supporting the tiny head with more care than his stern face showed.
“If ye mean to command every woman in this castle by crying, laddie,” he murmured, “ye should at least be clear about yer terms.”
Violet almost smiled at those words, but she caught herself almost immediately. Without thinking too hard about it, she stepped back before he noticed.
This marriage was business. It had to be. Yet the thought grew less convincing every time she saw him.
This marriage is just business. Nothing else.
Connor heard about the market from Alex in the study.
“Lady Violet and Moira went down to the market with the bairn,” Alex said, setting a report on the desk. “I made certain they had two guards with them when they left, so ye need nae worry. I am only telling ye now because they have returned.”
Connor looked up. “What?”
“I told ye, they were guarded.”
“Why in God’s name did they go to the market?”
Alex’s mouth twitched once. “Moira said Her Ladyship wanted to see if she could get some toys for the bairn.”
Connor looked toward the window. In the courtyard below, Violet held John beneath a strip of blue cloth she had lifted into the light. He watched as she spoke to him about the fabric as if it were something important.
Come to think of it, he had seen that exact fabric once or twice. It must be quite important.
“This is blue,” he heard her tell the baby. “‘Tis the proper kind too, nae the sad gray-blue ye see on people all the time.”
John waved a tiny fist.
“Aye, exactly,” Violet cooed. “And one day, I will tell ye about markets, English roads, Highland passes—everything else ye could possibly imagine.”
Connor’s hand tightened on the edge of the desk. “Double the watch near the nursery,” he ordered.
Alex was quiet for a beat. “Because of Tolford?”
“The wedding is tomorrow. We cannae be too careful, can we?”
“Aye. And Lady Violet?”
Connor kept his gaze on the courtyard. “Nay one approaches her outside the walls without me permission.”
Alex nodded.
Later that night, Connor was haunted once again by the same recurring dream. As usual, it began with Violet’s mouth and the grass beneath his hand. It grew worse because she stayed and her fingers slid into his hair. Her breath even warmed his jaw.
He could feel everything in the dream. As usual, his mouth moved lower, down the neck and chest, and his body believed the lie until he woke before dawn. Again, he was hard and utterly angry. Before he could think twice, he climbed out of bed and went to the loch outside the castle.
The water was black and viciously cold. It struck his skin, locked his muscles, and dragged a harsh breath through his teeth. He waded deeper, jaw clenched, hands braced beneath the surface.
The coldness should have cleared his head. It did not. The castle waited behind him.
He knew the priest would arrive after sunrise. Violet would stand before him in a gown she had likely judged stitch by stitch, with her chin lifted and defiance clearer on her face than a blue sky. In a few hours, she would become his wife.
He gripped his length through his trousers and closed his eyes, his breath hitching.
Her mouth. Her hair. The version of her in his dream.
He took off his trousers and stroked himself once, roughly, teeth clenched. Then he swore under his breath, let go, and sank even deeper into the water.
It still wasn’t cold enough.