Chapter 14
The instant Connor closed the study door behind them, the noise of the cèilidh ebbed.
The music still reached the room, faint through wood and stone, with the quick pull of the fiddle and the heavier stamp of feet in the hall.
Voices rose and fell beyond the door, followed by laughter.
A cup struck a table hard enough to carry through the passage.
But inside the study, everything held still.
Violet took three steps into the room before she seemed to realize she had led him there. Her shoulders were straight, her chin lifted, and her hands were clasped with careful dignity in front of her wedding gown.
Connor remained near the door for a moment, partly because he wanted to see what she would do with the silence.
She rounded on him. “Ye cannae do this.”
A frown creased his brow. It was clear he knew what she meant, but he would like her to clarify either way.
“Do what?”
She stepped closer to him. “Embarrass me.”
His frown faded into a smile. There it was.
It wasn’t jealousy or anger that he had nearly been asked to dance by another woman. It wasn’t even the bold claim she had made in front of his clan. This was about being respected.
He released a slow breath before answering, “I would never do that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ye nearly did.”
“By standing still while a widow approached me?”
“Everyone was staring at ye. Ye let the room think she had the right.”
The amusement came before he could stop it. He kept it from his mouth, but not from his eyes.
Violet saw it at once, of course. She missed very little when temper had sharpened her.
“I am glad this is amusing to ye,” she hissed.
“It is interesting to me.”
“That is worse.”
“Aye,” Connor said. “Often.”
Her fingers tightened around each other. The fire in the grate was low, and the lamplight caught the flush still high on her cheeks.
Connor stepped away from the door, his hands raised so slightly. “Perhaps ye wanted to dance with me,” he said.
Violet’s eyes flashed. “I didnae.”
He cocked his head. “That was fast.”
“Aye. Simple answers always are.”
“Is that what ye call yer response?”
Her mouth opened, closed, then pressed into a line. She looked toward the desk, the shelves, the window, anywhere but at his hand when he offered it.
“Then dance with me now,” he said.
Violet stared at his hand. “There is no music.”
“Ye can still hear enough from outside.”
At that moment, almost as if someone had heard him mysteriously from the hall, a fiddle rose above the voices, then settled beneath them again.
Violet looked at the door, as if considering whether she should stay or go. Connor, on the other hand, waited to see what her decision would be.
And that was the whole trap. He would not pull her or crowd her. He would make her choose the contact she had come here pretending not to want.
Eventually, she placed her hand in his and he ignored just how cold her fingers were. Connor closed his hand around hers and put his other hand on her waist. The distance between them was as it should be, and yet her breath quickened when his palm settled against her.
“This is unnecessary,” she muttered.
“Oh well, unnecessary until someone breaks them.”
“Are we dancing or discussing the rules?”
“I am capable of both.”
“How fortunate for yer poor clan.”
Connor let the faint rhythm from the hall guide the first step. Violet followed, stiff at first, then with more grace than she seemed willing to reveal. She watched his shoulder, not his face, as if the lesson from the training yard had followed her into the study.
They moved slowly, since there was no audience to satisfy.
The hem of her skirt brushed his boot, and her fingers tightened when his thumb brushed once against the back of her hand.
She could even tell that he felt the slight catch in her breath when he turned her away from the desk and back toward the fire.
“Ye seemed eager to interrupt me before I accepted another dance offer,” Connor noted.
Violet’s gaze flicked back to his face. “I was protecting the dignity of our marriage.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that nae enough reason?”
“Aye,” he said. “It is a very dignified reason.”
Violet looked away first, and that told him more than another denial would have.
Connor did not press. At least not yet. The room was doing enough damage without his help.
The same study had once held whisky, bare skin, and her hands landing against his chest. Now it held wedding vows, muffled music, and a dance.
Violet’s hand remained in his. Her waist fit beneath his palm with a precision that made his fingers itch for more. He could tell she was angrier because of it.
“Did ye intend to accept?” she asked.
The question came too quickly to be casual.
Connor looked at her. “Does it matter?”
“It matters if ye mean to make a fool of me before half the clan on the day we are wed.”
“Ye should believe me, I have little interest in making ye look foolish.”
“That isnae an answer.”
“It is the answer ye asked for.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Ye are doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“That annoying thing.”
“Oh well, what else is a husband there for?”
Connor turned her slowly, keeping the movement measured. His hand on her waist remained proper, but the turn narrowed the space between them for one moment, and the side of her skirt brushed his leg. Both of them noticed.
Violet’s eyes dropped to his mouth before returning to his face with impressive speed. Her cheeks colored, and he knew she understood exactly what he had not yet told her: that he would have refused the widow. That she had crossed the hall to prevent something that would not have happened.
He let her keep the ignorance a little longer because it gave her nowhere to hide.
The music beyond the door shifted into something faster, but Connor did not follow it. Their private dance remained slow, and his hand continued to hold hers. His palm slid around her waist, and he could see just how her composure began to fray at the edges.
She stepped back before he could make the wiser choice.
“Enough,” she said.
Connor released her at once, though his hand itched to touch her again. “Of the dance?”
He watched her fingers curl against her gown. She stood a few feet away now, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, the muffled sounds of the cèilidh pressing at the room like a reminder of every witness they had left outside.
“Of ye,” she said.
The answer pleased him more than it should have.
Connor let his hands fall to his sides and watched her gather herself with visible effort. She turned away from him toward the desk, as if everything on it could rebuild whatever the dance had unsettled.
“Enough,” she repeated, her voice still shaky.
They had done nothing improper, and he could tell that was the trouble.
Connor had kept his hand where a husband might place it in a hall full of witnesses. He had not pulled her against him or lowered his mouth to her ear again. He had simply guided her through a dance no one else could see, with the cèilidh muffled beyond the door and his palm warm against her waist.
It had unsettled her more than any open arrogance could have.
She folded her hands in front of her and steadied her voice. “We need rules.”
Behind her, Connor’s mouth twitched. She did not have to see it to know it. The man could make amusement audible in silence.
“I suspected we might,” he allowed.
Violet turned to face him. “First, we must nae embarrass each other publicly.”
“I agreed to that before ye dragged me from me own wedding celebration.”
“I didnae drag ye. I invited ye firmly.”
“Aye,” he said. “Very firmly.”
The heat in his voice prickled at the back of her neck, but she ignored it because there was no sensible use in acknowledging a tone of voice.
A tone of voice could be denied. Rules were safer.
Rules had edges.
“We must present a united front,” she said. “Whatever arrangement we have, the clan must see stability.”
Connor moved to the desk and leaned one hip against the edge, arms loose at his sides, eyes fixed on her with that infuriating patience. “That sounds reasonable.”
“It is reasonable.”
“Then why do ye look ready to strike me with the nearest candlestick?”
She sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Because ye make everything difficult.”
“That is a complaint, nae a rule.”
Violet lifted her chin. “For John’s sake, we must spend at least one hour together every day.”
Connor went still. The movement was subtle but still thickened the air.
“Together,” he said.
“As a family.”
“For one hour.”
“At least.”
His gaze held hers. “And what am I for the rest of the day?”
Violet frowned. “What do ye mean?”
“Do ye expect me to be a husband for one hour and a stranger for the rest?”
The words struck her so hard that she almost stepped back.
She had planned it better in her head. It had sounded practical there. A child required routine, affection, consistency, and both adults present enough that he would never wonder where he belonged.
That did not mean Violet had asked Connor to sit near her, speak with her, hold John beside her, and make some small daily portrait of family life she had no intention of wanting.
Except that was exactly what she had done.
“The arrangement is for John,” she said.
“Is John the only one who needs a family?”
“Daenae twist me words.”
“I am only listening to them,” Connor responded, his voice too quiet.
For some reason, that was worse than teasing.
Teasing gave her something to fight. This made her feel as if every sentence she had planned so carefully was being lifted and examined in the light.
She moved toward the fireplace, then stopped because pacing would admit unrest. “If we are to raise John, ye cannae be reckless.”
Connor’s eyebrows drew together. “Reckless.”
“Aye. Drawing yer sword while Henry was holding him was reckless.”
“I drew me sword because Henry was holding him.”
“He could have dropped him.”
“He could have run.”
“Ye cannae solve everything with a blade.”
“Nay,” Connor said, his voice colder now. “Only the things words fail to stop.”
The room immediately lost its warmth. Violet had heard anger from him before. This was not that. It moved behind his eyes and turned his face harder and colder, as if she had touched a closed door and heard something heavy shift behind it.
She drew a slow breath. “Connor—”
“Ye must understand, Violet, that too many words ruined me family,” he said. His voice remained controlled, which made the words harsher. “Hesitation doesnae keep bairns alive, as ye have learned in the past few days ye have been here.”
Her anger faltered, and the music beyond the door suddenly sounded further away. In the hall, someone laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry through the wood. It had no place in the study now.
Violet looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the strain beneath the steel. The hard line of his jaw and the stillness behind his eyes. He was still the same impossible man. Now she could see the scar beneath the armor, and hating him became less convenient.
“I wasnae making light of danger,” she assured him.
“Daenae make pity out of it, then,” Connor said. “I have no use for that.”
“I wasnae.”
“Ach, ye were close.”
That should have made her snap back. Instead, she held his gaze and let the silence fester. He had given her so little, hardly more than a glimpse, and yet it had changed the shape of his expression.
She looked away first because the thought softened her too much.
Connor watched her with a different kind of attention now. Less amused. More curious.
“Ye are nothing like I expected,” he admitted.
She folded her arms. “And what did ye expect?”
“An obedient wife, maybe.”
“Then ye chose poorly.”
He nodded, exhaling as loudly as he could. “I am beginning to understand that.”
“Good. Regret is healthy.”
“Is that another rule?”
“It should be.”
His mouth curved a little, and the room settled around the edges.
Connor pushed off the desk, and Violet knew at once she should step back.
She did not move quickly enough.
“Are there more rules?” he asked.
“Aye.”
He took one more step closer. The faint music beyond the door pressed into the quiet, fiddle and feet and voices belonging to a celebration she had abandoned in order to stand here with her husband and pretend she still understood her own intentions.
“Should I move back?” he asked.
Violet’s mouth went dry. “That would be sensible.”
“I didnae ask what was sensible.”
He was close enough now that she could see the shadow of stubble along his jaw and the slight looseness at his collar where the ceremony had begun to give way to the man beneath it.
Close enough that the study seemed smaller than before.
Close enough that every rule she had brought in with such determination felt poorly made.
Connor’s gaze lowered to her mouth, then returned to her eyes. “Are ye certain ye have no more rules else to share, wife?”
Violet knew she should step back.
She didn’t.