Chapter 26
By the time the priest arrived, John’s fever had gone down enough that the healer allowed him to be carried out of the nursery.
Connor, however, did not mistake that for peace.
The castle moved carefully around the baby. He watched as the maids crossed passages with lowered voices and Moira kept checking the warmed cloth tucked around John’s small body.
Alex stood near the chapel door with his usual stillness, though his eyes moved over every face before returning to Moira.
Violet, on the other hand, stood a few steps away from the baby.
That distance irritated Connor more than it should have. She had spent the morning with John against her chest, hands steady, voice low, taking command of a sickroom as if she had been born beside a cradle.
Now she held herself with both hands folded at her waist. Her gown was proper, her hair pinned, her face pale and composed with too much effort. She looked as if she had built her expression by force.
Connor intended to speak with her before the priest began. He wanted answers about the fainting spells, the angelica, Lachlan’s careful little wound in the nursery. He wanted to put her beside John again until she remembered the baby had gone quiet, not for anyone else but for her.
The priest’s eyes moved towards him as Connors thoughts continued to scramble all over the place.
“Me Laird,” the old man greeted, bowing his head. His gaze went to the baby at once. “Is the bairn well enough?”
“For the christening,” Connor replied.
Violet’s fingers twitched. He saw it from across the small chapel.
There were only a handful present. The priest, Connor, Violet, Moira, Lachlan, Alex, and two witnesses near the back. No crowd or any kind of feast or music. Candlelight danced across the small basin at the front.
Moira held John at first. Her eyes were bright, and she blinked too often. Caring for John had given her hands purpose since the day he had been found at the gate. Now the ceremony made that purpose official, and grief sat close enough on her face that Connor almost looked away.
Alex did not touch her in front of the priest. He only shifted half a step closer, close enough for her to lean against him if she needed to. Lachlan stood apart, watching the entire thing unfold.
Connor studied him for a minute.
He had cleaned himself up since the nursery.
His coat sat straight, and his hair had been smoothed back.
Connor watched him watch John. Grief was there.
Some kind of hunger, too—perhaps the desire to watch over his son himself.
When his gaze moved from the child to Violet, something sharper flashed across his face and vanished just as soon.
Connor filed it away.
The priest opened his book while John made a tired sound, small and offended. Moira immediately looked toward Violet.
That look said more than anything could.
Violet stepped forward before she seemed to realize she had done it. Moira handed John to her without being asked, and Violet took him with a care that tightened Connor’s chest. She did not kiss his head. Her cheek bent toward the blanket instead, barely brushing the fabric near his temple.
Connor noticed, and so did Lachlan, though he gave no sign beyond the flexing of his fingers.
John stirred, and Violet adjusted the cloth under his chin. It was made of fine linen, with a narrow strip of blue fabric worked along one edge.
Connor had seen that blue fabric before. Violet had kept it near John since the beginning. It must have had something to do with Jane.
The priest paused before the basin. “And the bairn’s name?”
Connor meant to answer alone, so his voice came first. “John.”
Violet’s hand moved over the blanket, her lips parting as well. “John.”
The word nearly broke her. He saw it in the catch of her breath and the way her lashes lowered. Before she could retreat from the moment, he set his hand on the small of her back.
“Breathe, lass,” he said, his voice low enough for her ears only.
She did, and soon, the priest dipped his fingers in the water and spoke the baby’s name into the chapel.
“John Reed.”
Connor’s jaw tightened.
The baby who had come in a basket at the gate now had a name spoken by a priest, a family standing around him, and a place in Moore Castle.
He was no longer only a threat to a treaty, a question of blood, or even the personification of Lachlan’s shame placed in a basket.
He was John Reed, and he belonged in the castle.
John fussed when the water touched his brow, and Violet murmured to him at once, that soft nonsense she spoke whenever he was cranky. Connor watched the way she shifted him before the cry gathered strength. He reached to move the blanket from the baby’s mouth at the same moment she did.
His fingers grazed hers, the touch sending shivers down his spine. Violet glanced up at him.
He copied the small motion she had made earlier, gently pressing the blanket with his knuckles instead of pulling. John grew quiet faster than he had expected, lulled by Violet’s voice and their care.
The priest continued as Violet checked John’s breathing twice. Connor found himself doing the same after her, watching the rise and fall of his little chest beneath the blanket and waiting for any catch or strain.
Moira wiped her cheek with the back of one finger and pretended to adjust a fold in her apron. Alex shifted closer again, a silent guard at her side, while Lachlan said one soft “Amen” near the end.
When the ceremony ended, the healer checked John once more near the chapel door.
“He is relaxed for now,” she said. “Let him sleep, and keep watch through the night.”
Connor nodded. “Moira, prepare him for bed.”
“Aye, me Laird,” Moira said, taking John carefully from Violet.
Violet’s hands followed the baby for half a second, then stopped midair. She clasped them together before anyone else could notice. Anyone but Connor, of course.
“I will retire too,” she said, her voice too even.
Connor let her go because he intended to follow and because he truly believed whatever was bothering her could be handled.
But then she crossed the threshold without looking back at John. The baby had just been given a family, and she looked like a woman preparing to remove herself from it.
The bath did not wash the nursery from Violet’s skin, no matter how hard she tried.
Warm water slid from her hair onto the linen the maid held around her shoulders, and still she could feel John’s hot cheek against her gown and could hear Lachlan’s careful voice asking whether her illness should be kept from a fevered child.
The maid lifted her nightdress from the chair, but Violet’s gaze had gone to the folded cloak near the bed and the small bag half-hidden beneath it.
A few things. No more.
The chamber door opened at that moment, and she clutched the linen tighter. “Who is that?!!”
He came in as if the room belonged to him, though his eyes went first to her face. That made it worse, somehow. He saw too much before he saw anything else.
“Ye cannae be here,” she protested.
“I can.”
“That wasnae a challenge.”
“It sounded like one.”
The maid froze with the nightdress clutched against her chest. Her face reddened, and she looked at Violet before moving.
That small hesitation reminded Violet she was Lady Moore now, even standing damp and barefoot behind a screen.
“Leave us,” Connor ordered.
Violet opened her mouth to protest again.
“I will help me wife,” Connor added.
The maid curtsied so quickly that she nearly dropped the nightdress. When the door closed, Violet tightened her grip on the linen until her knuckles ached.
“Ye had no reason to do that,” she huffed.
“I wanted to speak with ye.”
“Well, most people knock before speaking.”
“Most people daenae faint in markets and then flee chapels.”
“I didnae flee.”
Connor crossed to the chair and picked up the nightdress. “Ye left quickly in fear. Choose whichever word pleases ye.”
His calm grated on her last useful nerve. “Give me that and turn around.”
He held out the nightdress, his mouth curving faintly. “I will be good.”
“That is rarely true.”
“Tonight, it is.”
He turned his back before she could accuse him of lingering.
Violet dried herself quickly, angry at the heat in her cheeks and angrier that her hands were not steady. When the linen fell, and the nightdress slipped over her head, she felt his stillness as plainly as a touch.
“Ye may turn,” she said.
Connor turned to face her, his gaze moving over the damp ends of her hair, the high neck of her nightdress, the sleeves she had not tied. He stepped closer and fastened one ribbon at her wrist with surprising care.
“Ye did well with him today,” he praised.
Violet looked down at his hands. “Of course I did. I made Jane a promise.”
“It was more than a promise.”
“Daenae make it sound noble.”
“It doesnae need to sound noble if it is true.”
That hurt more than praise should have.
Violet pulled her wrist back and reached for the other sleeve, but Connor caught the ribbon first and tied it.
“The healer will see ye in the morning,” he said.
“Nay.”
“Aye.”
“Connor, I said nay.”
“I heard ye.”
“Then why are we still speaking about this?”
“Because I am giving ye time to adjust to being wrong.”
She almost laughed. The sound would have been too close to surrender, so she swallowed it and looked away. The small bag beneath the cloak waited at the periphery of her vision.
“Ye cannae order me body like a guard shift,” she said.
“I can order every person around ye until ye run out of ways to avoid sense.”
“That isnae comforting.”
“Well, when it comes to choosing comfort and effectiveness, ye ken where I stand.”
Violet nodded once, because a nod cost less than an argument. She then moved closer to the table, her eyes unwavering.
Connor’s eyes narrowed as if he disliked the easy victory, and she moved to the dressing table before he could search her face any longer.
Wet hair clung to her neck, and Connor came behind her and lifted a strand from her cheek. The touch was light enough to swat away. She did not.
“Why do ye blush so much?” he asked.
“Uh, let us see, because ye enter rooms without knocking?”
Connor smirked. “Ye and I both ken that isnae the whole truth.”
“It is a big part.”
His thumb paused near her jaw. “Do ye nae see yerself the way I do?”
Violet looked at the mirror. Pale face. Tired eyes. Damp hair hanging loose like a sickroom memory. A body that had betrayed her once and might betray again.
What in God’s name is he talking about?
“How do ye see me?” she asked, and immediately regretted the words.
Connor stepped behind her fully, gathered her wet hair in one hand, and drew it over her shoulder. In the mirror, his dark head bent near hers.
“I see the woman who stood over a fevered baby and made a whole room obey without raising her voice,” he murmured.
His fingers slid down her shoulder, warm through the thin nightdress.
“I see me wife,” he continued. “Stubborn. Frightened. Beautiful even when she thinks fear has made her less.”
Violet gripped the edge of the table. His mouth brushed her temple, then lower, just beside her ear, and suddenly, the memory of the tavern flooded back.
“Connor.”
“Ye want to ken what I see? I see what is mine to protect.”
The words should have steadied her. Instead, they opened the very part of her she had been holding shut since the market.
“This complicates our agreement,” she said.
His mouth stopped near her cheek. In the mirror, his eyes lifted to hers. “Yesterday, ye begged for me. Now ye push me away so hard I may think ye are challenging me.”
“Last night was a mistake.” His eyes narrowed. Violet had to force herself to hold them. “I want us to be true to our word.”
“Do ye now?”
“Because that was the agreement.”
“Nay.” His hand left her shoulder. “Why do ye nae want to be mine?”
“I am yers. I am Lady Moore.”
“Ye ken what I mean.”
Her throat tightened. She turned away from the mirror because the woman there looked too close to breaking.
“I am scared,” she mumbled.
Connor tensed. He lost that dangerous ease she had come to be wary of. “Of me?”
“Nay. Never of ye.”
The truth came in pieces because the whole truth required more breath than she had.
She told him about the years and years of sickness.
Years of Hannah holding cups to her mouth and the teas she had to drink.
She told him about days when merely getting out of bed had been a victory and nights when she had heard her sister crying outside the door and pretended to sleep.
“I nearly died,” she admitted. “I learned what it does to people who love ye. That is why I didnae want marriage. Or children.”
Connor did not interrupt. For once, she was grateful for that.
“I didnae want children because a child would love me. And if I died, I would leave that child with grief I chose for them.” She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand before the tear could fall.
“Ye deserve children, Connor. Children of yer own. But I cannae give them to ye. That is why I think we need to annul the marriage.”
“Nay.”
“Connor.”
“Nay.”
“I shouldnae stay here and risk John catching whatever this is. Or ye.”
“Ye will go nowhere.” He cupped her face in his hands, firm enough to stop retreat and gentle enough to make tears harder to hold back. “We will speak to the healer tomorrow.”
“And if she says I should go?”
“She willnae.”
“Ye daenae ken that.”
“I ken ye are staying tonight.”
He kissed her cheek, then the side of her neck, each touch restrained enough to hurt. Then he stepped away, opened the door, and left before she could answer.
Violet stood where he had left her. Her cloak lay near the bed, the small bag waiting beneath it. She covered her mouth with both hands and cried as hard as she could.
It was clear now—staying would be the most selfish thing she could do.