Chapter 27
Violet watched Ruaridh over the rim of her cup as he forked his breakfast with an inscrutable harshness, and she thought him absolutely adorable.
He looked most appealing in an opposite state to cuteness. Overwhelmingly adorable in moments of anger, focus, irritation, and even arousal.
Last night, after she’d made the bold move of inviting him into her room, he had fallen onto her shoulder with a throaty moan, his hot breath fanning her neck, and she couldn’t have imagined him in a cuter state.
She found herself unwilling to unfurl her claws from his back, hoping to hold him so close that the yielding of his muscles imprinted upon her like she were wet clay.
Now that she could share a meal with him without the awkwardness she surmised followed after such an encounter, she was grateful that he had exercised restraint and refused her.
Staring at his face, she felt the gratefulness dwindling.
He was handsome, jarringly so. His face had to have been carved by the angels themselves on the finest of woods before making a bronze structure out of him to commemorate their work, which then dropped from heaven to earth and walked amongst humanity as if it were a man.
She sighed, her lust flaring hotter.
She would never tell him this, but after he had bid her good night, she had pleasured herself to the vision of his face kissed by moonlight. Overwhelmed by the intense heat between her legs, she pressed two wet fingers to her center like he had done to her and imagined his mouth against her neck.
Spent and breathless, staring into the shadow of her counterpane, she had come to the realization that the feeling that bloomed in her chest, the feeling that refused to leave after her lust was sated, could have only been the one that drove many women to ruin—love.
As though he could sense her eyes, he looked up.
Since the realization, she had found it hard to meet his gaze. There was a chasm in her chest, a black hole that sucked in all the air around her when their eyes met. She became a flustered, light-headed, breathless mess, so she turned her gaze away.
“What’s yer plan for the day?” Grannie Ava asked after she swallowed the last of her meal. She sat across from Ruaridh, a seat usually occupied by Horace, who was absent.
“We will be replacing the brackets in the Great Hall.” Ruaridh, who had turned his gaze to watch his daughter bolt out of the room when her maid summoned her, looked at her with a furrowed brow. He set down his mug, and Violet studied the bandages around his fingers.
Grannie Ava had been the first one to inquire about them. When he had left Violet’s room, he was not hurt. What could have happened since then that would take away his dexterity?
He had murmured a response that Violet was not satisfied with. His mood had been too foul to press further, and when Keira had asked earlier, he didn’t deign her with a response.
Some time ago, Violet had put in an order for silver sconces, and they arrived that morning, which she thought couldn’t have been more perfect timing.
Ruaridh’s men had done all the heavy lifting two days ago, rearranging the tables to fit the wedding she had in mind, and had taken the day before to rest. She knew they had grown tired of her constant nagging and endless demands, but they wouldn’t be able to complain since they had had a full day of rest.
The shiny sconces were the final addition to the dreamlike wedding she had always wanted.
As a little girl, she had wished for a proper English wedding in the most beautiful parts of London, under a vaulted cathedral ceiling, in a white dress, holding a bouquet she had handpicked from a garden she would have spent her youth pruning.
She had never been of the illusion of marrying for love, and it was ironic how none of the things she had scribbled (in perfect handwriting as if to manifest them) in her journal came true, except for the thing that she had not an ounce of hope for. As if fate knew her deepest desires.
When they went down to the Great Hall, the room was alight in wedding décor.
McLeod tartan was draped over every table, embellished by wrought iron candelabras and flora-shaped napkins the maids had spent most of their free time on, and purple heather scattered along the straight edges of the plaids.
The hall looked undeniably better than any London chapel.
Ruaridh had been unsparing with the budget. He must have gotten the message after the many nights she had kept him up with the grand plans she had for the ceremony.
She stepped back to admire the McLeod banner hung next to her family’s coat of arms, which was embroidered on a white cape.
The beeswax candles scented the air with faint honey, and she smiled upon seeing the shiny sconces attached to the walls. The lower compartment held its own bouquet of flowers, which was yet to be filled. Until then, the hinges from the previous torch brackets were still visible.
Keira suddenly walked past her, carrying a metal pole, a great length taller than her and a thickness of a bedside candle.
Violet frowned, confused. “What do you intend to do with that?”
She followed, maintaining a safe distance, which she was grateful for because when Keira turned, she was not considerate of the guillotine that swung with her. She did not slow her pace, but regarded her over her shoulder, maneuvering the rod to the place she wanted.
“The sconce over here isnae latched—”
“Wait!”
Immediately, she pushed it up, and the hinges broke. Violet rushed to her.
From that height, the least she would suffer was a cracked skull. Keira lifted her hands and cradled her head. Violet wrapped her hands around her and maneuvered her vital parts out of the way. The metal came down with a crash, startling the room.
A crowd was forming when Violet pulled her away from the mess. The candle had rolled underneath a table and lit the tartan. The pole Keira had dropped had dislodged another table, sending the décor to the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Keira said in a shaky voice.
The fault was Violet’s. She had known the hinges were rusted. She should have had them replaced.
She knelt before the little girl. Someone had put out the fire with brown mop water. “It’s not your fault.” She attempted a comforting smile. “Are you hurt?”
She probed her own wrist, which, for some reason, sent a sharp pain through her arm.
“Violet, ye’re bleeding!” Keira grabbed her wrist, and she winced.
Blood pooled on her forearm, coloring the blue sleeve of her dress purple. Violet peeled back the fabric to reveal a gash two inches long with the width of a scratch.
“It’s not so bad.” She wiped away the blood with her other sleeve. A mistake.
She winced as her fingers brushed the spot where the candle flame had licked her skin.
“Ye need to see the healer,” Keira urged.
Violet could not protest.
The pain was addling, but she managed to instruct the staff to take down all sconces and replace the hinges.
Keira was noticeably sober at the sight of blood.
Violet had to turn her gaze away when the healer peeled back her skin in search of debris before bandaging her up, but she had watched and tried to distract herself by comforting Keira like an adult should, describing the healer’s treatment and cooing whenever she was overcome with the urge to rip her hand away.
But even after the show of bravery, Keira was still a child, which she proved grandly when she took to singing ominously in her ear that a bride getting hurt just before the wedding was a bad sign.
Violet dismissed her on the way to the Great Hall.
She would have avoided it for the day if she had not had to oversee the progress.
But upon further reflection, she decided to delegate the task to Keira, which the girl readily accepted, eager to prove herself mature.
Violet then made her way to the garden, where the air was cool and welcoming. Just what her nerves needed.
She had felt dread when she watched blood roll down her arm. It was her first injury since her childhood, a scar, a few days before she made the most important decision of her life. Was it a warning?
She held her bandaged wrist to her chest, perambulating the flagstone path. Could it really be a sign of bad luck? Was this marriage not a road to happiness?
Her mind was troubled.
She was on the sixth stone on her third pace back when she heard her name.
Ruaridh descended from the narrow terrace breathlessly. As he marched towards her, she felt her fears evaporate in a cloud of dust. How could she worry when she was marrying the man she loved?
She anticipated the feel of his arms around her. From his countenance, he must have bolted across the castle in search of her. Knowing him, he would pull her into his arms before he uttered another word… and he did.
He held her tightly, and she leaned into him, feeling comforted. Her legs almost gave out. Or they did. She wouldn’t know, he held her above ground. He was warm and soft and still smelled of his morning bath.
“I heard ye got hurt.”
Vibrations rose from his chest and massaged her cheeks. She would not have heard him if he hadn’t pulled back slightly.
“It was only a scratch.”
The muscles of his back tightened. When he pulled back to inspect her, his face had hardened.
He cupped her wrist, and his thumb stroked the ivory linen wrapped around it. It looked worse than it was; the healer was heavy-handed with her application.
Ever since she realized her feelings, Violet had watched him for micro expressions that would tell her that his feelings had also transcended infatuation and blossomed into the intense love she was burning with.