Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next morning, Connor woke to the pale morning light slipping through the small window, casting a soft glow across the bed.
Eva lay beside him, her breathing slow and even, a loose curl resting across her cheek.
He studied her with a quiet satisfaction, noting the calm strength in her face even in sleep.
“Aye, she will make a proper wife, one who willnae bend too easily nor break when the world presses hard,” he whispered.
He rose carefully so as not to wake her, pulling on his shirt and boots with practiced ease. Connor spared her one last look before slipping out, a rare softness lingering in his eyes. Then he closed the door behind him and headed down the creaking stairs.
The tavern below was already stirring, the hearth crackling and the scent of bread thick in the air. The innkeeper looked up from wiping a table and broke into a grin at the sight of him.
“Mornin’, me laird,” the man said, bowing his head.
Connor returned the greeting with a nod, “Fine mornin’,” and took a seat near the fire.
“Well then,” the innkeeper said, bustling over, “was the room to yer likin’?”
Connor accepted the cup of tea set before him and took a slow sip.
“Indeed it was,” he replied, voice calm and assured. “In an hour, send up a good breakfast and tea to the room.”
“Of course, me laird,” the innkeeper said.
Connor watched the man move, then added, “I’ve another thing for ye.” The innkeeper paused, attentive. “I’ll be bringin’ me bride-to-be to Brawna the seamstress later this day, so send word I’ll be there.”
The innkeeper’s eyebrows shot up with delight, and he waved over a scrappy stable boy hovering near the door. He bent close and barked the message, and the lad’s eyes went wide with importance.
The boy bowed deeply to Connor, nearly tripping over his own feet before bolting outside. Connor hid a faint smile behind his cup.
Villagers began to trickle in as the morning wore on, caps in hand and faces hopeful. Connor greeted them easily, motioning for them to sit when they requested an audience.
One man spoke of a fence knocked down by last week’s storm, another of grazing lines disputed near the loch. Connor listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful and steady.
“Aye, I’ll have men see to the fence before the week’s out,” Connor said, tapping the table once.
The farmer let out a breath of relief and thanked him profusely. Another villager mentioned sheep straying too close to a neighboring holding that had plenty of high grass and no grazing.
Connor nodded and said he’d speak to the other Laird to settle it fair.
More folk gathered, drawn by the warmth and the rare chance to speak plainly. A woman worried over a levy she could not meet this season, her hands twisting in her apron.
Connor softened his tone and told her they would speak again after the harvest. “Nay clan thrives if its people starve,” he said simply.
Between grievances, mugs were filled, and bread passed along the tables. Connor accepted a plate when it was set before him, eating as he listened. He asked names, remembered faces, and made notes in his mind. This, too, was his duty, as much as sword or command.
One older man lingered after the others drifted away, clearing his throat. He thanked Connor for the care shown to the village lass and her family at the castle, saying, “It makes us feel like she is one of us, and ye takin’ her as yer bride means much to us plain folk.”
Connor inclined his head, accepting the words without boasting. “They’re under me protection now, and indeed I care for the villagers on equal footin’ to me own,” he said, final and sure.
As the tavern quieted again, Connor leaned back in his chair, thoughts turning upward to the room above.
He wondered if Eva had woken yet, if she’d be surprised by breakfast arriving at the door.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, unbidden.
He finished his tea and rose, duty calling him back upstairs.
Before he left, the innkeeper caught his eye once more. “She’s a good match for ye,” the man said carefully.
Connor paused, then gave a single nod. “Aye,” he replied, voice low and certain, “that she is.”
Connor returned to the room and stopped short when he saw Eva already awake and dressed. She stood near the window as though she’d been pacing, and when she turned her eyes widened in shock. He shut the door behind him slowly, studying her pale face. Something tight settled in his chest.
“What’s the trouble, lass?” he asked, his voice low but steady.
Eva hesitated, then blurted, “I thought… for a moment, I thought ye’d gone and left me.”
He frowned, stepping closer. “Left ye? Why would ye think such a daft thing?”
She twisted her hands together, staring at the floor. “Because of last night,” she said softly, the words rushed and embarrassed. “I acted wanton, and I thought maybe ye regretted it come mornin’.” She dared a glance up at him, bracing herself.
Connor stopped dead, surprise flashing across his face. “Is that what’s been gnawin’ at ye?” he asked, incredulous. He shook his head once, slow and deliberate. “Eva, ye’ve it twisted all wrong.”
He moved closer until she had to look at him. “If anythin', last night only proved I chose right,” he said firmly. “I daenae take a woman to me bed lightly, nor do I discard her come dawn.” His voice softened just a fraction. “Especially nae one I intend to make me wife.”
Eva sucked in a breath, relief flooding her expression so quickly it near stole her balance. “Ye… ye mean that?” she asked quietly.
“Aye,” Connor replied without hesitation. “Every word.”
She nodded, blinking fast, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I feared I’d made a fool of meself,” she admitted.
He snorted softly. “If that’s foolishness, then I’ll take it gladly.”
A knock sounded at the door, cutting the moment short. A maid entered with a curtsy, balancing a heavy tray laden with steaming dishes.
“Breakfast, me laird,” she said cheerfully, setting it down.
Connor thanked her, and she slipped out again.
Eva stared at the spread in disbelief. “That’s more food than we’d see in a week back home,” she murmured.
Connor poured tea into two cups. “Eat,” he said simply. “Ye’ll need the strength as we have a long day ahead.”
They sat together at the small table, close enough that her knee brushed his. Eva lifted a spoonful of porridge, tasting it with a soft sound of approval.
“It’s lovely,” she said, then flushed as she realized she’d spoken aloud.
Connor smiled faintly and tore an oatcake in half.
“It’s the best fare this side of me lands,” he said. “An inn that feeds folk poorly doesnae keep its doors long.”
He passed her bread and watched as she thanked him quietly. The blush in her cheeks lingered stubbornly, and he found himself noticing it far too much.
She nodded, comforted, and took a sip of tea. “Thank ye… for all of this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the room, the food, him.
He shrugged. “It’s what’s owed to ye.”
Connor found his gaze drifting back to her again and again. “Ye’re blushin’ somethin’ fierce,” he remarked lightly.
Eva groaned under her breath. “I cannae help it,” she muttered. “Ye’ve a way of sayin’ things and… I cannae stop thinkin’ of last night.”
He chuckled low, pleased. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She shook her head, but there was a smile tugging at her lips.
When the plates were mostly cleared, Connor stood.
“We’ll go see the village,” he said. “Then we’ll head back to the castle.”
Eva rose as well, smoothing her skirts. “Aye,” she replied, steadier now. “I’m ready.”
He watched her a moment longer, satisfaction settling deep in his chest. Whatever doubts she’d woken with were gone, replaced by resolve. Connor knew then that the choice he’d made was already changing them both.
Connor led Eva through the village streets with a hand firm at her elbow, ignoring the curious glances cast their way.
The shop of Brawna the seamstress sat near the loch road, its windows crowded with bolts of wool and linen in rich hues.
He pushed open the door without ceremony, the bell jangling overhead.
Warm air and the scent of clean cloth wrapped around them at once.
Brawna looked up from her cutting table, her sharp eyes widening as she recognized him.
“Saints preserve us, if it isnae Laird McLaren himself,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her gaze slid to Eva, appraising and curious. “And who might this bonnie lass be?”
“This is Eva, me betrothed,” Connor said simply. “She needs gowns fit for a Lady of McLaren, and she needs them quick.”
Eva stiffened beside him. “Me Laird, that’s nae necessary,” she protested softly. “I’ve dresses already, and they serve me just fine.”
Connor glanced down at her, brow lifting. “Ye’ll wear what suits yer station now, lass, whether ye think ye need it or nae. And ye need weddin’ clothes.”
Brawna clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I’ll make her shine, daenae ye fret,” she said eagerly. She circled Eva, lifting her chin gently and tugging at the sleeve of her plain gown. “Good bones, strong lines, and a figure that’ll hold a bodice proper.”
Eva flushed crimson under the scrutiny.
“I really daenae deserve all this fuss,” Eva murmured, wringing her hands.
Connor snorted. “Deserve has naught to do with it,” he replied. “Ye’re me future wife, and I’ll have ye dressed as such.”
Brawna grinned. “Aye, lass, best get used to folk makin’ a fuss of ye.”
Brawna ushered Eva onto a small stool and began measuring her with brisk efficiency.
She spoke as she worked, rattling off fabrics and colors like a litany. “We’ll start with a good wool for the weddin’ gown, ivory or cream, with embroidered thistles along the hem.”
Eva’s eyes widened as if she feared she might faint.
“Embroidered?” Eva echoed faintly. “That’s far too dear, and so much work.”
Connor folded his arms. “Ye’ll have embroidery,” he said flatly. “And heavy cloaks so fine it’ll keep ye warm through the harshest winter.”
Brawna nodded approvingly. “A deep forest green would set off yer eyes lovely, and a blue for day wear, soft as summer sky.”
Bolts of fabric were unfurled across the table, colors blooming one after another.
Connor selected without hesitation, touching cloth with decisive fingers as if choosing weapons.
He picked gowns with fitted bodices and full skirts, some trimmed in braid, others adorned with subtle embroidery along the sleeves.
Eva watched in stunned silence, overwhelmed by the richness.
“This is too much,” she said at last, finding her voice. “Connor, please, I cannae wear all this.”
He turned to her, expression unyielding. “Ye will,” he said quietly. “And ye’ll stop thinkin’ small of yerself.”
Brawna chuckled. “Listen to the man, lass. He kens what he’s about.”
A wedding gown sketch was laid out, and Brawna explained each detail with reverence.
The bodice would lace snug, the skirt would flow heavy and graceful, and a fine cloak would clasp at Eva’s shoulders with a silver brooch.
Eva reached out to touch the drawing, her fingers trembling.
She swallowed hard, torn between awe and fear.
“I’m just a villager,” she whispered. “Folk will laugh at me for wearin’ such finery.”
Connor stepped closer, his voice low. “They willnae,” he said. “I’ll stand beside ye.”
Brawna nodded solemnly. “And once they see ye in these gowns, they’ll choke on their words.”
When the fittings were done, Connor paid without comment, silencing Eva’s renewed protests with a single look. Packages were stacked high, more than she thought one woman could ever need.
“I will have someone pick these up and take them to Castle McLaren,” Connor said. “As soon as the weddin’ clothes are ready, send word straight away.”
Brawna wrapped Eva’s hands in hers, smiling warmly. “Ye’ll make a fine bride. Many blessings to ye, and do just fine, me dear,” she said. “Mark me words.”
Outside, Eva finally turned on him, flustered and breathless. “Ye cannae keep doin’ this,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll never repay ye.”
Connor arched a brow. “I’m nae keepin’ score,” he replied.
As they walked back toward the inn, Connor glanced at her, satisfaction settling deep in his chest. She was still protesting under her breath, but her eyes shone despite herself.
He liked that she fought him, even now, over something meant to please her.
It told him she would never be small, no matter how fine the gown.
Connor returned to the inn with Eva at his side, the low murmur of midday patrons filling the common room. He caught Targon’s eye at once and jerked his chin toward the door, and the innkeeper hurried over with a knowing look.
“Ready supplies for the road back to Castle McLaren, enough for a comfortable ride and a change in weather. See it’s done proper,” Connor added, fixing him with a look that brooked no argument.
“Aye, me laird,” Targon replied readily. “I’ll have it all tied and ready for the saddle.”
Connor gave a short nod, satisfied, then turned back toward the stairs.
They climbed to their room, the wooden steps creaking beneath their boots.
Eva moved ahead of him, her movements quick and a touch nervous.
Connor watched her without speaking, noting the way she folded the cloak fabric carefully, as if unused to fine things.
The sight stirred something unexpected in his chest. He took the cloak.
As she drew the cloak around her shoulders, he stepped closer and adjusted the fastening himself.
“There,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering a moment longer than needed. “It’s meant to be worn, nae folded into a saddle bag.”
She glanced up at him, cheeks pink, and then looked away again, tugging the hood into place. He felt a pull toward her then, steady and sure.
“I’ll be ready to go soon,” she said.
Connor leaned back against the table while she made herself ready, his thoughts turning inward.
She was strong in a way that mattered, stubborn where it counted, and gentle without being weak.
He had known women bred for marriage and duty, all smiles and obedience, and none of them had stirred him as she did.
Eva stood before him now, a villager by birth, yet she carried herself with an honesty he respected.
When she turned back to him, ready at last, he straightened and reached for his own cloak.
“We best be off,” he said, though his voice had softened.
“Aye,” she answered, steadying herself, “I’m ready.”
Connor held the door for her and followed her out, certain now of one thing as they headed for home.
She’s a fine woman indeed, and I’ve nay doubt she will stand as Lady of McLaren in her own way.