Chapter 3
“Come along then, Me Lady.” Betsy’s voice was gentle as she approached the carriage and helped Eloise get down. “Let’s get ye both inside where it’s warm and dry.”
Francesca gathered her skirts and followed the maid through the castle’s massive doors, Eloise’s small hand now clasped firmly in hers. The contrast to her father’s London estate was immediate and jarring.
Where Arcliff Hall boasted polished marble floors and crystal chandeliers, Castle MacGhee’s corridors were rough-hewn stone lit by flickering torches that cast wild shadows across the walls.
The air smelled of peat smoke and something indefinably masculine, so different from the rose water and beeswax polish of home.
Her silk slippers, so appropriate for drawing rooms and ballrooms, felt absurdly delicate against the ancient flagstones.
Everything here was built for function over beauty, for defense over decoration.
These walls had clearly witnessed centuries of Highland warfare, not garden parties and afternoon tea.
“This is to be yer chamber, Me Lady,” Betsy said, pushing open a heavy wooden door. Inside, a spacious room greeted them, but again, how different it was from her elegant chambers at home. The furniture was solid, practical Highland oak rather than delicate mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
A large four-poster bed dominated the space, its frame carved with Celtic knots rather than the refined classical motifs she was accustomed to. The fireplace was massive, built to heat a room during harsh Highland winters rather than merely provide ambiance.
“And the wee one’s room is just through here.”
She led them through a connecting door to a smaller chamber. Eloise’s eyes went wide as she took in the heavy tapestries depicting Highland battles instead of pastoral English scenes, and the fur throws draped over chairs instead of delicate silk cushions.
“Are those real swords on the wall?” Eloise whispered, pointing to the weapons mounted above the mantle.
Francesca felt her heart clench as she watched the child’s face.
Eloise’s lower lip trembled slightly as she pressed closer to Francesca’s side, clearly overwhelmed by how foreign everything appeared.
This was so far removed from the gentle nursery she had known in London, with its painted flowers and music boxes and soft watercolor paintings, the same one her mother and aunt had been raised in.
“Is this really where we’re going to live?” Eloise whispered, pressing even closer to Francesca, if that was possible.
“Yes, darling. This is our new home.” Francesca smoothed the child’s tangled curls, trying to sound confident despite her own fears.
“Will that big, scary man live here too?”
Betsy busied herself laying out fresh linens while Francesca chose her words carefully. “That was Laird MacGhee. He is… he will be my husband soon. And yes, this is his castle.”
“Will he be my papa then?” Eloise’s voice was so small, so hopeful, that Francesca’s throat tightened with emotion.
“We shall see, sweetheart. For now, let’s focus on getting you settled and warm.”
As Betsy helped Eloise wash in warm water, then prepare her for bed, the child peppered them both with questions. Was the castle very old? Were there ghosts? Why did the Laird look so stern? Would there be other children to play with?
Francesca answered as best she could while her mind churned with worry. Declan Blain had agreed to take them both in, but what did that truly mean? What would he expect of her?
“There now, wee one,” Betsy said softly as she tucked Eloise beneath the heavy quilts. “Ye’ll be safe and sound here. The Laird protects all who dwell within these walls.”
Within minutes, exhaustion claimed the child, and her breathing deepened into the peaceful rhythm of sleep. Francesca stood watching her for a long moment, this precious girl she’d do anything for. Even marry that ‘big, scary man’. She almost smiled at the description.
Her own traveling dress clung uncomfortably to her skin, damp from the rain and wrinkled after days of continuous wear.
She desperately needed to change into something dry and proper, but first, she needed to ensure Eloise was truly settled.
She could imagine how difficult this change was for the girl, because it was so difficult for Francesca that she had yet to fully grasp everything that had happened.
“Shall I help ye with yer things, Me Lady?” Betsy whispered, producing a nightgown that had been laid out on Eloise’s chair. “And perhaps draw ye a bath? Ye must be fair exhausted from yer journey.”
The prospect of warm water and clean clothes was almost overwhelming in its appeal. She would get clean first, let the panic about her situation consume her later. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”
She was just fastening the stays of a clean day dress—it was far simpler than her London gowns, but at least dry and unwrinkled—when the soft knock came at the door.
Betsy moved to answer it, and another maid stood in the doorway, her expression apologetic.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Me Lady, but the Laird requests yer presence in his study. I’m to escort ye there now.”
Francesca’s stomach clenched with dread. The reckoning had come. Whatever the Laird intended to say about their arrangement, about Eloise, about their future, she would hear it now.
She pressed a gentle kiss to Eloise’s forehead and went to the maid, her heart hammering against her ribs with each step.
“I am ready,” she said. She was most certainly not.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him straighten. A refined English voice, polished as silver, drifted through the heavy oak door.
“Thank you for showing me the way.”
He hardened his expression, schooling his features into the mask of cold authority that had served him well these past years. When the knock came, he did not move from his position by the fire.
“Enter.”
His bride stepped through the doorway with the grace of a woman born to drawing rooms and garden parties, and despite himself, he found his gaze drawn to her transformed appearance.
Gone was the bedraggled traveler from the courtyard.
Her golden hair had been properly arranged, catching the firelight like spun silk, and her day dress, though simple by London standards, displayed her feminine curves perfectly.
So perfectly, that he couldn’t help his gaze traveling down her body.
“I was informed you wanted to see me, My Laird.” She curtsied politely, matching the neutral tone in her voice with her expression.
But Declan hardly heard her quiet words. The swell of her breasts beneath the modest neckline and the way the fabric hugged her waist before flowing over her hips combined to create a picture that made his blood quicken in ways he had not expected.
Those green eyes still held uncertainty, but there was something else—there was a quiet dignity that made his pulse race. Her lips were full and soft-looking, and he found himself wondering what they would feel like beneath his own.
Heavens.
The unwelcome stirring in his loins was immediate and powerful, a reminder that he was still very much a man despite his determination to remain detached. He shifted slightly, grateful for the shadows cast by the firelight that concealed his body’s treacherous reaction.
This was exactly the kind of distraction he could not afford. The woman was beautiful, undeniably so, but beauty was a weapon as surely as any blade, and he had learned long ago not to let his guard down around such things.
He forced himself to look away, to focus on the flames dancing in the hearth rather than the way her golden hair seemed to shimmer with each breath she took.
“Sit.” He gestured curtly to the chair across from his desk without looking at her directly.
She remained standing. “My Laird, I wanted to thank you for allowing Eloise and me to at least clean up and rest.”
He turned to face her again and nodded, his voice cutting through her polite gratitude like a blade. “We need to discuss the terms of our arrangement.”
His eyes were drawn to the swell of her breasts once again, but this time his reaction was expected. He forced himself to meet her gaze instead.
“I should have sent ye back,” he said without preamble, not bothering with pleasantries. “Sent ye both back to whatever mess Earl Holton created with his lies and omissions.”
Her face went pale, but she held his gaze. “I see.”
“Do ye?” He took a step closer to her. “Because yer father failed to mention certain… complications about this arrangement.”
“Surely, he did, but—”
“Ye brought someone else’s child into this marriage agreement.”
“She is not—”
“But I need an heir,” he continued, cutting off her protest. “The MacGhee bloodline cannae end with me, nae when so many depend on our strength and leadership.”
“So you’re keeping us.” Her voice was carefully neutral, but he heard a whisper of relief in her voice.
“Aye. Because desperate women make practical wives. They dinnae expect tender words or gentle touches. They take what protection is offered and ask for nothin’ more.”
“You’re quite right,” she whispered. “I expect nothing but shelter for myself and Eloise.”
He followed her with his eyes as she finally took the offered seat.
“I’ll protect ye and the bairn, lassie. Ye’ll have a safe home here, I always protect what’s mine. But there are some rules that expect ye to follow as me wife.”
He watched her bite her lip, and the movement was enough to send blood straight to his loins again. Why the hell was he acting like a lad that has yet to bed a woman? Thankfully, her voice brought him out of his thoughts.
“Rules, My Laird?”
“Aye. Rule Number One: I expect ye to be carrying an heir within two months of our marriage.”