Chapter 4
He had stated his first rule without preamble, watching her face for any sign of shock or protest.
She blinked several times but nodded politely.
“The ceremony will take place within the week.” He noted the way her hands clenched together and the slight tremor in her fingers, but she remained silent. “After ye are with child, I will nae be expectin’ much more from ye. Ye will share me name and me protection but nothin’ more.”
When she responded, her voice was deliberately calm. “I understand.”
“Do ye?” He moved closer, looming over her seated form. “This is nae some grand romance, Francesca. This is a business arrangement, pure and simple. I need connections to English society and legitimate heirs. Ye need refuge from yer family’s disgrace. That is all.”
Hurt flickered across her features and perhaps disappointment, but that damned English composure flipped back into place almost immediately, and she lifted her chin with admirable pride. “Perfectly clear, My Laird.”
“Ye will never mistake practicality for affection,” he continued ruthlessly. “Ye will nae expect tender words or gentle courtship. And ye will never, under any circumstances, enter me private chambers uninvited.”
The last condition may have sounded harsh, but it was the most important. His bedchamber was his sanctuary, the one place where he could drop his guard. He would not have it invaded by a woman who might expect more than he could give.
“I see.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the slight narrowing of her eyes.
He moved back to the fire, dismissing her. “Betsy will see to yer needs. The child will be provided for as well, but she is yer responsibility alone.”
He heard her rise from the chair, heard the whisper of silk against silk as she stood, but she did not immediately leave.
“And what of your needs, My Laird?” Her voice was quiet but steady. “What else do you require of me beyond…what you already mentioned?”
He turned back to find her watching him with those intelligent green eyes, and for a moment, something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
She looked so small standing there in his study, so far from everything she had ever known, so vulnerable that he felt an immediate need to protect her, yet there was steel in her spine that continued to impress him.
“Obedience,” he said finally. “Discretion. And the understanding that this marriage serves the clan above all else.”
She nodded once, sharply. “Is that all?”
“Aye.”
“Then we understand each other perfectly, My Laird. Thank you for making your expectations clear.”
As she moved toward the door, he noticed her clenched fists, as if she had more to say but were donning an armor of her own.
Good, he told himself as she closed the door behind her. Let her protect herself. It will make this easier for us both.
A soft knock interrupted Declan’s review of the clan’s grain stores ledger. His manservant entered, his quiet efficiency revealing he had served the family through at least two lairds.
“The flowers are particularly bloomin’ this morning, Me Laird,” Griffith said, his weathered face carefully neutral. “Would the Laird nae want some fresh air?”
Declan grunted without looking up from his accounts. “Do what ye must.”
Griffith moved to the tall windows of the solar that faced the castle gardens, throwing them wide to let in the spring morning.
The scent of heather and wild roses drifted in on the Highland breeze, along with the sound of voices floating up from below—a child’s bright and musical laughter mixed with a woman’s softer tones.
Declan’s quill stilled against the parchment.
Despite himself, he found his attention drawn from the ledger to the sounds drifting through his window.
He tried to focus on the numbers before him, but the voices seemed to pull at something on his mind that he was trying really hard not to think all morning.
Finally Declan abandoned all pretense of working.
He rose from his desk and moved to look down into the gardens below.
Francesca knelt beside Eloise near the old stone fountain, both of them bent over something small and white that moved between the lavender bushes.
Even from this distance, he could see how the morning light caught the gold in her hair and how gracefully she moved as she helped the child examine their discovery.
“’Tis a good sign, Me Laird,” Griffith murmured quietly before bowing and withdrawing, leaving Declan alone with his observations.
Below, Eloise’s delighted squeal of joy made him lean closer to the window frame.
“Oh, Aunt Francesca, look! It’s a baby rabbit! Can we keep him? Please?”
The child’s excitement was infectious, her small hands hovering over the trembling white creature as if it were made of spun glass. Francesca’s gentle laughter drifted up to him, and he found himself studying the way her face softened when she looked at the girl.
“I think he might be just what we need to help us feel at home here,” Francesca said, her English accent crisp even in the Highland air. “What shall we call him?”
“Bluebell!” Eloise declared immediately. “Like that beautiful flower, because he is very beautiful too, so it’s only fair.”
It was then that Francesca glanced up, as if sensing his gaze upon her. Their eyes met across the distance, and he felt that same unwelcome jolt of awareness that had plagued him since her arrival. Even from his window, he could see the slight flush that colored her cheeks before she looked away.
He should have withdrawn from the window and returned to his desk and his ledgers. Instead, he found himself descending to the gardens, drawn by an impulse he could not quite name.
When he approached them, his eyes found Francesca first, noting the way the morning light played across her features and how her hands stilled on her skirts when she saw him coming.
The child, however, noticing his presence, was staring up at him with open curiosity. “Sir!” she called out, her voice carrying clearly in the morning stillness. “Do rabbits live very long in Scotland?”
Only by force of will did he turn his attention to the child. “That depends on many things, lassie,” he said, his voice gentler than usual as he looked down at Eloise. “But Highland rabbits are strong creatures.”
The child beamed up at him, apparently undaunted by his imposing presence. “Will Bluebell be safe here?”
“Me mother used to say that white rabbits were harbingers of peace,” he heard himself saying, the words coming from some long-buried memory. “She believed they brought good fortune to any household that sheltered them.”
Why had he shared that? He had not spoken of his mother’s superstitions in years, had not thought of her gentle voice whispering Highland folklore to soothe his childhood fears.
“Did she really?” Eloise’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Then Bluebell will bring us luck!”
“Perhaps he will,” Declan found himself agreeing, though his gaze had drifted back to Francesca. She was watching him with an expression he could not quite read, before offering him a small, shy smile.
“Would you like to pet him?” Eloise asked suddenly, holding up the rabbit with careful hands. “His name is Bluebell, and he’s very soft.”
Declan hesitated. He was a Highland laird, a man who commanded warriors and defended clan lands. He did not pet rabbits with English children in garden settings that felt far too domestic for his comfort.
But something in the child’s hopeful expression made him reach out with large, calloused hands to gently touch the rabbit’s soft fur. Bluebell’s nose twitched, but the creature seemed unafraid.
“There,” he said quietly. “He knows he’s safe here.”
When he glanced up, he found Francesca watching the scene with her hand pressed to her chest, something unguarded and almost painful flickering across her features. The sight of it made his own chest tighten in response, though he could not say why.
Eloise ran away giggling a moment later, but Francesca was still looking at him as she headed towards a nearby bench. And he couldn’t bring himself to look away either.
This was dangerous territory indeed.
And he had to do something about it. Soon.