Chapter 6
“Aletter just arrived for ye, Me Lady.”
Francesca looked up from where she sat reading in the morning room the following day. She had not managed to speak with her betrothed anymore last night, and she had given up trying.
She’d retired early and thought of him until the sun had risen. Then she’d spent the morning getting to know more of the castle and the people working here, so she was not surprised to see one of the younger maids holding a silver tray with a single piece of correspondence.
The elegant script and familiar seal made her stomach clench with dread.
“Thank you, Mary.” She forced a smile as she took the letter, though her hands trembled slightly as she broke the wax seal bearing her father’s coat of arms.
The letter was brief, written in Earl Holton’s typically businesslike tone:
Francesca,
Lady Watson and I will be hosting our annual anniversary ball on the fifteenth of next month. Your presence is required, along with your husband, to demonstrate to London society that you have made a respectable marriage despite your previous… difficulties.
This appearance is not optional. The family’s reputation depends upon showing that the Watson name has not been permanently tainted by your indiscretions. You will attend, you will smile, and you will play the part of a happily married Highland lady.
Arrangements will be made for your accommodation. The girl may remain in Scotland.
Your dutiful father,
Earl Holton
Francesca’s hands shook with rage as she read the letter a second time, each word stoking her fury higher.
The sheer audacity of the man was breathtaking.
After forcing her into exile, after arranging her marriage to a stranger without proper disclosure, he now expected her to return like a trained dog to perform for his guests.
“Play the part of a happily married Highland lady,” she muttered, crumpling the letter in her fist. “Demonstrate to society that I have made a respectable marriage.”
The hypocrisy was staggering. Her father cared nothing for her happiness or well-being, only for salvaging the family reputation that had been damaged by his own machinations.
He wanted to parade her before the ton like a prize mare, showing off how cleverly he had disposed of his scandalous daughter while maintaining the Watson family’s standing.
She rose from her chair and began pacing the small room, her fury building with each step.
There was no way she would set foot in London again, not to smile and curtsy and pretend that her arranged marriage was anything more than a business transaction.
She would not stand in her father’s ballroom and lie to the very people who had whispered about her downfall.
“Never,” she said aloud, her voice fierce with conviction. “I will not be his performing puppet.”
The marriage to Declan might be a matter of convenience, but she would not cheapen it further by turning it into a public spectacle for her father’s benefit.
Whatever fragile foundation she and Declan were building, however tentative their interactions, she would not risk destroying it all for the sake of London society’s approval.
Let her father explain her absence, however he chose.
Let him make excuses to his grand friends about why his Highland-married daughter could not attend.
She was done with his games, done with being moved about like a chess piece for his political advantage.
London society would have to find someone else to gossip about.
The sound of rapid footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, followed by a burst of Eloise’s laughter, and the familiar sounds of her new life washed over her like soothing balm.
“Eloise Watson, look at the state of those boots!” Betsy’s voice carried through the door, warm with mock severity. “Ye’ve tracked half the Highland mud through the castle!”
“But Betsy, I was only chasing Bluebell through the garden,” came Eloise’s breathless reply, still giggling. “He found the most wonderful hiding spot behind the rose bushes, and I had to crawl under to reach him.”
“Crawlin’ through rose bushes, is it? Well, that explains the tears in yer dress as well. Come along then; we’ll need to get ye cleaned up before the afternoon meal.”
“Can Bluebell come to dinner with us? He’s been very good today.”
“Rabbits daenae belong at the dinner table, wee one, nay matter how well-behaved they are.”
“But he could sit very quietly beside my chair. I promise he wouldn’t make any noise.”
“And what would the Laird say about a rabbit at his table? Can ye imagine his face?”
Eloise dissolved into giggles again. “He might smile! Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Aye, that would be somethin’ indeed. Now come, let’s see about those muddy boots before Krista has my head for the state of the floors.”
The voices grew fainter as they moved down the corridor, but Eloise’s delighted laughter still echoed faintly in the distance.
Francesca felt something tight in her chest begin to loosen. These were the sounds of her new life. A child’s innocent joy, a servant’s gentle care, the everyday rhythms of a home where Eloise could run free and dirty her boots without fear of harsh punishment.
This was her home now, for better or worse.
Whatever challenges lay ahead with Declan, whatever difficulties they might face in their unusual arrangement, at least here she could make her own choices.
Here, no one expected her to smile and lie and pretend that scandal had never touched the Watson name.
I’ve been meaning to check the stables to see if I can find a mare gentle enough for Eloise to begin learning how to ride.
There was a choice she could make. In fact, she could do it right now, and no one would stop her. She had to be thankful to her betrothed for that, at least.
The afternoon air carried the scent of hay and spring blossoms as Francesca made her way across the castle courtyard toward the stables.
The sound of voices and movement from within the stone building made her pause at the entrance. Through the shadows, she could see Declan’s tall form moving beside a magnificent black stallion, his hands gentle but firm as he worked a brush along the animal’s sleek coat.
“Ye can approach,” he said without looking up, somehow sensing her presence despite her attempts to remain quiet. “I’m nearly finished here.”
Francesca took a tentative step forward, studying the way his powerful shoulders moved beneath his linen shirt as he worked. There was something almost meditative about his movements, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the laird’s armor.
“I wanted to ensure the area would be safe for Eloise tomorrow,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “She has been asking about the horses, and I thought perhaps a brief visit…”
“The horses are well-trained,” he replied, his attention still focused on the stallion. “She’ll come to no harm here, provided she follows instructions.”
The simple acknowledgment that Eloise would be welcome brought an unexpected warmth to her chest. So there was hope for building some kind of family harmony after all.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “That means a great deal to both of us.”
Declan set aside the brush and stepped back to admire his work, finally turning those storm-grey eyes in her direction. “I’ll be visiting yer chamber tonight.”
The words were delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone he might use to discuss the weather or clan business, and they hit Francesca like a physical blow.
After the morning’s letter from her father, after being ordered about like a chess piece to be moved at will, the casual assumption in his voice was the final straw.
“No.”
The word escaped before she could stop it, sharp and definitive in the quiet stable. Declan’s eyebrows rose in surprise, clearly not accustomed to being refused.
Declan stared at her, certain he had misheard.
“Repeat what ye just said. Now.”
The words came out sharp.
The audacity of the woman.
In all his years as laird, no one had ever refused him so directly, so definitively.
“I said no.” Her chin lifted with a defiance that made his blood heat in ways he was not prepared for.
The afternoon light streaming through the stable entrance caught the gold in her hair, and he found himself momentarily distracted by how the anger transformed her features.
Gone was the polite English rose; in her place stood a woman with fire in her green eyes and steel in her spine.
Ye are so magnificent in this moment, I could forget about comin’ tonight and take ye right now.
The thought came unbidden, and he forced it down. This was not the time to be admiring her spirit, no matter how unexpectedly arousing it was to see her stand her ground against him.
“You do not simply announce your intentions and expect my compliance like some broodmare awaiting service,” she continued, her voice gaining strength with each word.
The comparison stung, partly because there was truth in it.
He had approached this like any other clan business, issuing commands and expecting obedience.
But watching her now, seeing the proud set of her shoulders and the way she refused to back down despite their vast difference in size and power, he could see how it might have looked to her.
“I am yer husband,” he insisted, forcing steel in his voice though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. His gaze dropped momentarily to her lips, noting how they parted slightly with her quickened breathing, before he forced himself to look away.
“You are my betrothed,” she corrected, and the distinction hit him with unexpected force. “And even when we are wed, you do not command my bedchamber like you command your men.”
Christ. The woman was defying him openly, challenging his authority in a way that should have enraged him, yet her anger made her even more beautiful, if such a thing were possible.
“We have an arrangement,” he managed, his voice rough. He took a step closer, close enough to catch the scent of lavender that seemed to cling to her skin. Close enough to see the slight tremor in her hands despite her brave words.
“Yes, we do. But nowhere in that arrangement did I agree to be ready for you whenever the mood strikes you.” She held her ground even as he loomed over her, and something primal stirred in his chest at her courage. “If you wish to visit my chamber, you may ask. Like a gentleman.”
The challenge in her voice sent heat coursing through his veins. When had any woman ever dared speak to him thus? When had anyone demanded he moderate his tone, soften his approach, consider their feelings before his own needs?
“What if I am nay gentleman, lassie?” Declan found himself leaning closer, drawn by the fire in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin.
The space between them crackled with tension as he invaded her personal space, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her green eyes.
“Ye are mine, and ye dare to defy me. Do I need to remind ye of the conditions ye agreed on?”
His proximity was overwhelming her. He could see it in the way her breathing had quickened and in the slight tremor that ran through her despite her brave words. Yet she didn’t step back.
For a moment, uncertainty flickered across her features. A strand of golden hair had escaped her careful arrangement, and without thinking, he reached up to tuck it behind her ear. The simple touch sent fire racing through both of them.
His fingers lingered against the soft skin of her cheek longer than necessary, and he felt her sharp intake of breath. Her pulse was racing beneath his touch. He could feel it fluttering like a trapped bird.
But the next moment, her jaw set with renewed determination, and she took a step out of his reach. Declan felt his respect for her deepen despite himself.
“I am not your wife yet,” she said firmly, her voice never wavering even though he could see her pulse fluttering rapidly at the base of her throat. “And those rules do not apply until I am.”
She was right, technically speaking. They were betrothed, not wed. The ceremony had not yet taken place; the vows were not yet spoken. But more than that, something about her defiance was affecting him in ways he had not expected.
The fire in her eyes reminded him of Highland storms, wild and beautiful and utterly untamed.
Her refusal to cower before him spoke of a strength he had not anticipated, a spirit that matched the fierce landscape of his homeland.
This was not some delicate English flower that would wilt at the first sign of Highland roughness.
This was a woman who could stand beside a laird and never bend.
And God help me, ye arouse me more than ye infuriate me.
The air between them was electric. He should step back—every rational thought screamed at him to put distance between them. Instead, he found himself caught in her gaze, drowning in those defiant green eyes that held both fear and something far more dangerous.
His thumb traced along her jawline before he caught himself, his hand dropping away as if burned.
“I’ll respect yer wishes,” he heard himself saying, his voice strained with the effort of controlling his unexpected response to her defiance, “for now, but soon, ye will be beggin’ me to touch ye.”
She gasped, and her response filled him with pleasure.
Their eyes held for a long moment before he bowed his head slightly, then he turned on his heel and strode toward the stable entrance, needing air, needing space, needing to put distance between himself and the woman who had just turned his carefully ordered world out of course.
As he stepped into the courtyard, his breathing came hard and fast, his body responding to the confrontation in ways that had nothing to do with anger.
Her defiant stance burned in his mind like a brand.
The way she had stood her ground, the proud tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes as she demanded to be treated with respect rather than mere possession.
What kind of woman have I agreed to marry? he wondered, and for the first time since this arrangement began, the question carried more anticipation than dread.