Chapter 7
“Aunt Francesca! Make it stop, please make it stop!”
Eloise launched herself from her bed straight into Francesca’s arms later that night, with a terrified cry just as another thunderclap split the night air like cannon fire.
“Shh, darling, it’s only a storm.” Francesca gathered Eloise close, her own heart racing from the sudden violence of the thunder. Highland storms were nothing like the gentle rains of England. “You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”
Lightning illuminated the small chamber, casting wild shadows across the stone walls. Eloise whimpered and buried her face against Francesca’s shoulder.
“It sounds like giants fighting. What if they break the castle?”
Francesca’s throat tightened. How many nights had she herself lain awake as a girl, terrified and alone?
Not Eloise. Never Eloise.
“This castle has stood for more than three hundred years,” she said softly, guiding Eloise back to bed. “Highland storms have raged against these walls countless times, and they have never fallen.”
Another crash of thunder shook the stones. Eloise’s grip on her hand tightened painfully.
“Will you stay with me? Please don’t leave me alone.”
“Of course, I’ll stay.” She wouldn’t ever leave her.
And she didn’t want to even think what her betrothed suggested they should be doing tonight anyway.
Even if there was no storm, even if Eloise did not need her, Francesca couldn’t sleep in her bed.
Not after the way Declan had taken control, not after the way he had looked at her and suggested that she’d be begging.
In that moment she had felt that, if he touched her lips again, she might do just that. So, yes, she’d rather think of the storm than face her own thoughts. And if there was no storm, she’d think of something else. Anything else.
She settled beside Eloise, pulling the quilts up around them both. “Would you like me to tell you a story?”
Eloise nodded eagerly, snuggling closer. “Tell me about Mama and Papa.”
The innocent request hit Francesca like a blow. How could she explain Violet’s bitterness, Leonard’s coldness? This child was too young for such ugly truths.
“Your mama was the most beautiful woman in London,” she began carefully. “Golden hair just like yours and eyes that sparkled like emeralds.”
Thunder crashed overhead, but Eloise barely flinched now, absorbed in the story and comforted by Francesca’s warmth.
This is what family should be, Francesca realized. Not cold duty, but this fierce desire to protect and comfort. Whatever happened with Declan, Eloise would always know she was loved.
A soft knock at the door made them both look up. Declan’s tall frame filled the doorway, his dark hair slightly disheveled as if he had been running his hands through it. He stood there awkwardly, clearly uncertain whether to enter or retreat.
“I heard the thunder,” he said quietly, his Highland burr softer than usual. “Wanted to ensure ye were both okay… that is, storms can be fiercer here than what ye’re used to back in England.”
Another crash of thunder punctuated his words, and Eloise instinctively pressed closer to Francesca’s side.
“We’re managing well enough, thank you,” Francesca replied, though something in his unexpected concern stirred warmth in her chest.
Eloise peered at him from beneath the quilts, her earlier terror giving way to curiosity. “The thunder is very loud here,” she said shyly. “Louder than in London.”
“Aye, Highland storms have power behind them,” Declan agreed, taking a small step into the chamber but remaining near the door. “But these walls have weathered worse.”
“Would you… Would you like to sit with us?” Eloise asked suddenly, her small voice hopeful. “Aunt Francesca is telling me stories about my Mama and Papa.”
Declan’s expression shifted, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features before he composed himself. “I… nay, lass. Ye should rest.”
But instead of leaving immediately, he moved toward the bed with surprising gentleness. Reaching down, he tucked the heavy quilts more securely around Eloise’s small form, his large hands careful and precise.
“There,” he said quietly. “That should keep the Highland chill at bay.”
Eloise smiled up at him, her fear forgotten in the face of his unexpected kindness. “Thank you.”
Francesca remained silent about the gesture, though her heart had done something peculiar when she witnessed his gentleness with Eloise. Perhaps there was more to this stern Highland laird than he allowed the world to see.
“Sleep well, wee one.” He straightened, his eyes meeting Francesca’s briefly over the child’s head. Something passed between them in that moment, an understanding she could not quite name.
“Goodnight, Lady Francesca.”
“Goodnight,” she managed, watching as he withdrew to the doorway and disappeared into the shadowy corridor.
She stayed until Eloise’s breathing deepened into the peaceful rhythm of sleep, then carefully extracted herself from the bed. The storm still raged outside, and restlessness had settled in her bones. Moving quietly to avoid waking the child, she slipped into the corridor.
The castle felt different at night, older somehow, as if the shadows held memories of all the souls who had walked these halls before her. Lightning continued to flash through the narrow windows, illuminating her way as she wandered deeper into the castle’s heart.
The great hall stretched before her like a cavern, empty save for the dying embers in the massive stone hearth. But as Francesca stepped into the shadowy space, she realized she was not alone. A figure sat at one of the long tables near the fire, silhouetted against the orange glow.
Declan.
He held a glass, his attention fixed on the flames as if they held answers to questions she could not fathom. The firelight played across his strong features, softening the harsh lines that daylight revealed. For a moment, he looked younger, less burdened by the weight of command.
“I did not expect to find anyone awake at this hour,” she said softly, not wanting to startle him.
He glanced up, unsurprised by her presence. “Storms have a way of keeping people from their rest.” He gestured toward an empty chair across from him. “Sit, if ye wish.”
Francesca hesitated, then moved closer to the warmth of the fire. The storm still raged beyond the thick walls with the occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the tall windows.
“You seem comfortable with solitude,” she observed, settling into the offered chair. The rough wood was worn smooth by countless hands, a reminder of how many MacGhees had sat in this very spot over the centuries.
“Solitude is often preferable to poor company,” he replied, taking a sip of his drink. “And leadership requires… distance.”
There was something in his tone that made her study his profile more carefully. “Does it? Or is that simply what you tell yourself?”
His grey eyes flicked to her, sharp despite the late hour. “Ye speak as though ye understand the burden of command.”
“I understand the burden of responsibility,” she said quietly. “The weight of others depends on your strength, your decisions. But I have learned that carrying such weight alone is not strength. It is merely stubbornness.”
A harsh laugh escaped him. “Pretty words from someone who has never held a clan’s survival in her hands.”
“You are right,” she admitted. “I have never commanded warriors or defended lands, but I have protected what mattered most to me, even when it cost me everything I know and depend on.”
He was silent for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Leadership leaves no room for softness,” he said finally, his voice low. “Show weakness, and enemies will exploit it. Show sentiment, and those who depend on ye will doubt yer resolve.”
“Is that what you believe? That caring for others makes you weak?”
“I have seen what happens when a laird puts personal feelings before clan needs.” His jaw tightened. “I have seen the cost of such… indulgence.”
Francesca leaned forward slightly, drawn by the pain she heard beneath his controlled words. “Strength and compassion are not enemies, you know. They can exist in the same heart.”
“Can they?” He met her gaze directly, and she saw something raw and unguarded in his eyes. “Tell me, Lady Francesca, how does one show mercy without appearing weak? How does one care without creating vulnerability?”
The questions seemed to cost him something to ask, as if acknowledging such doubts went against everything he had been taught.
“By choosing when and how to show it,” she said gently. “A leader who never shows compassion inspires fear, not loyalty. But one who shows it wisely, to those who deserve it, inspires something far more powerful.”
“And what is that?”
“Respect, care,” she said simply. “The kind of devotion that makes people fight harder, not because they fear you but because they cannot bear to disappoint you.”
The fire crackled between them, filling the silence that followed her words.
“Ye speak with great certainty for someone so young,” he said finally.
“I speak from experience,” she replied. “I have seen what happens when duty becomes cold obligation and when protection becomes mere possession. It destroys the very thing you seek to preserve.”
Something shifted in his expression, a crack in the armor he wore so carefully. “And yet here ye are, bound to a man who has offered ye nothin’ but cold duty.”
The admission hung between them like a challenge, and Francesca felt her heart quicken at his unexpected vulnerability.
The firelight cast dancing shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the way his grey eyes seemed to burn with something deeper than mere reflection of the flames.
“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “cold duty need not be all there is.”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. “And what would ye suggest instead?”