Chapter 8
“Ye look like ye’re heading to yer own execution, cousin.”
Fraser’s amused voice cut through Declan’s brooding as he stood at the bottom of the main staircase. The younger man was already dressed in his clan colors, looking far more at ease than Declan felt.
“The evening is important,” Declan replied curtly, adjusting his formal Highland dress for the third time. “The clan needs to accept her.”
“And will they? Accept her, I mean?”
“They’ll accept what I tell them to accept.”
Fraser chuckled. “Aye, but it would be easier if ye actually wanted them to like the lass, wouldnae it?”
“What I want is irrelevant. This is about alliance and necessity.”
“Is it now?” Fraser’s tone grew more pointed. “Because ye’ve been pacing these halls like a caged wolf ever since she arrived. I doubt ye slept at all last night. And ye still havenae told me what happened between ye two. But whatever it was, this doesnae look like indifference to me.”
Declan shot him a warning look. “Careful, Fraser.”
Fraser raised his two open palms high. “I’m just saying, cousin. But I’ll see you and the beautiful future Lady at the festival.”
“Aye,” Duncan responded, his thoughts distracted from Fraser even as he registered his cousin walking away with a wide grin on his face.
Tonight would be Francesca’s first public appearance as his betrothed, her introduction to the clan that would soon call her their lady. The success of this evening could determine how readily his people would accept her.
Movement at the top of the stairs made him look up, and his breath caught in his throat.
Francesca descended like something from a dream, every inch the English lady yet somehow perfectly suited to be mistress of a Highland castle.
She had chosen to wear one of her London gowns, a deep emerald silk that brought out the color of her eyes and complemented her golden hair.
White gloves covered her arms to the elbow, and delicate silk slippers peeked from beneath her skirts.
Her hair was arranged in an elaborate style high on her head with a few artful strands left to frame her face.
She looked breathtaking. She also looked terrified.
Before he could speak, the sound of small feet running down the corridor announced Eloise’s arrival. The child appeared in a simple but elegant dress, her golden curls bouncing as she rushed to Francesca’s side.
“My new mama is the prettiest woman in the world!” Eloise declared with nine-year-old certainty, gazing up at Francesca with pure adoration. “She looks just like a princess!”
The innocent proclamation made Francesca’s cheeks flush pink, but Declan found himself nodding in agreement. “Indeed, she does, lassie.”
As Francesca continued to descend, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her gloved hands trembled slightly as she smoothed her skirts. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and there was something almost fragile about her composure.
“Nervous?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to her as she reached the bottom.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and something protective stirred in his chest at her vulnerability.
He found himself wanting to ease her fears, to see that radiant smile she had shown Eloise in the garden. “Ye look ravishing,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
The compliment had the desired effect. She glanced up at him, surprise flickering in her green eyes, and he caught the faint blush that colored her neck despite her attempts to maintain her composure. The sight of that delicate pink flush made something warm unfurl in his chest.
His gaze dropped to her feet, and he couldn’t suppress a slight smile. “Though I fear those delicate English shoes willnae survive Highland terrain. The path to the village can be rough.”
Her blush deepened. “I did not have any time to acquire boots. I am afraid my London wardrobe is not entirely suited to Scottish life.”
The admission made him realize how little thought he had given to her practical needs since her arrival. She had been thrown into an entirely foreign world with nothing but what she had brought from England.
“Forgive me,” he said, feeling an unexpected pang of guilt. “I should have ensured ye had everythin’ ye needed. I’ll see that proper attire is made for ye.” He glanced down at her silk slippers again. “But for tonight, the shoes will do.”
She looked relieved at his understanding, and some of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders.
“Are we ready for the ceilidh?” he asked, offering his arm to Francesca while glancing down at Eloise with a slight smile.
Francesca placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, and even through the fabric, he was aware of her touch. “As ready as I shall ever be.”
“Will there be dancing?” Eloise asked excitedly, practically bouncing on her toes.
“Aye, lass. Highland dancin’ and music. Ye’ll see how we celebrate in Scotland.”
Eloise clapped her hands excitedly. “I was never allowed to go to balls back in London. I was always so curious. Do you dance well, My Laird?”
Before Declan could reply, Francesca spoke up with an apologetic glance. “I’m sure you’ll be the best dancer in the whole Highlands, little one.”
“You do? Even better than you?”
“Well…we should just go and find out.” Declan’s voice was gentler than usual. Two pairs of green eyes shot to him, and both English lassies nodded. One eager, one anxious.
Here goes nothing.
The ride to the village was mercifully short, though Declan found himself aware of both Francesca beside him and Eloise chattering excitedly about what the evening might hold.
Francesca sat with perfect posture, her hands folded in her lap, but he could see the way she studied the passing landscape through the window, as if trying to memorize every detail of her new home.
When they arrived at the village square, where torches had been lit and tables laden with food, the reception was exactly what Declan had expected.
The village square had been transformed into something magical.
Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, wheels of Highland cheese, and barrels of ale.
Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting dancing shadows against the stone walls of the surrounding cottages. Fiddles and pipes filled the air with music that seemed to make the very stones pulse with Highland rhythm.
Declan watched as Francesca took in the scene, her green eyes wide with wonder.
She has never seen a Highland ceilidh before. She’s never witnessed me people when they cast aside the daily struggles of clan life to celebrate together.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music and laughter.
Aye, lass. Ye are.
Declan had to peel his eyes off her when some of his people stepped forward with warm smiles and curious eyes, eager to meet their future lady and the child who would be part of their laird’s household.
Others hung back, watching with the natural skepticism of Highlanders toward outsiders, particularly English ones.
“Me Lady.” An old woman curtsied deeply, her weathered face creased with genuine pleasure. “Welcome to our village. ’Tis an honor to meet ye.” She bent down to Eloise’s level with a kind smile. “And who is this lassie?”
“The honor is mine,” Francesca replied graciously, and Declan noted how she had softened her crisp English accent, making an effort to sound less foreign to Highland ears. “This is Eloise.”
Eloise curtsied politely as Francesca had taught her. “How do you do?”
The child’s perfect English manners and pristine appearance seemed to fascinate the gathered villagers. A young man stepped forward with his wife, both of them studying Eloise with open curiosity.
“Look at those golden curls,” the wife murmured admiringly. “Like spun silk, they are.”
“And her dress,” added another woman, reaching out as if to touch the fine fabric before catching herself. “Never seen such delicate work. Is that English stitching?”
“Aye, from London,” Francesca confirmed, her hand resting protectively on Eloise’s shoulder as more people gathered around them. Declan felt pride well up inside him at the fact that she switched from the English yes to their Highland dialect, even when she didn’t need to.
An elderly man with a graying beard nodded approvingly. “She’s got the look of quality about her, this one. Well-mannered too.” He smiled at Eloise. “Can ye speak the Gaelic, wee one?”
Eloise shook her head shyly, pressing closer to Francesca’s side as the circle of curious faces grew larger.
“She’ll learn,” the man declared firmly. “Highland children always do. But look how she stands so straight and proper. Like a wee lady born.”
Declan watched the scene with growing satisfaction. While some of his clan might be skeptical of Francesca’s English origins, they were clearly charmed by Eloise. The child’s combination of English refinement and natural sweetness was winning them over one by one.
“Such clean hands and neat braids,” marveled another young mother. “Me own bairns are covered in mud within minutes of washin’.”
“’Tis the English way,” Morag explained sagely. “They train their children differently. Nae better or worse, mind ye, just different.”
But not everyone was so welcoming. He caught the muttered conversations, the skeptical glances, the way some of his people kept their distance as if measuring whether this English woman and her perfectly groomed child were worthy of their respect.
All around them, children darted between the tables, their faces sticky with honey cakes, while the older folk clapped along to the reels being played by the village musicians. The air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, peat smoke, and the wild heather that grew on the surrounding hills.
“Fraser!” Eloise’s delighted cry rang out as Fraser approached their table, resplendent in his clan colors.