Chapter 8 #2
“There’s me wee Highland lassie,” Fraser grinned, sweeping her up in a brief hug before setting her down. “Are ye enjoying yer first ceilidh?”
“Oh yes! The music is so lively, and everyone seems so happy,” Eloise replied, bouncing slightly on her toes as she watched a group of young people forming sets for a country dance.
Declan found himself studying Francesca’s face as she watched the dancers. There was longing there, carefully hidden but unmistakable to his eyes. In London, she would have danced at countless balls, but here, she sat like a spectator, uncertain of her place among his people.
The current dance ended to enthusiastic applause, and the musicians struck up a slower air, something more suited to couples than groups. Several pairs moved onto the makeshift dance floor, and Eloise tugged on Francesca’s sleeve.
“Aunt Francesca, why aren’t you dancing? In London, you said you liked to dance at parties.”
Francesca’s cheeks colored slightly. “This is different, darling. I don’t know the Highland steps.”
“But you could learn,” Eloise insisted with the stubborn logic of childhood. She turned those green eyes on Declan with devastating effect. “Couldn’t she learn, My Laird? Won’t you teach her?”
Declan felt every eye at their table turn toward him. Fraser was grinning openly, clearly enjoying his discomfort, while several of the clan elders watched with interest. To refuse would slight Francesca publicly, but to dance with her would mean holding her in his arms.
“The lass has a point,” Fraser said with barely concealed amusement. “How can Lady Francesca learn Highland ways if no one teaches her?”
Trapped by Highland courtesy and a nine-year-old’s innocent manipulation, Declan rose from his seat and offered Francesca his hand. “Would ye do me the honor, Me Lady?”
For a moment, she hesitated, and he could see her weighing the wisdom of accepting. Then she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“I truly don’t know the steps,” she whispered as they took their positions.
“Follow me lead,” he replied, his voice rougher than intended. Having her this close, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, was doing dangerous things to his composure. “Highland dancin’ is about feelin’ the music as much as knowin’ the steps.”
The dance was a simple one, thank the saints, more walking than anything complex.
But it required them to move together, her hand in his, his other hand resting lightly at her waist. She was graceful, following his movements with the natural elegance of someone trained in London ballrooms, though this was earthier, more primal than anything she would have experienced in England.
“Ye’re a natural,” he found himself saying as they turned together, and the smile that lit her face was worth every curious stare from his clansmen.
“And you’re surprisingly graceful for such a large man,” she replied, a hint of mischief in her voice. “I had expected you to stomp about like a warhorse.”
“Disappointed, are ye?”
“More like curious about where a brutish Highland warrior learned such refined steps.”
His lips twitched despite himself. “Brutish, am I?”
“Well, you did threaten to send me back to England not three days ago,” she pointed out as they moved through the figures. “That hardly qualifies as refined behavior.”
“I never threatened to throw ye anywhere. I said I should send ye back. There’s a difference.”
“Ah, yes, the distinction between wanting to be rid of me and actually doing it. How foolish of me to confuse the two.”
Her dry tone made several nearby dancers smile, and Declan found himself fighting back a grin. “Ye have a sharp tongue, lass.”
“Only when provoked by stubborn Highland lairds who think they can manage people like chess pieces.”
“And what would ye ken about chess?”
“Enough to recognize when I’m being maneuvered,” she replied smoothly as he spun her. “Though I must admit, you’re rather more skilled at it than I anticipated.”
“At chess?”
“At dancing. At conversation. At pretending you don’t find this entire evening as overwhelming as I do.”
The honesty in her voice caught him off guard. “What makes ye think I’m overwhelmed by anythin’, lass?”
“Because your jaw has been clenched since we started, and you keep glancing toward the exit as if planning an escape route.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Well then, it’s fortunate for both of us that Highland honor prevents you from abandoning your betrothed mid-dance.”
Declan shouldn’t have enjoyed the sound of the word ‘betrothed’ from her lips so much, so he thought this was a good time to change the topic. “How do ye like the dance?”
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed, her earlier nervousness forgotten in the joy of movement and music. “So much more alive than English country dances. Though considerably more dangerous, given my partner’s reputation for unpredictability.”
“Unpredictable, now?”
“One moment you say you should ship me back to London, the next you’re proving you can be quite charming when you set your mind to it. Yes, I’d call that unpredictable.”
The music swelled around them, and for a moment, Declan forgot about clan politics and marriage alliances. “Maybe ye bring out the worst in me, lass.”
“Or perhaps the best,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. “The question is, which one am I going to marry?”
Thankfully, he didn’t have to reply. The music ended, and scattered applause broke the spell.
Francesca curtsied gracefully while Declan bowed, but he was acutely aware that something had shifted between them.
The way she looked at him now, breathless and smiling, made his chest tight with feelings he couldn’t name.
“That was magical,” Eloise declared as they returned to the table, clapping her hands together. “You looked like you belonged together.”
Out of the mouths of babes.
Declan tried to ignore the way Francesca’s blush deepened at the child’s innocent observation. Perhaps they did look like they belonged together. The question was whether that was a blessing or a curse.
“Did we now?” Declan remarked dryly.
“Oh yes! And you were both smiling. I don’t think I’ve seen you smile before, Laird MacGhee.”
Francesca shot him a sideways glance. “Neither have I, come to think of it. Perhaps Highland dancing is the key to unlocking your more agreeable nature.”
“Daenae get used to it,” he replied, but there was heat as the warning was only half mild.
The evening had been progressing well with most of his clan showing genuine warmth toward Francesca and clear fascination with Eloise’s refined English manners. Declan had begun to relax, thinking the worst of the introductions were behind them.
Then a grizzled man opened his fool mouth.
“Aye, she’s a bonny enough lass,” the man said loudly, his words slurred from too much ale. “But what place does an English bastard have among true Highland children?”
The words cut through the music and conversation like a blade. Declan felt his blood turn to ice as a hush fell over the nearby tables. Eloise, who had been laughing at something Fraser had said, went very still, her small face crumpling with confusion and hurt.
But before Declan could move, Francesca was on her feet.
“How dare you!” Her voice carried clearly across the suddenly silent gathering, every word sharp as a dirk. “That child has more grace and kindness in her little finger than you possess in your entire body.”
The man swayed slightly, emboldened by drink and the attention he had drawn. “Grace and kindness willnae make her Scottish, will it? She’s still nothin’ but an unwanted English—”
“Enough.”
Declan’s single word silenced the man mid-sentence.
He rose slowly from his seat, his height and presence commanding absolute attention.
The temperature around their table seemed to drop several degrees as he fixed the drunken man with a look that had made grown warriors reconsider their life choices.
“Ye will apologize,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Now.”
“Me Laird, I only meant that… “
“I ken exactly what ye meant.” Declan took a step toward the man, who suddenly looked far less bold than he had moments before. “And I’m telling ye that ye’re wrong. That child is under me protection, as is her aunt. They are family now.”
He let his gaze sweep the gathered crowd, making sure every person present understood his words.
“Let me be clear to all of ye. Lady Francesca will be me wife and the lady of this clan. Eloise will be me daughter in every way that matters. Any man or woman who shows them disrespect shows disrespect to me.”
The threat in his voice was unmistakable. Several people shifted uncomfortably while others nodded in understanding.
“But Me Laird,” the man, Tavish, persisted though his voice had lost much of its earlier bravado, “surely ye can see the difference between this English child and our own bairns.”
“What I see,” Declan interrupted, his tone growing even more dangerous, “is a man too deep in his cups to show proper respect to his betters. What I see is someone who would insult a child to make himself feel important.”
He moved closer still until he loomed over the shorter man. “Apologize to Lady Francesca and her niece. Do it now, or find yerself at the end of me sword.”
The man paled visibly, turning frantically to look around, but he found no support among the other villagers, many of whom were glaring at him with obvious disapproval.
“I... Me Lady, I apologize,” he mumbled, not quite meeting Francesca’s eyes. “And to the wee lass as well. I spoke out of turn.”
“Yes, you did,” Francesca replied coolly, though Declan could see her hands trembling with suppressed emotion. “And if you ever speak of my niece in such terms again, you will answer to me as well as to your laird.”
The steel in her voice surprised several of the onlookers, and Declan felt a surge of fierce pride at her courage. This was no wilting English flower, but a woman with backbone enough to stand beside a Highland laird.
“Eloise,” he said, turning to the child who had remained frozen throughout the confrontation, “would ye like to try some honey cakes? I believe Mrs. MacLeod brought her finest tonight.”
The gentle redirection seemed to break the spell of tension. Eloise nodded mutely, still close to tears, and Fraser immediately swept her away toward the dessert table, chattering brightly about Highland sweets.
Declan remained standing until the man slunk away to nurse his ale in a corner, properly chastened. Only then did he return to his seat, aware that every eye in the village square was watching him.
“Thank you,” Francesca said quietly, her voice barely audible over the slowly resuming conversations.
“No one insults those under me protection,” he replied, his voice carrying the authority of a laird defending his clan’s interests.
The words were calculated and deliberate. They were intended as a public declaration of his responsibility. These two English lassies were part of his household now, whether by choice or necessity, and an insult to them was an insult to his authority.
It was a matter of Highland honor, nothing more.
Or so he told himself as he watched Francesca’s grateful expression, refusing to examine why her safety was becoming important to him.