Chapter 9
Francesca’s hands would not stop shaking.
She clutched her goblet of ale with both hands, trying to hide the tremors, but the confrontation with Tavish had shattered something inside her.
The protective shell she had worn all evening, the careful composure that had carried her through introductions and polite conversation, lay in pieces at her feet.
She had stood up to the man, yes. Had defended Eloise with all the fire in her soul. But now, in the aftermath, she felt utterly exposed.
Raw. Like a creature stripped of its protective covering and left vulnerable to every predator in the Highland night.
“I need to speak with some of the elders,” Declan murmured, startling her out of her thoughts. His hand briefly touched her shoulder. “Will ye be all right?”
She nodded because she had no choice, because that was what was expected of her. But as soon as he moved away toward a cluster of older men, the panic began to claw at her chest.
You are alone. You are in a strange land among strange people with a man who is not even your husband yet. Without his protection, anything could happen.
She looked around desperately, searching for something to anchor herself to. Fraser had Eloise by the dessert table, the child laughing at something he was saying, her earlier distress forgotten in the wonder of Highland honey cakes. At least Eloise was safe. At least someone was watching over her.
But Francesca felt adrift, surrounded by faces that had seemed friendly just minutes before but now appeared calculating, judging.
How many others shared Tavish’s sentiments but were simply too polite to voice them?
How many were wondering what their laird was thinking, binding himself to an English woman and her bastard child?
“Me Lady?” Betsy appeared at her elbow with a plate of oatcakes and cheese. “Ye look a bit pale. Perhaps some food?”
Francesca accepted the offering gratefully, though the food tasted like ash in her mouth.
She forced herself to eat, to smile, to maintain the pretense that she was perfectly fine.
But her eyes kept drifting to Declan, deep in conversation with men whose names she did not know, whose loyalty she could not count on.
When she looked up again, she found Declan watching her, his grey eyes narrowed with concern and some disapproval.
He expected me to be strong.
He expected her to recover from the insult as quickly as he had delivered his threat. She would soon be the lady of the clan, unshakeable in the face of adversity.
But she was shaking. Trembling like a leaf in a Highland storm, and no amount of willpower could make it stop.
The realization crashed over her with devastating clarity: she was utterly alone.
In England, she had no one who truly cared for her well-being.
Her father’s letter proved that with its cold demands that she perform for London society’s entertainment.
And here in Scotland, she had only Declan’s protection, conditional and temporary as it was.
What if he changes his mind? What if the clan convinces him I am more trouble than I am worth? What if he decides that an English wife is a liability he cannot afford?
The shivers were more intense now, despite the warmth of the torches and the press of bodies around her. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold seemed to come from within, spreading through her bones like winter frost.
“Francesca.” Declan’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He was beside her suddenly, his large frame blocking out the curious stares of his clansmen. “What is it?”
“I need to return to the castle,” she whispered, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she spoke louder. “Please.”
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “Fraser,” he called out, “put Eloise in the carriage. We are goin’ back.”
The journey back to Castle MacGhee passed in a blur. Francesca sat rigid in the carriage, fighting to maintain her composure until they reached the safety of stone walls and familiar corridors. Only when they arrived did she allow herself to breathe again.
“Will ye be needing anythin’, Me Lady?” Betsy asked as they entered the great hall.
“Please see that Eloise is properly settled for the night,” Francesca managed. “And thank you for your kindness this evening.”
She escaped to her chamber before anyone could ask more questions and before Declan could demand explanations she was not ready to give.
Once safely behind her closed door, she collapsed onto her bed without bothering to change out of her gown, the emerald silk that had made her feel so beautiful now feeling like a costume she had no right to wear.
A soft knock at her door made her freeze. “Come in,” she called, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears.
Declan entered, his expression stern and uncompromising. He had changed out of his formal Highland dress into simpler clothes, but he still looked every inch the formidable laird.
“Are ye strong enough for this life?” he asked without preamble. “Because if ye’re not, I can send ye anywhere ye wish to go. We are not yet wed. Ye still have choices.”
The words hit her like a slap. “You want to be rid of me,” she said, sitting up on the bed to face him directly. “One moment of weakness, and you’re ready to ship me off like damaged goods.”
“That is nae what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” Anger was rising in her chest, burning away the fear and shame. “I don’t fit your Highland mold, do I? I’m not as strong as the women here, not as hardy. One insult from a drunken fool, and you question whether I belong.”
“I question whether ye understand what ye’ve committed to,” he shot back with controlled tones, his own temper flaring. “This is nae some gentle English countryside. These people will test ye, again and again. If ye cannae handle one man’s crude words, how do ye expect to cope?”
“You know I have nowhere to go,” she interrupted, rising from the bed to face him properly. “You know my father sent me here because he wanted me gone. So don’t pretend you’re offering me real choices when we both know I have none.”
He was quiet for a moment, studying her flushed face. “Is it so bad bein’ here?”
The question, asked more gently than his previous demands, made her pause.
Was it? Despite the fear, the uncertainty, the constant feeling of being judged, had there not been moments of genuine warmth?
What about Betsy’s kindness? Eloise’s consistent laughter since they’d been here?
Even Declan’s unexpected gentleness with the child?
“No,” she admitted quietly. “It’s not bad. It’s just… It’s so hard being strong all the time.”
Something shifted in his expression at her words. He took a step closer, and she found herself drawn toward him despite their argument.
“Francesca…”
“But don’t you dare underestimate me.” Her voice gained strength as she looked up at him. “I won’t make a decision about leaving when Eloise’s safety is on the line. Everything I do, every choice I make, is for her.”
“And what about what ye want?” he asked, moving closer still until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “What about what ye need?”
The question hung between them. Francesca found herself trapped between the bed and his imposing frame, her heart hammering against her ribs as she looked up into those storm-grey eyes.
“What?” he pressed, his voice rough with something that sounded dangerously like desire. “Tell me, lass.”
The space between them seemed to crackle with tension. She could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest, could feel the heat radiating from his powerful frame. His presence was overwhelming, filling her senses until she could think of nothing but him.
How had she never noticed how devastatingly handsome he was? The sharp line of his jaw was shadowed with stubble that made her fingers itch to touch it. His dark hair had fallen across his forehead, giving him a less controlled look that made her pulse race.
And that scar beneath his left eye, the same one that had seemed so intimidating when they first met, now appeared almost beautiful to her, a mark of strength and survival that she longed to trace with her fingertips.
Francesca swallowed the magnetic pull before speaking. “I need to know that I’m not just a burden you’ve been saddled with,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I need to know that someone sees me as more than a political alliance or a vessel for heirs.”
Surprise flickered across his features, then a gradual recognition followed so fast, Francesca almost missed it.
“Francesca…”
“I need to matter,” she continued, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Not as Earl Holton’s daughter or as Eloise’s guardian, not even as your arranged wife. But as myself. As a woman.”
He stepped closer, so close now that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. His grey eyes were dark with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Ye think ye daennae matter?” he asked, his Highland burr thicker now, roughened by emotion. “Ye think I daennae see ye?”
Before she could answer, his hands came up to frame her face, his calloused palms warm against her skin. The touch sent fire racing through her veins, and she felt herself leaning into his embrace despite every rational thought screaming at her to step away.
“I see ye,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “God help me, I see ye everywhere I look.”
And then his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was everything she had imagined and nothing she could have prepared for.
It was intense and demanding yet tender in a way that made her knees weak.
His lips moved against hers with a hunger that spoke of restraint finally breaking, of walls crumbling under the weight of desire too strong to deny.
She melted into him, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as she kissed him back with equal fervor. This was what she had been craving without knowing it. This connection, this proof that she was more than just a convenient arrangement to him.
“What ye do to me, lass.”
He groaned, and his arms came around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, could taste the hint of whisky on his lips.
The kiss deepened, becoming something desperate and consuming that made her forget everything except the feel of him, the scent of leather, and Highland air that clung to his skin.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed as if he were fighting some internal battle.
“This cannae happen again,” he said, his voice strained. “We cannae… I cannae…”
But even as he spoke the words, his hands remained on her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“Declan,” she whispered, his name a plea on her lips.
“Nay.” He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his dark hair. “This is exactly what I swore wouldnae happen. What I cannae allow to happen. I warned ye.”
Francesca stared at him, her lips still tingling from his kiss, her body aching from the sudden loss of his warmth. She could see the war playing out across his features. How desire battled duty, want warred with will.
“It’s too late,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the chaos inside her. “The boundary is already broken.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw her own truth reflected in his eyes. Whatever careful distance he had tried to maintain between them had indeed shattered the moment his lips touched hers.
“Maybe, lass. But I can always set it again.”
He went towards the door.
“Good night,” he called without turning to face her.
And then he left, closing the door behind him.
Francesca was alone again. Perhaps, more alone than she had ever been. But for one thing she was certain: she’d want to break the new boundary too.
And that was the problem.
Because her betrothed wanted distance. And she didn’t know what to do about that.