Chapter 10
“Ye look bonnie, Me Lady.”
Betsy’s voice was soft as she adjusted the final pin in Francesca’s hair, securing the delicate veil. The castle’s small chapel awaited below, filled with clan elders who had gathered to witness their laird’s marriage to an English stranger.
Francesca stared at her reflection in the polished glass, barely recognizing the woman who looked back.
The wedding gown was simple compared to London fashions, cream-colored silk with Celtic knots embroidered along the bodice, yet somehow it felt more significant than any elaborate confection from Bond Street ever could.
“Are ye nervous?” Krista asked, appearing at her other shoulder with a sprig of white heather. “For luck,” she explained, tucking it into Francesca’s hair.
“Terrified,” Francesca admitted, her hands trembling as she smoothed the fabric of her skirts. “What if I say the vows wrong? What if the clan elders decide I’m not worthy?”
“They’ll think no such thing,” Betsy said firmly. “The Laird chose ye. That’s all that matters to them.”
A knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Fraser’s voice carried through the wood. “It’s time, Lady Francesca. The Laird is waitin’.”
Well, she had waited to talk about their kiss for days, but he did a fine job avoiding her. So fine, in fact, that she had eventually started to avoid him back.
And now they were getting married and they had barely seen or talked to each other since that night in her room.
But there was no avoiding now, was it? There could not be.
The walk to the chapel felt simultaneously endless and far too short. Fraser offered his arm with a kind smile. “Breathe, lass. Ye’re about to become the most powerful woman in the clan.”
“I’m about to bind myself to a man who sees me as a political necessity,” she whispered back.
“Is that what ye think?” Fraser’s dark eyes studied her face. “Then ye havenae been payin’ attention to the way he looks at ye when he thinks no one’s watchin’.”
The problem is that he doesn’t want to be looking at me like that, she wanted to say, but it didn’t matter. Fraser would not understand. She didn’t even understand it herself, and God knows she had tried really hard to. She had been thinking about it every moment of every day since their kiss.
They reached the chapel doors. The ancient stones seemed to pulse with centuries of MacGhee history—births, deaths, and marriages that had shaped the clan’s destiny. Now, she would become part of that legacy for better or worse.
Declan stood at the altar in full Highland dress, the MacGhee tartan draped across his broad shoulders, his dark hair combed back from his face.
The formal attire did nothing to soften his raw masculine presence.
If anything, it emphasized the powerful lines of his body, the way the wool stretched across his chest, the strength in his legs visible beneath the kilt.
He’s magnificent.
The thought came unbidden as Fraser led her down the narrow aisle, and with it came a flood of heat that had nothing to do with how nervous she felt.
She remembered the feel of his hands on her waist again, and the way his grey eyes had darkened with barely restrained desire.
It sent a shiver through her that made her stumble slightly.
Declan’s gaze locked onto hers, and the intensity there stole her breath.
His eyes traced over her slowly, possessively, as though he were already unwrapping her from the gown.
The corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk, almost as though he read every wicked thought racing through her mind.
Her pulse quickened.
Tonight, there will be no interruptions, no reason to avoid each other. Just the two of us. Will you demand I fulfill my wifely duties?
Francesca found that the thought set her heart in a flutter that was difficult to press down. Eloise sat in the front row, the child’s face bright with excitement despite the solemnity of the occasion. She waved enthusiastically, and Francesca smiled at her.
Then, the next moment, she was standing beside Declan, and Fraser was stepping back to join the witnesses.
The priest began the ceremony in a mixture of English and Gaelic that washed over her like Highland mist. She caught phrases here and there—binding, honor, clan—but mostly she was aware of Declan’s presence beside her, solid as the castle stones.
“Do ye, Declan Blain, Laird of Clan MacGhee, take this woman as yer lawful wife?”
“I do.” His voice carried absolute certainty, echoing off the ancient walls.
“And do ye, Francesca Watson, take this man as yer lawful husband?”
Her mouth went dry.
“I do,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Declan’s hand found hers, his calloused palm warm against her trembling fingers. The priest wrapped a length of MacGhee tartan around their joined hands, binding them together with ancient tradition.
“What is bound here cannae be undone,” the priest’s weathered voice rang out through the chapel. “Before God and clan, ye are one. Ye may kiss yer bride, Laird MacGhee.”
Declan turned to face her fully, his grey eyes dark with an intensity that made her heart flutter. His hand moved up to cup her jaw, tilting her face to his, and the possessiveness made her breath catch.
His lips, when they claimed hers, were firm, just as she expected. The kiss was brief enough to be proper yet thorough enough to remind her of the passionate kiss they’d shared just nights before.
Heat raced through her veins, her body responding instinctively to his touch even as the clan elders watched.
When he pulled back, she saw the same tension in his jaw, the same war between duty and desire that had plagued them since her arrival.
His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and the promise in his eyes made her knees weak.
“I present to ye,” the priest announced to the assembled witnesses, “Declan and Francesca Blain, the Laird and Lady MacGhee.”
The clan elders rose as one, their voices joining in a traditional Gaelic blessing she didn’t understand but felt in her bones. Then Eloise was rushing forward, throwing her arms around Francesca’s waist.
“This was a great wedding. Everyone says so. But now the guests have gone, and ye must be tired. Come, Me Lady. Let’s get ye ready for bed.”
Betsy led her to her chamber through the castle’s shadowy corridors with Declan following behind, no longer just her room but the Lady’s chamber now. Fresh flowers adorned the mantle, and someone had lit a cheerful fire despite the mild evening.
“Will ye be needin’ help with the gown?” Betsy asked gently.
Francesca nodded, unable to trust her voice.
She had barely had time to see her new husband with all the guests trying to catch their attention, and she had been almost grateful for that, but now she was acutely aware of his presence.
The maid’s practiced fingers made quick work of the buttons and laces, soon leaving her in nothing but a thin chemise that suddenly felt far too revealing.
“Leave us,” Declan said with authority.
“Aye, Me Laird.” The maid curtsied quickly and slipped out, leaving Francesca alone with her husband.
He still wore his wedding finery, though he’d removed the formal jacket. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat, and his dark hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to push it back.
“Francesca.” Her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine.
“Declan.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, to show no fear even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
He crossed to the fire, putting distance between them. “We need to discuss the sleepin’ arrangements.”
Confusion and disappointment warred in her chest. “I thought you said you need an heir.”
“I ken what I said.” He ran a hand through his hair, destroying its careful arrangement. “About producin’ an heir. About the conditions of our marriage. But I’ll nae share yer bed. Nae yet.”
The rejection stung more than it should have. “I see. But you said two months.”
“I ken what I said!” The words came out more as a growl, and she saw him visibly rein in his temper.
Francesca studied him carefully, trying to decipher whether this was kindness or simply another form of control. “So what are you suggesting?”
“We’ll consummate the marriage at some point,” he said bluntly. “It is expected. But I’ll nae share yer chamber after that.”
“I remember your conditions,” she said quietly. “No love. No feelings. Just duty and heirs.”
“Aye.” But she wasn’t sure if his words were as sincere as he wanted them to sound.
They stood in silence, the fire crackling between them, neither quite willing to bridge the distance. Finally, Declan moved toward the door.
“I’ll give ye time to prepare, daenae wait up for me.”
When the door closed behind him, Francesca sank onto the bed, her emotions a tangled mess. Relief that he wasn’t treating this as nothing more than an obligation. Hurt that he still maintained such a careful distance. And beneath it all, a treacherous warmth at his unexpected consideration.
“More porridge, wee one?”
Francesca watched as Betsy fussed over Eloise at the breakfast table, the normalcy of the scene almost jarring after last night’s intensity.
Now, Declan sat at the head of the table, methodically working through his breakfast as if nothing monumental had occurred.
“Aunt Francesca, are you listening?”
She startled at Eloise’s question, heat flooding her cheeks at being caught in such thoughts. “I’m sorry, darling. What did you say?”
“I said Bluebell found a new hiding spot behind the tapestry in my chamber!” Eloise’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Fraser says he’s the cleverest rabbit in all of Scotland.”
“Is he now?” Francesca smiled despite her tangled emotions, reaching for the teapot. She poured herself a cup, then noticed Declan’s empty one sitting before him.