Chapter 11
Declan stood beside his black stallion in the stable yard, watching Francesca approach with obvious reluctance written across her features.
His gaze swept over her. “So, the fine English lady does ken how to dress for the Highlands after all. Didn’t imagine ye would leave yer English silk for what seems like sackcloth in comparison. ”
Francesca arched a brow. “This is hardly a sackcloth. It’s perfectly proper.”
“Aye, proper enough,” he allowed, his eyes lingering on the braid down her back.
The simple style exposed the elegant line of her neck, and he found himself imagining what it would feel like to press his lips to that soft skin, to feel her pulse quicken beneath his mouth.
“Though I daenae recall seein’ yer hair tied like that before. ”
Her hand brushed the plait lightly. “It should keep out of the way when riding. Practical.”
“Practical suits ye,” he said gruffly, his voice rougher than intended as his gaze traced the curve of her waist in the riding habit. The way the fabric hugged her figure was driving him to distraction. He cleared his throat. “We’ll take one horse.”
Her head snapped up, green eyes widening. “One?”
“Aye. It’ll be quicker to the village and back.” He kept his voice even, clipped, even as the thought of having her pressed against him for the entire ride sent heat coursing through his veins. “The roads are muddy, and I’ll nae have ye strain the beasts.”
“And if I say no?”
He leaned an inch closer, voice low. “Then ye’ll still ride with me.”
Her chin lifted, green eyes sparking. “You’re so frustrating.”
“Aye. And ye’re ridin’ with me, lass.”
Declan swung himself into the saddle first, then reached down to help her up. The moment his hands closed around her waist, and he felt the heat flood his entire body, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake.
He lifted her easily, settling her sideways in front of him on the saddle.
The position forced her to lean back against his chest, her body fitting against his like she’d been made to rest there.
The scent of lavender and something uniquely Francesca filled his lungs, and he had to clench his jaw against the urge to bury his face in that braid and just breathe.
It took all his willpower to push his desires back.
“Comfortable?”
“As comfortable as one can be in such close quarters,” she shot back, her spine rigid as she tried to maintain distance that didn’t exist.
He urged the stallion forward, acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. Her hip pressed against his thigh. Her shoulder blade rested just below his collarbone.
The horse jolted over a rut, and Francesca’s hand shot out, clutching his forearm.
“Steady, lass,” Declan murmured, tightening his hold on the reins. “I’ve got ye.”
“So it seems. Though you might’ve warned me before charging over every stone on the path.”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Would ye rather I cradle ye like a bairn and trot the whole way?”
Her fingers lingered a second longer than necessary before she released him. “Don’t tempt me. At least then I wouldn’t risk falling at your feet.”
He glanced down at her profile, lips twitching. “Ye’d fall into me arms, Francesca, and daenae think I’d complain.”
He shifted in the saddle, trying to adjust his position to hide his reaction, but the movement only made things worse, pressing her more firmly against him, making her gasp softly at the sudden contact.
This was a mistake. A colossal, monumental mistake.
She said nothing, but he felt the slight tremor that ran through her frame. She could feel it too, this awareness crackling between them like summer lightning. His restraint, carefully maintained since their second kiss, was crumbling with every breath she took that made her body shift against his.
“Tell me about Fraser,” she said suddenly, her voice slightly breathless. “How did you become so close?”
The question caught him off guard, providing a welcome distraction from the torture of having her in his arms. “Fraser? We grew up together. His mother and my father were siblings.”
“But you said he’s more like a brother to you than his actual brother.”
“Aye.” Declan guided the horse around a fallen log, using the movement as an excuse to tighten his arm around her waist. “Fraser’s brother Malcolm inherited the lairdship of Clan McArthur when their father died. Malcolm is… dutiful. Honorable. Everythin’ a laird should be.”
“But?” she prompted.
“But we never understood each other. Malcolm sees the world in absolutes, right and wrong, duty and pleasure, strength and weakness. Kind of like me. But Fraser sees the spaces between.” He paused, surprised by his own candor. “He reminds me there’s more to life than obligations.”
“You are clearly fond of him,” Francesca teased gently.
Declan huffed a laugh. “Daenae tell him that. He’d lord it over me for the next ten years.”
“You’re fortunate to have him.” Something wistful colored her tone. “I envy that kind of relationship.”
“Ye didnae have that with yer sister?”
The question made her go still in his arms. Around them, the forest had grown denser, the canopy filtering the late morning light into dappled patterns across the path. A breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying the scent of pine and earth.
“No. Violet and I were close once when we were very young, but as we grew older…” she trailed off, and he felt her shoulders slump slightly. “She was always… ambitious. Always wanting everything for herself. She never spared a thought for how it left me.”
“That must have been hard.” The words felt inadequate, but he wasn’t certain what else to say. His hands tightened reflexively on the reins, acutely aware of her warmth seeping through the layers of clothing between them.
“It was lonely.” She shifted slightly, and the subtle press of her back against his torso and the way her braid brushed his shoulder sent fresh awareness coursing through him.
“Being a twin should mean having someone who understands you completely. Instead, I had someone who resented my very existence.”
He felt a sharp tug inside, something protective and fierce. The horse’s steady rhythm beneath them seemed to echo the beating of his heart.
“Did ye ever confront her?”
Francesca gave a bitter little laugh, her breath visible in the cool air. “Confront Violet? It would have done no good. She’d have smiled sweetly and convinced everyone I was the envious one. She was clever that way, always knew how to twist people’s perception.”
Declan’s grip tightened around her waist, protective instinct flaring. “Then she didnae deserve ye.”
Her breath caught, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then, very softly, “Perhaps. But it didn’t stop me wishing, all the same. Wishing she would look at me and see a sister she could love.”
“Ye have Eloise now,” he pointed out. “That’s its own kind of bond.”
“Yes.” Warmth flooded her voice. “She’s been my salvation in so many ways. Giving me purpose when I thought I had none.”
“What do ye mean?”
She hesitated, then let out a shaky breath.
“After Violet’s death, I felt as though I was drowning.
My parents had no interest in grief, only appearances.
I couldn’t breathe in that house, couldn’t be anything.
She was still my sister, and I felt sad for her, and so…
guilty. So very guilty that we had somehow lost what we shared in childhood and now we’d never have a chance to find it again.
I felt guilty that I was the one who got to live, and she did not.
It makes no sense, I know that, but I still could not shake the feeling.
And then Eloise came… she looked at me with those wide eyes, trusting me when she had no one else. I swore I’d never let her down.”
He didn’t know what to say. He could only hope his presence offered her the comfort she deserved.
The village came into view just as clouds began gathering overhead, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. Declan cursed under his breath, recognizing the signs of a Highland storm brewing.
“We need to make this quick,” he said, dismounting and reaching up to help Francesca down. His hands lingered on her waist a moment too long before he forced himself to step back. “The weather’s turnin’.”
The village stirred to life the moment they rode in. Men paused in their work, women looked up from their baskets, and children darted to doorways, wide-eyed.
“Good day, Me Laird. Me Lady.” A broad-shouldered farmer bowed low. “The barley’s comin’ in strong this year.”
Declan inclined his head. “Glad to hear it, Fergus. A strong harvest keeps the clan strong.”
Francesca leaned forward slightly, her voice warm. “It must take long hours in this damp weather, but you make it sound as though the land is generous to you.”
The farmer’s chest swelled with quiet pride. “Aye, Me Lady. She gives back when ye treat her right.”
They moved on, greeted by a woman with a basket of linen. She dipped into a curtsy, eyes bright. “The bairns still speak of ye, Me Laird. They’ve done naught but chatter since ye came with sweets the last time.”
Declan’s smile softened. “Then I must remember to bring more. Sweets belong with children.”
The woman beamed, her gratitude plain, and stepped back to let them pass.
An older man raised his hand in salute. “Fine day for a ride, Me Laird. Will we see ye both at the autumn fair?”
“Aye,” Declan said, his deep voice carrying. “The fair will be held as always.”
A ripple of pleased murmurs spread through the small crowd. Francesca inclined her head, her eyes sweeping over the faces gathered. “I look forward to it. I’ve heard your weavings are the pride of these parts. I should like to see them with my own eyes.”
Several women exchanged delighted looks. One spoke up, cheeks flushed. “We’ll set our looms to work, Me Lady. Ye’ll have plenty to look upon.”
Their laughter and chatter followed as the horse carried them further down the lane, the air humming with warmth.