Chapter 11 #2
The cottage sat at the edge of the village square, smoke curling from its chimney in lazy spirals. An old woman greeted them with obvious delight, ushering them inside where a basket of tiny kittens mewed by the hearth.
“Oh!” Francesca dropped to her knees beside the basket, her face lighting up with a smile that made Declan’s chest tight. “They’re precious.”
“Aye, bonnie wee things,” she agreed. “The grey one’s the boldest, always first to the milk. The orange tabby is gentler, likes her cuddles.”
Francesca carefully lifted both kittens, cradling them against her chest with obvious tenderness. “Eloise will adore them. She’ll probably name them within minutes of seeing them.”
“Ye’ll spoil the child,” Declan found himself saying, the words escaping before he could stop them. “Coddlin’ her at every turn.”
Francesca’s head snapped up, her green eyes flashing with sudden fire. “I can raise my daughter however I see fit, thank you.”
“She’s nae yer daughter.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Declan saw the exact moment they struck home, watched the color drain from Francesca’s face, and watched hurt and fury war in her expression.
Ye bloody fool. Why did ye say that?
“Francesca, I—” he began, but the first drops of rain against the cottage windows cut him off.
“We should go,” Francesca said cooly, wrapping the kittens in her shawl with shaking hands. “Before the storm worsens.”
They barely made it out of the cottage before the heavens opened. Rain came down in sheets, soaking them within seconds as Declan grabbed Francesca’s arm and pulled her toward the village inn.
“Inside!” he shouted over the roar of the storm, practically dragging her through the inn’s door.
The innkeeper took one look at them, drenched and dripping on his clean floors, and immediately offered them his best room. “For the Laird and his Lady. I’ll have hot water sent up, and I can take those wee beasties to the kitchen. Me cook will see them fed and warm by the fire.”
Francesca surrendered the kittens without argument, her face set in lines of cold fury as she climbed the narrow stairs. The room was simple with a bed, a fireplace, and a washstand, but it was clean.
His wife moved immediately to the hearth, wringing water from her sodden skirts with hands that trembled slightly.
Whether from cold or anger, Declan couldn’t tell.
He was very aware of how the wet fabric of her riding habit clung to every curve, outlining a body he couldn’t look away from.
He clenched his jaw, then his fists. Anything to stop himself.
“Francesca.”
“Don’t.” She didn’t turn to face him. “Just don’t.”
But he couldn’t stay silent. Not when he could see the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held herself like she might shatter at any moment.
“What I said was cruel,” he began, moving closer despite knowing it was unwise. “I shouldnae have.”
“You spoke the truth.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “I didn’t give birth to Eloise. She isn’t my daughter by blood. Is that what bothers you? That I dare claim a child who isn’t mine? Because I recall you saying something very similar when you defended us at that ceilidh.”
“Nay, that’s nae it.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Two servants entered with a large copper tub, followed by several more carrying steaming buckets of water.
They worked efficiently, filling the bath while studiously avoiding looking at either the Laird or his Lady.
When they finished, the innkeeper’s wife appeared with clean linens and a drying cloth.
“There’s a robe here if ye need it. Ye can set yer clothes by the fire to dry, Me Lady,” she said kindly.
When the door closed behind them, an awkward silence settled over the room. Steam rose from the bath, filling the small space with warmth and moisture.
“Ye should bathe first,” Declan said gruffly, turning toward the window to give her privacy. “Before ye catch yer death.”
“And you?” Her voice was still cold, but he heard something else beneath it now—exhaustion, perhaps. “You’re just as soaked as I am.”
“I’ll manage.”
He heard the rustle of wet fabric, the soft sound of her unlacing her riding habit. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to look, to touch, but he forced himself to stare fixedly at the rain-streaked window. The sound of water sloshing as she stepped into the tub nearly undid his resolve.
“You can turn around now,” she said after a moment. “I’m decent.”
He turned slowly. She’d settled into the bath with her back to him, the water covering her to her shoulders. Her wet braid hung over the edge of the tub, dripping onto the floorboards.
“What you said earlier,” she began, her voice quieter now, “about Eloise not being my daughter—”
“I was wrong.” The words came out harsher than intended. He moved closer, unable to help himself. “I was angry. But that doesnae make it right.”
“Why were you angry?” She tilted her head slightly, though she didn’t look at him. “Because I asked you to stop? Because I wouldn’t simply accept your commands?”
“Because ye make me feel things I’ve nae business feelin’.” The admission escaped before he could stop it.
That made her turn, water sloshing as she shifted to look at him over her shoulder. Her green eyes were wide, surprised. “What?”
He should stop talking. Should turn away and let the moment pass. Instead, he found himself moving closer, crouching beside the tub, so they were at eye level.
“Ye think I wanted this?” His voice was rough, raw. “Ye think I wanted to care about what happens to ye? To lose sleep worryin’ if ye’re warm enough, if ye’re happy here, if that child of yers is settlin’ in?”
“Declan—”
“I’m nae finished.” He gripped the edge of the tub, his knuckles white.
“Ye came here with yer stubborn pride and yer fierce love for that wee lass, and ye keep upending things. It’s difficult to think straight when ye’re near me.
I cannae focus on anythin’ but the way ye move, the way ye smell, and the sound of yer voice. ”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
“And now,” he continued, “seeing how much I hurt ye with me cruel words, realizing how much it hurt me to see ye affected by them—” He broke off, shaking his head.
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of the fire and the steady drumming of rain against the window.
“You should bathe,” she whispered finally, her voice unsteady. “The water’s still warm.”
“Francesca—”
“Please.” She looked away, but not before he caught the tears in her eyes.
He rose slowly, moving to the other side of the room, turning his back as she rose from the bath. He heard the soft splash of water and the rustle of the linen robe.
“Your turn,” she said quietly.
He stripped off his wet clothes with mindless efficiency, too aware of her presence even with her back turned. The water was still pleasantly warm as he sank into it, and for a moment, he let himself simply exist in the heat, trying to organize his scattered thoughts.
“Lass, I understand—”
“Do you?” She turned to face him now, and the vulnerability in her expression made his chest tighten.
“Because sometimes I wonder if anyone truly understands. My parents certainly don’t.
London society doesn’t. And you—” Her voice caught.
“You as much as implied I had made a mistake by taking her in to live with me.”
“That wasnae what I meant—”
“What did you mean?” Her voice rose slightly. “Because it sounded like you think I made a mistake. Like loving her, protecting her, claiming her as my own was somehow wrong.”
“It wasnae wrong.” He stood abruptly, water cascading off him as he reached for the drying cloth. “But it was a risk. Ye risked remaining’ unmarried so ye could take care of yer sister’s lass.” He broke off, wrapping the cloth around his waist with more force than necessary.
“Is it so wrong to care about another human? She is all I have to remember my sister by.”
He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just short of touching her. They were both barely clothed, both still damp, and the air between them crackled with something volatile.
“Nay. Ye arenae wrong at all,” he said roughly. “Did ye nae hear me before, wife? It’s yer passion, and certainty about her that makes me want to—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching.
“Want to what?” Her voice was barely a whisper now, her eyes searching his face.
“Make ye mine,” he finished, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him. “Properly mine. Nae just in name or by law but in every way that matters, so ye can show me some of that obsessive passion.”
Her breath caught, and he saw the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.
“Declan—”
“I ken it’s mad,” he continued, unable to stop now that he’d started. “I ken we barely ken each other, that this marriage was forced upon us both. But I cannae stop thinkin’ about ye. Cannae stop wantin’ ye.”
She swayed slightly, and his hands came up instinctively to steady her, gripping her shoulders through the thin robe.
“You’re infuriating,” she said, but her voice had gone soft, breathless. “Controlling and stubborn and impossible.”
“Aye.” His thumbs traced small circles on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her skin through the fabric. “And ye’re reckless and headstrong, and ye argue with everythin’ I say.”
“Someone has to,” she whispered, and then her hands came up to rest on his chest, her palms flat against his bare skin.
The touch sent fire racing through his veins.
Francesca surged onto her toes, pressed her mouth to his. The kiss was quick, trembling, then she broke it.
“I… I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.”
But Declan growled low, seized her waist, and dragged her against him.
His mouth crashed to hers, hungry, devouring.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, desperate.
Heat flared, wild and unchecked. He backed her against the wall, lips bruising hers, teeth grazing.
She gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a starving man.
His hands roamed her back, her hips, the soaked linen clinging to her thighs. She arched into him, fire meeting fire. Their breaths tangled, harsh, frantic.
The world narrowed to the press of her body, the taste of her lips, the sweet torment of her yielding.
He trailed his mouth down her neck, sucking hard enough to mark.
He cupped her breast and used his fingers to tease her until it peaked in the middle.
She moaned softly, fingers digging into his hair.
Declan’s control frayed. He lifted her, pinned her against the wall, her skirts bunched round his hands. Her legs tightened around his waist. The contact burned, nearly broke him.
“Francesca,” he rasped, voice guttural, half a plea, half a curse.
She answered with a kiss that stole his breath and made his entire being roar for more. Every muscle strained to take, to claim, to lose himself.
He took her to the bed, and laid her on her back without breaking the kiss.
He couldn’t have enough. It would never be enough.
He moved on to kiss down her neck, her chest, her stomach, until he knelt down on the floor, pulling her by her knees until she was close to him.
He leaned forward until his lips were on her sensitive spot, which he found wet and ready for him.
He sucked until she grabbed the bedsheets and arched her back, giving a low cry.
Even then, he didn’t stop. He continued, going faster until she gasped and moved her hips as if she wanted to be even closer to him.
Declan pushed her back down, worshipping her, enjoying her taste, and with each touch, he wanted more. She moaned loudly, and in one perfect moment, she shuddered, crying out “Declan!” with such raw abandon that it nearly undid him, and then she fell back on the bed, satisfied.
With a smirk on his face, he stood up and turned her over, ready to give her more pleasure.
“I’m nae done with ye yet, lass,” he murmured against her ear, his voice dark with promise.
But somewhere, deep in the haze, the old fear clawed back.
His father’s hollow eyes. His mother’s grave. Love was weakness. Passion was death.
Declan felt himself stiffen, even as Francesca moaned, eager for more, before she realized something had changed. She reached out for him, but he shifted out of her reach.
“Declan?” Her voice was small, confused, still breathless from what they’d shared. Her hand touched his back gently. “What’s wrong?”
He stretched out on his side of the bed, his back to her.
“Go to sleep, lass,” Declan muttered.
He didn’t answer, couldn’t answer without revealing too much.
When she shifted her weight so that she nestled into him, he pretended he didn’t feel the warmth her softness gave him, or the way it took away some of the loneliness from his heart.
He controlled his breathing, pretending to fall asleep, but Declan lay awake long after he could hear Francesca’s heavy, steady breaths.