Chapter 13
“Can we go see the horses now? Please?”
Eloise tugged on Francesca’s sleeve for the third time in as many minutes, her eyes bright with anticipation.
It had been days since the night in the inn, days of perfect avoidance between Francesca and her husband once again.
At least she had a child, a bunny, and two kittens to distract her from the fact that she actually missed Declan.
She had hoped the inn had changed something between them, no matter what her husband had said, but she had been wrong.
She wouldn’t be making the same mistake again.
Next time he said something, she’d believe him.
If he ever spoke to her again, that was.
Today, she and Eloise had spent the morning reading in the library, but the child’s restlessness has grown with each passing page until Francesca finally surrendered to the inevitable.
“Yes, darling. But you must promise to be gentle and quiet around them. Horses can startle easily.”
“I promise! Fraser said his stallion is the fastest in all of Scotland. Do you think he’ll let me touch him?”
“We’ll have to ask Fraser when we see him.” Francesca took Eloise’s hand as they made their way out of the castle and across the courtyard toward the stables. The afternoon sun was warm on her face, a rare gift after days of Highland mist and rain.
The stable’s interior was dim and cool, smelling of hay and leather and horses. Francesca’s eyes took a moment to adjust, and when they did, she found him.
Declan stood beside his black stallion, running a brush along the animal’s sleek coat with steady, methodical strokes.
He wore simple work clothes, a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing muscled forearms that made her mouth go dry.
His dark hair fell across his forehead, and there was something almost peaceful about him at this moment, away from clan business and the weight of leadership.
“Laird MacGhee!” Eloise’s delighted cry shattered the quiet. “We came to see Fraser’s horse!”
He looked up, and his grey eyes found Francesca’s before dropping to the child. “So I see, lassie.”
Francesca couldn’t look away as he spoke.
“Come here then, but slowly. Horses daenae like sudden movements,” Declan coaxed Eloise toward Fraser’s stallion.
Eloise approached with exaggerated care, her small hand extended toward the horse’s velvet nose.
“He’s so big,” Eloise breathed, wonder in her voice. “And so beautiful.”
Francesca produced a polished apple from her pocket and crouched to show her how to hold it flat on her palm.
“See? Fingers straight, like this. Horses are gentle if you trust them.”
Eloise bit her lip, mimicking her aunt’s hand. “Like this?”
“Exactly.” Francesca nodded encouragingly. “Now hold it out, and don’t snatch it back.”
The stallion stretched his neck, lips tickling Eloise’s hand as teeth crunched through the apple. Eloise squealed with delight, giggling as the horse’s whiskered lips brushed her skin.
Declan leaned against a stall post, watching silently.
“He likes me!” Eloise crowed. “Mama, did you see? He really likes me!”
Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. Mama. Not “Aunt Francesca” or even just “Francesca”—but Mama. The word wrapped around her heart and squeezed, filling her with a warmth so intense it brought tears to her eyes.
She blinked them back quickly, not wanting to make Eloise self-conscious about the precious gift she’d just given.
“I saw,” Francesca managed, her voice thick with emotion as she laughed and tucked a loose curl behind her child’s ear. “You were very brave. Horses can feel when you are afraid.”
Eloise grinned up at Declan, her cheeks flushed. “Did you see, Laird MacGhee? He likes me!”
“Aye, I saw.” For the briefest moment, his mouth curved. “Seems the beast has good taste.”
Eloise glowed under the praise, then suddenly spotted Betsy entering the far end of the stable. With a gasp, she dropped Francesca’s hand. “Betsy! Tell me a story!”
“Oh aye, wee one!” the maid replied, laughing. “Come, yer afternoon tea is ready, and Cook made those honey cakes ye love.”
Eloise skipped off with Betsy, her chatter about ‘being the horse’s favorite’ fading as they crossed the courtyard.
Francesca rose slowly, brushing straw from her skirts. When she turned, Declan was bent over his stallion again, comb dragging stubbornly through a knot in the mane. His shoulders were tight with the effort.
“You’re fighting a losing battle,” Francesca said lightly, stepping closer.
“I’ve faced worse.” His tone was clipped.
She tilted her head, watching him struggle. “You’ll break the comb before you break that tangle. Here, let me.”
“I daenae need help.” He yanked again, the horse tossing its head in protest.
“You’re pulling too hard.” Francesca moved closer before she could think better of it.
“Ye think ye can do better, lass?”
“I think I have more practice with tangled hair. Let me try.”
He held out the comb. Their fingers touched as she took it, and this time the contact lingered, his rough calluses against her soft palm, his heat seeping into her skin.
“Show me then,” he said, his voice lower than necessary.
Francesca moved to the stallion’s side, working the comb through the tangled mane with slow, careful strokes. The horse stood still for her, apparently appreciating the gentler approach.
“You start at the ends,” she explained, aware of Declan moving to stand beside her. “Work your way up gradually. Pulling from the roots only makes it worse.”
“I didnae have that problem before ye arrived,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if he was talking about the horse anymore.
“Perhaps the horse prefers a woman’s touch.”
“Ah, then he willnae be the only one.”
The words hung between them, loaded with meaning. Francesca’s hands stilled on the comb as she turned to look at him. He stood close enough that she could see the silver flecks in his grey eyes and could count each dark lash framing them.
“Declan.”
“I didnae expect this,” he spat abruptly. “Any of this.”
“Expect what?”
“Ye. The way ye’ve adapted to Highland life. How quickly the clan has taken to ye.” His jaw tightened. “How easily ye’ve become part of everythin’ here.”
“I’m stronger than most people think.”
“Aye.” His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she felt that look like a physical touch. It left her breathless. “Stronger than I expected. Stronger than ye ken.”
They stood frozen, shoulders nearly touching, the only sound the soft breathing of the horse and the pounding of her own heart.
She should step back. Should break this spell before it led somewhere they’d both regret.
Just then, something wound itself around Francesca’s ankles.
Startled, she bent to see it was one of Eloise’s kittens.
She scooped it up, smiling at its rumbling purr as it nestled against her chest.
“Escaped again, have you?” she murmured, scratching behind its ears. “Eloise will be frantic looking for you.”
“That wee beast has a talent for findin’ trouble.”
“Much like its owner,” she replied with a small smile.
His mouth twitched. “Are ye comparin’ yer niece to a kitten?”
“If the comparison fits.” She moved, the kitten purring contentedly. “Though I think Eloise is slightly more obedient than this one.”
“Only slightly.” His gaze dropped to the kitten, and something almost tender crossed his features. “She’s been good for the lass. Both of them have.”
“You could admit you like them too, you know.” Francesca stepped closer still, emboldened by the quiet intimacy of the empty stable. “I’ve seen you slip them scraps at dinner.”
“That was once. And the creature looked half-starved.”
“It was three times. And they’re perfectly well-fed.”
His eyes darkened, and Francesca bit back a smile, knowing he was hiding his embarrassment with hardness. Who would have thought the fierce Laird MacGhee could be embarrassed about being caught showing kindness to kittens?
“Ye’re enjoyin’ this,” he muttered.
“Immensely.” The kitten chose that moment to leap from her arms onto Declan’s shoulder, tiny claws digging into his shirt as it settled itself like a furry epaulette. He froze, looking down at it with an expression of such comical bewilderment that Francesca couldn’t help but laugh.
“Daenae,” he warned, but there was no heat in it.
“I’m not saying anything.” She moved closer, ostensibly to retrieve the kitten but really just wanting to be near him. “Though you do look rather fearsome with a kitten on your shoulder. Very intimidating.”
“Francesca.” Her name was half warning, half something else—something that made her skin warm and her breath catch.
She reached up to lift the kitten away, but her hand brushed against his chest in the process. They both stilled. The kitten, seemingly content with its perch, began to purr louder.
“Ye’re trouble,” Declan said softly, though whether he meant her or the kitten, she wasn’t certain. His hand came up to cover hers where it rested against his chest, and she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
“So you’ve said.” Her voice came out breathier than intended. “Multiple times in fact.”
“And yet ye keep provin’ me right.” But his thumb was tracing circles on the back of her hand now, gentle and deliberate. “Every day, ye find new ways to turn me world upside down.”
“Is that such a terrible thing?”
His grey eyes searched hers, and she saw conflict there—the war between what he’d been taught to believe about caring and duty and what he was beginning to feel. “Ye make everythin’… complicated.”
“Life is complicated,” she said gently. “That doesn’t make it bad.”
The kitten chose that moment to climb higher, tiny paws patting Declan’s jaw as if demanding attention. He caught it carefully in his free hand, cradling it against his chest while still holding Francesca’s hand captive.
“This is absurd,” he muttered, looking down at the purring creature. “A grown man, brought low by a kitten.”