Chapter 13 #2
“And a wife?” Francesca asked softly, daringly.
His eyes snapped back to hers, darkening with something intense. “Especially a wife.”
The moment stretched between them, fragile and precious. Then Eloise’s voice rang out from somewhere in the courtyard—“Flora! Where are you?”—and the spell broke.
Declan released her hand slowly, reluctantly. “Ye should return the wee beast before the lass tears apart the castle lookin’ for it.”
“Declan—”
“Go on, lass.” But his voice was gentle, and when he handed her the kitten, his fingers lingered against hers for just a moment longer than necessary. “I’ll see ye at supper.”
Francesca nodded, cradling the kitten as she turned toward the stable door. But she’d only taken a few steps when his voice stopped her.
“Francesca?”
She looked back.
“Ye’re nae trouble,” he said quietly. “Or if ye are, ye’re the best kind.”
Before she could respond, he’d turned away, but she caught the faint color on his cheeks and the way his shoulders had tensed. She made it three steps before his hand closed around her wrist.
“Wait.”
“Why?” She didn’t turn around, couldn’t face him. “So you can kiss me again? Touch me and then pretend it never happened? So you can make me feel things I shouldn’t feel?”
“That’s nae fair.”
“Fair?” She spun to face him, anger giving her courage.
“Nothing about this is fair, Declan. You married me to get an heir and English connections. I married you to protect Eloise. Those were the terms.” She broke off, horrified to feel tears pricking her eyes.
“We should stop changing them, because only one of us ends up hurt in the process.”
He nodded and dropped her wrist, and Francesca left the stables with her head high, though her pulse thundered. She walked the path back toward the castle, the sound of his boots following at a measured distance.
When he drew up beside her, she arched a brow. “You needn’t play the escort, Declan. I can find my way perfectly well.”
“It’s late enough,” he said.
“It isn’t late at all. You just don’t trust me to walk ten steps unguarded.”
His mouth twitched, though his tone stayed gruff. “Maybe I daenae.”
Her mouth curved, but her chest felt tight. “So, is this about my safety or your need to loom behind me like a shadow?”
His stride caught up with hers, long and sure. “If I wanted to loom, lass, ye’d ken it. I’m escortin’ ye. Nothin’ more.”
“Mm.” Francesca clasped her hands before her. “So the Laird himself plays the dutiful guard. How flattering.”
Declan shot her a look, his jaw flexing. “Ye twist everythin’ I do or say.”
“Perhaps because you never say what you mean.” She risked a glance at him, her chin tilting high. “Or perhaps you prefer silence to honesty.”
His eyes flicked to hers, heat simmering. “Careful, Francesca.”
“Or what?” she whispered.
They had reached the steps of the castle now, shadows falling long across the courtyard. Francesca turned toward her chamber door, her hand on the latch. “Thank you, My Laird, for the escort. Consider me safely delivered.”
She opened the door and entered; Declan followed her in.
Her hand tightened on her skirt. “Is there something else?”
Declan didn’t move away. His voice dropped low, rough. “Delivered? That’s nae what this is. Tell me why ye keep defyin’ me.”
Her head snapped up. “Defying you? To defy you, I’d have to be in your company in the same room as you. Which I haven’t been, have I? Not for days.”
His eyes flashed. In two strides, he was there, his hands closing around her face.
His mouth crashed onto hers, fierce and unyielding.
All gentleness abandoned. This kiss was raw and demanding, filled with days of denial and nights of wanting.
His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her braid loose so golden strands spilled across his fingers.
Francesca gasped against him, her back hitting the door as his body pressed her hard against the wood. His hands moved from her face to her waist, tugging her closer. She clutched his shoulders, kissing him back with equal hunger, heat sparking everywhere he touched.
“Cannae stop thinkin’ about ye,” he muttered against her lips, his accent thickening with desire. “How ye taste. How I want ye more every time.”
“Declan.” His name was a plea, a prayer, a demand all at once.
He kissed her harder, his body pressing hers harder into the unyielding wood of the door. She could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms, the evidence of his arousal against her belly. Her own body responded, heat pooling low as she arched into him.
His hands left her hair to roam her body, tracing curves through layers of fabric. When he cupped her breast, she gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with obvious satisfaction.
“Francesca,” he groaned against her lips, his breath ragged, “if I stay—” His mouth found hers again, rough, desperate. Then softer, lingering, as though he couldn’t let go.
Her fingers dug into his plaid, holding him fast. “Then don’t leave,” she whispered.
He wrenched back as though burned, his chest heaving. “If I stay, I willnae stop.”
Declan rested his forehead against the door beside Francesca’s head, his breathing harsh.
“If I stay,” he repeated carefully, as if reciting it to himself, “I willnae stop. Ye understand that? Once I have ye in that bed, I willnae be able to walk away again.”
“Good.” She pulled him back down to her. “Don’t walk away.”
“Francesca.”
“Unless you don’t want me. Unless this is just fun for you.”
“Want ye?” He laughed, the sound harsh. “I’ve thought of nothin’ else for days. Ye’ve haunted me, lass. Every wakin’ moment and half me dreams.”
“Then stop fighting it.”
For a moment, she thought he’d give in. Thought he’d finally let himself feel what was building between them. Then he stepped back, putting distance between them with visible effort.
“Nae like this.” His voice was strained. “Nae when I’m half-mad with wantin’ ye. Nae when I cannae think straight.”
“When then?”
“I daenae ken.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated. “I just ken if I take ye now, it’ll be rough and desperate.”
“And maybe that’s what I want.”
His eyes flashed. “Ye daenae ken what ye’re askin’ for.”
“Don’t I?” She pushed off the door, moving toward him with deliberate intent. “You think I haven’t noticed you looking at me? How your hands shake when you touch me? You’re not the only one fighting this, Declan.”
“All the more reason to walk away.”
“Or all the more reason to stop runnin’.”
They stared at each other, the air between them crackling with tension and unspoken need. Then Declan turned and walked away, his shoulders rigid with the effort of leaving.
Francesca leaned against her door, trembling with frustration and unfulfilled desire. Her lips felt swollen from his kisses, her body ached for completion, and her heart, God, her heart hurt in ways she didn’t know how to fix.
How much longer can we keep doing this?
She didn’t have an answer. But as she listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor, she knew one thing with absolute certainty—something had to give.