Chapter 17
Francesca stood in Eloise’s doorway, her heart doing that complicated flutter it always did when she watched the child at peace.
Both kittens were curled in Eloise’s arms—Declan, the grey one, purring loudly, and Flora, the orange tabby, kneading tiny paws against the blanket.
At the foot of the bed, Bluebell dozed in his customary spot, white ears twitching occasionally in rabbit dreams.
“Are you ready for sleep, darling?”
“Almost.” Eloise stroked Declan the kitten’s grey fur. “I was just telling them about today. About the river and the stones.”
“Were you?” Francesca settled on the edge of the bed. “And what did they think?”
“Flora thinks Laird MacGhee is very clever for skipping twelve stones. Declan the kitten thinks he could do better if he had thumbs.” Eloise’s face grew serious. “Do you think Laird MacGhee had fun today?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because he smiled. Really smiled, not that little one he does when he’s being polite.” Eloise looked up at her with those too-knowing green eyes. “I don’t think he smiles very much usually.”
“No, I don’t think he does.”
“Why not? Is he sad?”
Francesca chose her words carefully. “I think he carries a lot of responsibility. Being a laird means worrying about many people.”
“But doesn’t he get lonely? Worrying all by himself?”
“Perhaps he does.”
“Then it’s good he has us now,” Eloise said it with such simple certainty. “We can help him not be lonely. Like how Bluebell has Flora and Declan now, so he’s not alone.”
“Is that why you wanted the kittens? So Bluebell wouldn’t be lonely?”
“Partly. But also because everyone needs family.” She cuddled both kittens closer.
“They’re all asleep,” Eloise whispered. “I can feel it. We’re a family now, all of us together.”
The simple declaration made Francesca’s throat tight. “Yes, darling. A family.”
“Even Laird MacGhee?”
“Especially Laird MacGhee.”
Eloise’s lips curved into a sleepy smile. “Good. Because I love him. Is that all right?”
Oh, sweetheart. I think I might love him too, and I don’t know if that’s all right either.
“That’s very all right,” Francesca managed. “Now sleep. Tomorrow’s another day.”
Eloise looked up at last. “I told them a secret. Do you want to hear?”
Francesca smiled softly. “Not if it’s meant only for them.”
“It is.” Eloise hugged the kittens tighter. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I told them we’re safe here.”
Her throat ached at the words. She crossed to the bed, kissing Eloise’s forehead. “Yes, darling. Safe.”
Eloise’s breathing was already evening out, the kittens rising and falling with her chest. “Night, Mama...”
The word slipped out in the haze between waking and sleeping, made Francesca freeze.
Mama. Again.
She pressed another kiss to Eloise’s forehead and withdrew before emotion could overwhelm her completely.
Francesca stepped into the corridor again, the door clicking shut.
The corridor was dimly lit, illuminated only by torches flickering in their brackets.
Behind her, she nearly gasped. Declan stood waiting in the shadows.
She startled. “You frightened me.”
He said nothing. Only straightened from the wall, his eyes holding hers, unreadable. Then, without a word, he fell into step beside her as she walked toward her chamber.
“Were you waiting for me?”
No explanation. No answer. Just that simple silence that sent heat racing through her veins.
They walked the remaining distance to her door in silence, the air between them thick with everything unsaid.
When they reached it, she expected him to bid her goodnight and leave like he always did, like he’d done a dozen times before, always stopping just short of whatever precipice they kept approaching.
But he didn’t leave. For a long moment they simply stood there, staring at each other across the small space.
“I want to come in, lass.” The words sounded rough, strained.
Francesca swallowed. “Okay.”
The single word was barely a whisper, but it was enough. He followed her inside, closing the door behind them with a soft click that sounded final in the quiet chamber.
Francesca’s heart hammered so hard she could hear it in her ears, could feel it pulsing in her throat, her wrists, everywhere.
He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough in a way that made her knees weak.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, exploring, learning her with patient thoroughness.
One hand tangled in her hair while the other traced down her spine, pressing her closer until there was no space left between them.
“Too many clothes,” he muttered against her lips. “Ye’re wearin’ far too many clothes, lass.”
“So are you.”
His laugh was rough as he pulled back just enough to work the buttons of her dress. His fingers were surprisingly deft despite their size, each button releasing with methodical precision.
“I’ve thought about this,” he confessed as fabric parted beneath his hands, “every night since we married. How it would feel to undress ye properly. To take me time instead of—” He broke off, pushing the dress from her shoulders so it pooled at her feet.
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of rushin’ like a lad who cannae control himself.” His eyes darkened as they traced over her in nothing but her chemise and stays. “Ye’re the bonniest lass I ken.”
He kissed her again, walking her backward toward the bed. “And I’m goin’ to prove it to ye.”
The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she sat abruptly. He followed her down, his weight pressing her into the soft bedding as his mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her stays.
“Declan.”
“Let me.” His hands worked the laces of her stays with the same patient skill he’d shown with her buttons. “Let me make ye feel what I feel when I look at ye.”
The stays loosened, fell away. Her chemise followed, and then she was bare beneath him, exposed and vulnerable and more aroused than she’d ever been in her life.
“So soft,” he murmured, his calloused palm skating over her ribs, her belly, the curve of her hip. “So perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“Ye are.” His mouth followed the path his hand had traced, pressing kisses to her heated skin. “Every inch of ye is perfect.”
She arched into his touch, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he explored her body with thorough attention. When his mouth closed over her breast, she gasped, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
“Ye like that?” His tongue circled her nipple, making her writhe beneath him. “Tell me, lass. Tell me what ye like.”
“Everything.” The word came out breathless. “I like everything you do to me.”
“Good.” He switched to her other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. “Because I plan to do everythin’.”
His hand slid lower, over her belly, her hip, finding the place where she ached for him most. When his fingers touched her there, she nearly came off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, his free hand pressing her hip down. “Let me learn ye. Let me find what makes ye…”
She cried out as his fingers found exactly the right spot, circling with gentle pressure that made stars burst behind her eyelids.
“There,” he said with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted to see. Ye fallin’ apart for me.”
“Declan, please.”
“Nae yet.” His fingers continued their maddening rhythm while his mouth trailed kisses down her belly. “First, I’m going to taste ye.”
“You’re making me—” The protest died as his mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue doing things that made coherent thought impossible.
She fisted her hands in the bedding, her hips lifting despite his firm grip, her entire body straining toward the pleasure he was building with devastating skill.
When he slid a finger inside her while his mouth worked magic above, she shattered, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over her.
He gentled her through it, his touch easing as she came down from the peak. When he finally lifted his head, his grey eyes were nearly black with desire, his lips wet with evidence of what he’d done.
“Bonnie,” he said hoarsely. “Ye’re so bloody bonnie when ye come apart.”
She reached for him, wanting his shirt off, wanting to touch the skin she’d burned for. “Your turn.”
But as she worked at his buttons, he caught her hands. “Wait.”
“Why?”
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window like a caged animal. She watched him, confused and still trembling from her release, as he ran both hands through his hair.
“Declan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong. Everythin’s—” He turned to face her, and the torment in his expression made her chest ache. “We cannae do this.”
“Can’t do what?” She pulled the bedding around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. “You just… we just started.”
“Aye, and it was perfect. Ye were perfect. But I cannae—” He gestured helplessly. “Nae like this.”
“I don’t understand.” Hurt crept into her voice despite her best efforts. “Isn’t this why I’m here? Why you married me? To produce heirs for your clan?”
His head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Is that truly what ye think?”
“It’s what you told me.”
“I know what I told ye.” He crossed back to the bed in three strides, looming over her. “And if ye still think that’s all this is, then it’s a good thing I stopped.”
“Then what is it?” She stood, keeping the sheet wrapped around herself.
“Because you keep pushing me away every time we get close. You keep telling me not to have feelings, not to expect more, to remember this is just duty. So yes, Declan, that’s what I think because that’s what you’ve made very clear! ”
“I’m a...” He caught her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. “A complete and utter fool who’s been lyin’ to himself and hurtin’ ye in the process.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sayin’ I cannae take ye like this, with ye still thinkin’ it’s just about producin’ an heir. I need—” He stopped, jaw working. “I need ye to want this too. Nae the alliance. Just us.”
She took a step forward, breathing hard.
“You impossible man.” She grabbed his shirt, pulling him down to her level. “I do want this. Us. You. Just you. I have since our first kiss.”
A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Me Lady?” Betsy’s voice, muffled but concerned, called. “I heard shoutin’. Is everythin’ all right?”
Francesca and Declan stared at each other, panting, the moment shattered like glass.
“Everything’s fine, Betsy,” Francesca called, her voice remarkably steady. “Just… discussing clan business.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s urgent.”
A pause. “If ye say so, Me Lady. I’ll be in me room if ye need anythin’.”
Footsteps retreated down the corridor. The silence they left behind was deafening.
“Clan business?” Declan’s lips twitched despite everything.
“I panicked.” She was still clutching his shirt, still pressed against him with only a sheet between them. “What was I supposed to say?”
“The truth?”
“That my husband is driving me to distraction? That I want him so badly I can barely think straight? That I’m falling—” She stopped abruptly, horrified at what she’d almost said.
“Falling what?” His hands tightened on her face. “Tell me, Francesca. Falling what?”
“Apart,” she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. “I’m falling apart every time you touch me.”
It was a lie. They both knew it. But he didn’t call her on it, just pressed his forehead to hers and breathed like a man who’d run for miles.
“I should go,” he said, but made no move to leave.
“You keep saying that.”
“Aye, and I keep nae doin’ it.” He pulled back enough to look at her properly. “What are we doin’, lass? What is this between us?”
“I don’t know.” She touched his face, tracing that scar beneath his eye. “But I’m tired of fighting it.”
“So am I.” He turned his head to press a kiss to her palm. “God help me, so am I.”
They stood like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air. Then suddenly, the serenity was broken by an urgent rap on the door.
“Me Lady.”
Impatient, Francesca turned toward the door.
“Betsy, I told you I—”
Her words were cut off by Betsy’s sharp response. “Nay, Me Lady. Where’s the Laird? I cannae find little Eloise. The lass isnae in her chamber!”