Chapter 21
The torches lining the castle walls blazed like beacons in the darkness as they rode through the gates. Francesca held Eloise in front of her on the saddle, the child’s small body still trembling with aftershocks of fear despite being safe now.
“We’re home, darling,” Francesca whispered into her hair. “You’re home.”
“Is the bad lady really gone?” Eloise’s voice was so small, so broken. “She won’t come back?”
“She willnae come back.” Declan’s voice, rough but gentle, came from beside them. “I promise ye, lass. No one will ever hurt ye again.”
Lady Gretchen stood in the courtyard, her face creased with worry that transformed to relief the moment she saw them. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”
Francesca dismounted carefully, wincing as her wounded shoulder protested. Betsy was there immediately, reaching for Eloise, but the child clung harder to Francesca.
“Don’t leave me,” she whimpered. “Please don’t leave me.”
Francesca pressed a kiss to her head. “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”
Lady Gretchen approached, her sharp eyes taking in the blood on Francesca’s dress, the haunted look in Eloise’s eyes, and the grim set of Declan’s jaw. “What happened? Did you find who took her?”
“Yes.” Francesca’s voice cracked. “It was Violet. My sister. She—” The words wouldn’t come, too horrible to speak aloud.
“Violet?” Her aunt’s face went pale. “But she’s dead. She died in the carriage accident.”
“She faked her death. Staged the whole thing.” Francesca felt Eloise shaking harder and forced herself to steady. “She wanted money. Took Eloise to force a ransom.”
“Dear God.” Lady Gretchen’s hand flew to her mouth. “Where is she now?”
“Dead.” Declan dismounted, moving to stand beside Francesca. “This time for real.”
The old woman looked between them, reading the truth in their faces. “I see. Well.” She straightened her spine, composing herself with visible effort. “Then it’s over. Truly over.”
“Aye.” Declan’s hand settled on Francesca’s lower back, steadying her. “It’s over.”
“We should get Eloise inside,” Lady Gretchen said, her voice gentling. “The child needs rest and comfort. And you—” she fixed Francesca with a stern look, “—need that shoulder tended to.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding through your dress. Don’t argue with me, girl.” Her aunt’s tone brooked no disagreement. “Betsy, fetch the healer. And tell Cook to prepare something warm and soothing for the child.”
The castle staff mobilized with practiced efficiency, but Eloise refused to release her grip on Francesca. They made it as far as the great hall before she released herself and bolted to Declan.
Eloise’s voice was barely a whisper. “Can I call you Da?”
She trailed off, looking at him with such desperate hope it made Francesca’s chest ache. Declan’s jaw worked, emotion flickering across his face—the same man who’d sworn never to let himself care, never to let anyone close.
“I’ll insist on it.” His voice was rough, thick with feeling. “From this moment on, I’m yer da. And that means I’ll protect ye with me life, just like I protect yer mother.”
Eloise launched herself into Declan’s arms with such force that he nearly toppled backward. She buried her face in his neck, her small body wracked with sobs—but these were different. Relief. Release. The tears of a child who’d finally found safety.
“I love you, Da,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”
Declan’s arms tightened around her, one large hand cradling the back of her head. His eyes met Francesca’s over Eloise’s shoulder, and the raw emotion in his gaze nearly undid her.
“I love ye too, lass. More than I knew I could love anyone.”
Francesca pressed her hand to her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she watched them. Her daughter and her husband, holding each other like they’d never let go.
Lady Gretchen appeared with the healer, a stern-faced woman carrying a basket of supplies. “Come now, let’s get that shoulder cleaned up. And Eloise needs to be checked for injuries as well.”
The next hour passed in a blur. The healer cleaned and stitched Francesca’s shoulder with efficient care while examining Eloise for any signs of harm. Apart from some rope burns on her wrists and bruises on her arms, the child was physically uninjured.
“She’s been through a terrible ordeal,” the healer said quietly to Francesca as she finished wrapping her shoulder. “Daenae be surprised if she has nightmares or if she’s afraid to be alone. Time and patience will help her heal.”
Francesca nodded, too exhausted to speak. Every part of her ached—body, heart, soul. But they were all alive. All together. That was what mattered.
By the time they’d gotten Eloise bathed and into her nightgown, it was well past midnight. The child refused to be left alone in her chamber, clinging to Francesca with desperate strength.
Francesca ended up in Eloise’s bed for a while, her small body finally relaxing as exhaustion claimed her. Within minutes, she was asleep, one hand fisted in Francesca’s nightgown.
Francesca ran her fingers over the little girl’s hair, pushing some stray tendrils away from her face. She leaned close to kiss her forehead before gently pulling herself free from the sleeping child.
She left the room and made her way to Declan’s chamber—larger than hers, more masculine, with a massive bed that dominated the space.
“What are ye doing here. Ye’re hurt; ye should be restin’.” He followed her to the window seat on the far side of the chamber. Moonlight streamed through the glass, painting silver across his features.
“I’m fine, I just needed to see you.”
His hand reached for her bandaged shoulder, touch feather-light. “Ye could have been killed today.”
“So could you.” She caught his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “When Violet lunged at you with that dirk, I was scared.”
“I ken.” His jaw tightened. “Christ, Francesca, when I saw her blade at yer throat, I—” He broke off, breathing hard. “I’ve never felt fear like that. Nae in any battle, nae facin’ any enemy.”
“And how has that changed your feelings?”
“Well, now, I’m done lyin’ to meself.” He cupped her face, his touch achingly tender despite the violence those same hands had committed hours before. “This marriage is real. It’s been real since the moment ye stood up to that drunk at the ceilidh. Maybe even before that.”
“When?” She needed to know, needed to understand when this fierce, guarded man had let her into his heart.
“The stables.” A small smile curved his lips. “When ye refused to let me visit yer chamber without invitation. Ye stood there in yer ridin’ habit, chin lifted, tellin’ a Highland laird he couldnae command ye like one of his men. I wanted to throttle ye and kiss ye in equal measure.”
“You did kiss me. Eventually.”
“Aye. And I’ve been fightin’ it ever since.” His thumb traced her cheekbone. “Fightin’ ye. Fightin’ meself. Fightin’ what I felt.”
“And now?” she asked again.
“Now I’m done fightin’.” He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in. “I love ye, Francesca. I love ye with everythin’ I am, everythin’ I have, and it terrifies me more than any blade ever could.”
Tears spilled down Francesca’s cheeks. “I love you. Not because you’re a laird, not for the protection you offer.
I love you because you read bedtime stories with the right voices.
Because you got kittens for a little girl who needed them.
Because you’ve shown me that strength and tenderness can exist in the same heart. ”
His mouth found hers, and the kiss was different from all that had come before. No desperation, no restraint, no walls between them. Just love, pure and fierce and all-consuming.
“I need—” He broke off, breathing hard. “I need to make ye mine properly. Completely. No more barriers between us.”
His eyes burned with need and love in equal measure. “Please, Francesca. Let me love ye the way I’ve been desperate to since the day ye arrived. I need ye,” he growled against her throat as he kissed her neck. “Need to feel ye beneath me, hear ye cry me name, ken ye’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” She pulled at his shirt, desperate to feel skin. “I’ve been yours since—”
“Since when?” His hands found the laces of her nightgown, loosening them with practiced ease. “Tell me.”
“Since you defended Eloise at the ceilidh. And again, much more when you looked at her kidnapper like you’d burn the world down to bring her home.
” The nightgown pooled at her feet, leaving her bare except for the bandage on her shoulder.
“Since I realized you were capable of loving fiercely even when you swore you’d never love at all. ”
He shed his own clothes with impatient movements, and then they were skin to skin, heat to heat. His body was all hard muscle and battle scars, beautiful in its strength and power.
“Ye’re so soft,” he murmured, his hands mapping her curves with reverent touches. “So perfect.”
“No. I’m not .”
“Aye, ye are lass.” His mouth found her breast, tongue circling until she gasped. “Brave and fierce and mine.”
He walked her backward until her knees hit the bed, then followed her down onto the mattress. His weight pressed her into the soft bedding, and she reveled in it—in being surrounded by him, claimed by him.
“I want to taste every inch of ye,” he said, his accent thickening with desire. “Want to learn what makes ye gasp, what makes ye scream, what makes ye fall apart.”
“Declan.”
“Tell me what ye want, lass. Tell me what ye need.”
“You.” She arched beneath him. “Just you. All of you.”
His hand slid between her thighs, finding her wet and ready. “Already so eager for me.”
“Always.” She gasped as his fingers found that perfect spot, circling with maddening pressure. “I’m always eager for you.”
“Good.” His mouth blazed a trail down her body—throat, collarbone, the valley between her breasts. “Because I plan to take me time with ye tonight. No rushin’.”
When his mouth replaced his fingers, she nearly came off the bed. His tongue did wicked things that made her writhe and moan, her hands fisting in his dark hair as pleasure built with devastating intensity.
“Declan, please.”
“Nae yet.” He gentled his touch, keeping her on the edge. “I want ye desperate for me. Want ye beggin’.”
“I am begging.” Her hips lifted, seeking more pressure.
“Tell me what ye need.”
“You inside me. Now. Please.”
He rose over her, positioning himself at her entrance. Their eyes met, held, and she saw everything in his gaze, love and need and promises of forever.
“I love ye,” he said as he pushed inside, filling her completely. “God help me, I love ye more than life.”
“I love you too.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper. “So much. Always.”
He moved with slow, deliberate strokes, each one stoking the fire between them higher. His mouth found hers, swallowing her moans as pleasure built and built until she thought she might shatter from it.
“Look at me,” he commanded. “I want to see ye when ye come apart.”
His hand slid between their bodies, finding that bundle of nerves and circling with perfect pressure. She flew apart, crying his name as waves of pleasure crashed over her. He followed moments later, his own release tearing a groan from his throat as he buried himself deep.
They lay tangled together afterward, hearts racing, skin slicked with sweat. Declan’s hand traced idle patterns on her hip while she pressed kisses to his scarred chest.
“That was—” she started.
“Everythin’.” He finished for her. “That was everythin’.”
“Yes.” She smiled against his skin. “Everything and more.”
They made love twice more that night, once fast and urgent against the wall, once slow and tender in the depths of his massive bed. By the time exhaustion finally claimed them, dawn was breaking over the Highland peaks.
“I should check on Eloise,” Francesca murmured, half-asleep.
“In a moment.” Declan pulled her closer, his arms banding around her. “Just let me hold ye a little longer.”
She relaxed into his embrace, feeling safer and more cherished than she’d ever felt in her life. This was home, not the castle or Scotland or even the bed they shared. Home was his arms around her, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, his love wrapping her in warmth.