“We have an arrangement,” he managed, his voice rough. He took a step closer, close enough to catch the scent of lavenderthat seemed to cling to her skin. Close enough to see the slight tremor in her hands despite her brave words.
“Yes, we do. But nowhere in that arrangement did I agree to be ready for you whenever the mood strikes you.” She held her ground even as he loomed over her, and something primal stirred in his chest at her courage. “If you wish to visit my chamber, you may ask. Like a gentleman.”
The challenge in her voice sent heat coursing through his veins. When had any woman ever dared speak to him thus? When had anyone demanded he moderate his tone, soften his approach, consider their feelings before his own needs?
“What if I am nay gentleman, lassie?” Declan found himself leaning closer, drawn by the fire in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin. The space between them crackled with tension as he invaded her personal space, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her green eyes. “Ye are mine, and ye dare to defy me. Do I need to remind ye of the conditions ye agreed on?”
His proximity was overwhelming her. He could see it in the way her breathing had quickened and in the slight tremor that ran through her despite her brave words. Yet she didn’t step back.
For a moment, uncertainty flickered across her features. A strand of golden hair had escaped her careful arrangement, and without thinking, he reached up to tuck it behind her ear. The simple touch sent fire racing through both of them.
His fingers lingered against the soft skin of her cheek longer than necessary, and he felt her sharp intake of breath. Her pulse was racing beneath his touch. He could feel it fluttering like a trapped bird.
But the next moment, her jaw set with renewed determination, and she took a step out of his reach. Declan felt his respect for her deepen despite himself.
“I am not your wife yet,” she said firmly, her voice never wavering even though he could see her pulse fluttering rapidly at the base of her throat. “And those rules do not apply until I am.”
She was right, technically speaking. They were betrothed, not wed. The ceremony had not yet taken place; the vows were not yet spoken. But more than that, something about her defiance was affecting him in ways he had not expected.
The fire in her eyes reminded him of Highland storms, wild and beautiful and utterly untamed. Her refusal to cower before him spoke of a strength he had not anticipated, a spirit that matched the fierce landscape of his homeland. This was not some delicate English flower that would wilt at the first sign of Highland roughness. This was a woman who could stand beside a laird and never bend.
And God help me, ye arouse me more than ye infuriate me.
The air between them was electric. He should step back—every rational thought screamed at him to put distance between them. Instead, he found himself caught in her gaze, drowning in thosedefiant green eyes that held both fear and something far more dangerous.
His thumb traced along her jawline before he caught himself, his hand dropping away as if burned.
“I’ll respect yer wishes,” he heard himself saying, his voice strained with the effort of controlling his unexpected response to her defiance, “for now, but soon, ye will be beggin’ me to touch ye.”
She gasped, and her response filled him with pleasure. Their eyes held for a long moment before he bowed his head slightly, then he turned on his heel and strode toward the stable entrance, needing air, needing space, needing to put distance between himself and the woman who had just turned his carefully ordered world out of course.
As he stepped into the courtyard, his breathing came hard and fast, his body responding to the confrontation in ways that had nothing to do with anger. Her defiant stance burned in his mind like a brand. The way she had stood her ground, the proud tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes as she demanded to be treated with respect rather than mere possession.
What kind of woman have I agreed to marry?he wondered, and for the first time since this arrangement began, the question carried more anticipation than dread.
7
“Aunt Francesca! Make it stop, please make it stop!”
Eloise launched herself from her bed straight into Francesca’s arms later that night, with a terrified cry just as another thunderclap split the night air like cannon fire.
“Shh, darling, it’s only a storm.” Francesca gathered Eloise close, her own heart racing from the sudden violence of the thunder. Highland storms were nothing like the gentle rains of England. “You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.”
Lightning illuminated the small chamber, casting wild shadows across the stone walls. Eloise whimpered and buried her face against Francesca’s shoulder.
“It sounds like giants fighting. What if they break the castle?”
Francesca’s throat tightened. How many nights had she herself lain awake as a girl, terrified and alone?
Not Eloise. Never Eloise.
“This castle has stood for more than three hundred years,” she said softly, guiding Eloise back to bed. “Highland storms have raged against these walls countless times, and they have never fallen.”
Another crash of thunder shook the stones. Eloise’s grip on her hand tightened painfully.
“Will you stay with me? Please don’t leave me alone.”
“Of course, I’ll stay.” She wouldn’t ever leave her. And she didn’t want to even think what her betrothed suggested they should be doing tonight anyway. Even if there was no storm, even if Eloise did not need her, Francesca couldn’t sleep in her bed. Not after the way Declan had taken control, not after the way he had looked at her and suggested that she’d be begging.
