In that moment she had felt that, if he touched her lips again, she might do just that. So, yes, she’d rather think of the storm than face her own thoughts. And if there was no storm, she’d think of something else. Anything else.
She settled beside Eloise, pulling the quilts up around them both. “Would you like me to tell you a story?”
Eloise nodded eagerly, snuggling closer. “Tell me about Mama and Papa.”
The innocent request hit Francesca like a blow. How could she explain Violet’s bitterness, Leonard’s coldness? This child was too young for such ugly truths.
“Your mama was the most beautiful woman in London,” she began carefully. “Golden hair just like yours and eyes that sparkled like emeralds.”
Thunder crashed overhead, but Eloise barely flinched now, absorbed in the story and comforted by Francesca’s warmth.
This is what family should be, Francesca realized. Not cold duty, but this fierce desire to protect and comfort. Whatever happened with Declan, Eloise would always know she was loved.
A soft knock at the door made them both look up. Declan’s tall frame filled the doorway, his dark hair slightly disheveled as if he had been running his hands through it. He stood there awkwardly, clearly uncertain whether to enter or retreat.
“I heard the thunder,” he said quietly, his Highland burr softer than usual. “Wanted to ensure ye were both okay… that is, storms can be fiercer here than what ye’re used to back in England.”
Another crash of thunder punctuated his words, and Eloise instinctively pressed closer to Francesca’s side.
“We’re managing well enough, thank you,” Francesca replied, though something in his unexpected concern stirred warmth in her chest.
Eloise peered at him from beneath the quilts, her earlier terror giving way to curiosity. “The thunder is very loud here,” she said shyly. “Louder than in London.”
“Aye, Highland storms have power behind them,” Declan agreed, taking a small step into the chamber but remaining near the door. “But these walls have weathered worse.”
“Would you… Would you like to sit with us?” Eloise asked suddenly, her small voice hopeful. “Aunt Francesca is telling me stories about my Mama and Papa.”
Declan’s expression shifted, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features before he composed himself. “I… nay, lass. Ye should rest.”
But instead of leaving immediately, he moved toward the bed with surprising gentleness. Reaching down, he tucked the heavy quilts more securely around Eloise’s small form, his large hands careful and precise.
“There,” he said quietly. “That should keep the Highland chill at bay.”
Eloise smiled up at him, her fear forgotten in the face of his unexpected kindness. “Thank you.”
Francesca remained silent about the gesture, though her heart had done something peculiar when she witnessed his gentleness with Eloise. Perhaps there was more to this stern Highland laird than he allowed the world to see.
“Sleep well, wee one.” He straightened, his eyes meeting Francesca’s briefly over the child’s head. Something passed between them in that moment, an understanding she could not quite name.
“Goodnight, Lady Francesca.”
“Goodnight,” she managed, watching as he withdrew to the doorway and disappeared into the shadowy corridor.
She stayed until Eloise’s breathing deepened into the peaceful rhythm of sleep, then carefully extracted herself from the bed. The storm still raged outside, and restlessness had settled in her bones. Moving quietly to avoid waking the child, she slipped into the corridor.
The castle felt different at night, older somehow, as if the shadows held memories of all the souls who had walked these halls before her. Lightning continued to flash through the narrow windows, illuminating her way as she wandered deeper into the castle’s heart.
The great hall stretched before her like a cavern, empty save for the dying embers in the massive stone hearth. But as Francesca stepped into the shadowy space, she realized she was not alone.A figure sat at one of the long tables near the fire, silhouetted against the orange glow.
Declan.
He held a glass, his attention fixed on the flames as if they held answers to questions she could not fathom. The firelight played across his strong features, softening the harsh lines that daylight revealed. For a moment, he looked younger, less burdened by the weight of command.
“I did not expect to find anyone awake at this hour,” she said softly, not wanting to startle him.
He glanced up, unsurprised by her presence. “Storms have a way of keeping people from their rest.” He gestured toward an empty chair across from him. “Sit, if ye wish.”
Francesca hesitated, then moved closer to the warmth of the fire. The storm still raged beyond the thick walls with the occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the tall windows.
