Francesca’s heart hammered so loudly she was certain he could hear it. His eyes were dark now, fixed on their nearly touching hands as if the sight held him captive. She could feel the heat radiating from his skin, could see the slight tremor in his fingers that suggested he was not as composed as he appeared.
Time seemed suspended as they sat frozen in that moment of almost contact. The storm outside had quieted to a distant rumble, but the tension crackling between them was far more dangerous than any Highland tempest.
Then his hand moved that final inch, his fingertips brushing against hers with a touch so light it might have been imagined. But the jolt that went through her at the contact was very real, stealing her breath and making her fingers tingle as if struck by lightning.
She saw his jaw clench, saw the way his breathing had grown shallow and uneven. When she dared to look up at his face, the hunger she saw there made her stomach flip with answering desire.
“Francesca,” he said, her name rough on his lips. His hand turned, palm up, as if to properly take hold of hers.
But then, as suddenly as if he had indeed been burned, he jerked his hand back and shot to his feet. The abrupt movement sent his chair scraping against the stone floor with a harsh sound that shattered the spell between them.
“This is…” He ran a hand through his dark hair, his breathing ragged. “Ye should return to yer chamber.”
The dismissal hit her like cold water, but she could see the struggle written across his features. His hands were clenched at his sides, and there was something almost desperate in the way he avoided looking at her directly.
“Declan,” she began, rising from her own chair.
“Go.” The word came out sharper than he likely intended, and she saw him wince at his own tone. “Just… go.”
She stood there for a moment, her own breathing unsteady, wanting to reach for him again but seeing the walls slamming back into place around him. Whatever had flickered between them by the firelight, he was determined to extinguish it before it could take root.
Without another word, she turned and walked toward the great hall’s entrance, feeling his eyes on her back until she disappeared into the shadowy corridor.
But she had only taken a few steps when his voice stopped her cold.
“Whatever game this is, ye need to stop it right now.”
Francesca turned slowly, her heart sinking at the ice in his tone. Declan stood silhouetted against the firelight, his expression carved from stone, any trace of the vulnerability she had glimpsed now completely erased.
“This is a marriage of alliance,” he continued, his grey eyes as cold as steel. “I do not intend to fall for ye. This marriage will be me way of havin’ ties to the redcoats through Earl Holton’s connections in order to strengthen me clan and produce an heir. That is all.”
The words were designed to wound and put distance between them, and every word hit its mark. The man who had touched her hand with such tenderness mere moments before had vanished, replaced by the ruthless laird who saw her as nothing more than a political tool.
“I understand,” she managed, though her voice sounded strange to her own ears.
“Be sure to remember this lass.” He gave a curt nod and strode past her toward the corridor, not sparing her another glance as he disappeared into the shadows.
But even as she made her way back to her chamber, she could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers against hers, still see the hunger in his eyes that he had tried so hard to deny. He could retreat behind his walls all he liked, but she had seen the truth. Whatever cold duty he claimed to offer, there was fire beneath it. And fire, she was learning, had a way of refusing to be contained.
She slipped quietly through the connecting door to check on Eloise, but as she approached the bed, the child stirred at the sound of her footsteps.
“Aunt Francesca?” Eloise’s sleepy voice called out in the darkness. “Is that you?”
“Yes, darling. I’m sorry I woke you.” Francesca settled on the edge of the small bed, smoothing the covers around Eloise’s shoulders.
Eloise sat up slightly, rubbing her eyes. “I wasn’t really sleeping. I keep thinking about today.”
“What about today, sweetheart?”
“I like it here better than England,” Eloise said, her voice growing more animated. “The castle is so big and mysterious, and Betsy is kind, and there are so many places to explore.”
“I’m glad you’re settling in well.”
“But sometimes…” Eloise hesitated then continued in a whisper, “Sometimes I find it hard to understand what the Lord is saying. His voice is so deep and different from the men in London.”
Francesca smiled in the darkness. “Here in Scotland, we don’t call him ‘the Lord,’ darling. We call him ‘Laird.’ Can you say that?”
“Laird?” Eloise tried the word carefully, her tongue working around the unfamiliar sound. “Lay-rd?”
