She looked breathtaking. She also looked terrified.
Before he could speak, the sound of small feet running down the corridor announced Eloise’s arrival. The child appeared in a simple but elegant dress, her golden curls bouncing as she rushed to Francesca’s side.
“My new mama is the prettiest woman in the world!” Eloise declared with nine-year-old certainty, gazing up at Francesca with pure adoration. “She looks just like a princess!”
The innocent proclamation made Francesca’s cheeks flush pink, but Declan found himself nodding in agreement. “Indeed, she does, lassie.”
As Francesca continued to descend, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her gloved hands trembled slightly as she smoothed her skirts. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and there was something almost fragile about her composure.
“Nervous?” he asked quietly, stepping closer to her as she reached the bottom.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and something protective stirred in his chest at her vulnerability.
He found himself wanting to ease her fears, to see that radiant smile she had shown Eloise in the garden. “Ye look ravishing,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
The compliment had the desired effect. She glanced up at him, surprise flickering in her green eyes, and he caught the faint blush that colored her neck despite her attempts to maintain her composure. The sight of that delicate pink flush made something warm unfurl in his chest.
His gaze dropped to her feet, and he couldn’t suppress a slight smile. “Though I fear those delicate English shoes willnae survive Highland terrain. The path to the village can be rough.”
Her blush deepened. “I did not have any time to acquire boots. I am afraid my London wardrobe is not entirely suited to Scottish life.”
The admission made him realize how little thought he had given to her practical needs since her arrival. She had been thrown into an entirely foreign world with nothing but what she had brought from England.
“Forgive me,” he said, feeling an unexpected pang of guilt. “I should have ensured ye had everythin’ ye needed. I’ll see that proper attire is made for ye.” He glanced down at her silk slippers again. “But for tonight, the shoes will do.”
She looked relieved at his understanding, and some of the tension seemed to leave her shoulders.
“Are we ready for the ceilidh?” he asked, offering his arm to Francesca while glancing down at Eloise with a slight smile.
Francesca placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, and even through the fabric, he was aware of her touch. “As ready as I shall ever be.”
“Will there be dancing?” Eloise asked excitedly, practically bouncing on her toes.
“Aye, lass. Highland dancin’ and music. Ye’ll see how we celebrate in Scotland.”
Eloise clapped her hands excitedly. “I was never allowed to go to balls back in London. I was always so curious. Do you dance well, My Laird?”
Before Declan could reply, Francesca spoke up with an apologetic glance. “I’m sure you’ll be the best dancer in the whole Highlands, little one.”
“You do? Even better than you?”
“Well…we should just go and find out.” Declan’s voice was gentler than usual. Two pairs of green eyes shot to him, and both English lassies nodded. One eager, one anxious.
Here goes nothing.
The ride to the village was mercifully short, though Declan found himself aware of both Francesca beside him and Eloise chattering excitedly about what the evening might hold. Francesca sat with perfect posture, her hands folded in her lap, but he could see the way she studied the passing landscape through the window, as if trying to memorize every detail of her new home.
When they arrived at the village square, where torches had been lit and tables laden with food, the reception was exactly what Declan had expected. The village square had been transformed into something magical. Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh bread, wheels of Highland cheese, and barrels of ale.
Torches flickered in iron brackets, casting dancing shadows against the stone walls of the surrounding cottages. Fiddles and pipes filled the air with music that seemed to make the very stones pulse with Highland rhythm.
Declan watched as Francesca took in the scene, her green eyes wide with wonder.
She has never seen a Highland ceilidh before. She’s never witnessed me people when they cast aside the daily struggles of clan life to celebrate together.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music and laughter.
Aye, lass. Ye are.
