But there was none. She could see it in her father’s implacable expression and her mother’s cold silence. They would separate her from Eloise without hesitation if she refused.
There was nothing to be done now. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. “I understand, Father. I accept the betrothal.”
The words tasted like ashes in her mouth, but they were the only ones that would keep Eloise safe. Whatever trials awaited them in the Scottish Highlands, whatever this unknown Laird might demand of her, she would endure it all for the child she loved as her own daughter.
Earl Holton nodded curtly, as if he had never doubted her capitulation. “A wise choice.”
“When?” The question came out as barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of her entire future. “When do we leave London?”
“Are we nearly there, Aunt Francesca?”
Eloise’s small voice was barely audible over the relentless drumming of rain against the carriage roof. The child had been asking the same question every few hours for the past three days,her wide green eyes growing more anxious with each mile that carried them further from everything familiar.
Francesca shifted on the hard bench seat, her spine aching from days of being jolted over increasingly rough roads. Through the rain-streaked window, she could see the landscape had changed dramatically since they’d crossed into Scotland. Gone were the gentle rolling hills and manicured estates of England. Here, the terrain was wild and untamed with rocky crags jutting up from mist-shrouded valleys like the bones of some ancient beast.
“Soon, darling,” she murmured, pulling Eloise closer against her side. The child’s traveling dress was wrinkled beyond repair, and her golden curls had escaped their careful plaiting days ago. “Look there, do you see how different the trees are? Those are Highland pines.”
Eloise pressed her nose to the glass, her breath fogging the window. “They look so tall and dark. Like they’re hiding secrets.”
“Perhaps they are.” Francesca managed a smile despite her own growing unease. Everything about this land felt foreign and unwelcome. The mountains loomed like sleeping giants, their peaks lost in low-hanging clouds that seemed to press down upon the narrow valley roads.
The carriage lurched violently as one wheel hit a particularly deep rut, sending them both sliding across the worn leather seat. Eloise whimpered and clutched at Francesca’s arm.
“Why did we have to come so far away?” the child whispered, and Francesca’s heart clenched at the lost sound of her voice.
“Because sometimes we must be very brave and go to new places that might be better for us in the end,” Francesca replied, though her own courage was wearing thin with each passing hour. “And we shall face whatever comes together, just as we always have.”
The coachman’s voice drifted down from above, barely audible through the storm. “Castle ahead, My Ladies!”
Francesca’s stomach knotted as she peered out into the gathering darkness. Through the rain, she could make out the massive silhouette of a fortress perched on a rocky outcrop, its towers and battlements looking more like a prison than a home. Torches flickered in the courtyard below, their light wavering in the wind like desperate signals.
“Is that where we’re going to live?” Eloise asked, her voice very small.
“Yes, sweetheart.” Francesca swallowed hard, forcing confidence into her tone that she did not feel. “That is Castle MacGhee. Our new home.”
The carriage wheels ground against wet cobblestones as they entered the courtyard, and Francesca could hear voices calling out in thick Highland accents she could barely understand. Her hands trembled as she smoothed Eloise’s rumpled dress and checked that her own traveling cloak was properly fastened.
When the carriage finally shuddered to a halt, Eloise was fast asleep against her shoulder, exhausted from the ordeal of travel. A young woman emerged from the castle doors, her apron soaked within seconds as she hurried toward them through the downpour.
“Please, could you show us to our chambers?” Francesca laid Eloise down on the carriage bench before she called out as the coachman helped her down, rain immediately soaking through her cloak. “The child is sleeping, and we have been traveling for days.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy, her Highland accent thick as honey. “Aye, Me Lady, of course. Welcome to Castle MacGhee. I’m Betsy. I’ll show ye to yer room now.”
“Betsy, have our guests arrived?”
The words cut through the air, spoken in a voice so deep and commanding that Francesca felt it reverberate in her chest. The maid’s words died instantly, her eyes going wide as she looked past Francesca toward the castle’s massive oak doors.
Francesca turned, and her breath caught in her throat.
The most imposing-looking man she had ever seen stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling the entrance. Even from this distance, she could feel the raw power radiating from him. It was something wild and untamed that made every instinct scream that she was in the presence of a predator.
2
Torchlight flickered across his features as he stepped into the courtyard, revealing a face that was all sharp angles and hard lines, dominated by eyes that appeared as dark as storm clouds.
Francesca shuddered as she took in the raw masculinity of him. This was no soft English gentleman. He was altogether more primal and much more attractive.
A thin scar ran along his left cheek beneath his eye, and rather than marring his features, it only served to make him appear more distinguished. More formidable. She found herself pitying any enemy who had faced this man in battle.
