Declan had to peel his eyes off her when some of his people stepped forward with warm smiles and curious eyes, eager to meet their future lady and the child who would be part of their laird’s household. Others hung back, watching with the natural skepticism of Highlanders toward outsiders, particularly English ones.
“Me Lady.” An old woman curtsied deeply, her weathered face creased with genuine pleasure. “Welcome to our village. ’Tis an honor to meet ye.” She bent down to Eloise’s level with a kind smile. “And who is this lassie?”
“The honor is mine,” Francesca replied graciously, and Declan noted how she had softened her crisp English accent, making an effort to sound less foreign to Highland ears. “This is Eloise.”
Eloise curtsied politely as Francesca had taught her. “How do you do?”
The child’s perfect English manners and pristine appearance seemed to fascinate the gathered villagers. A young man stepped forward with his wife, both of them studying Eloise with open curiosity.
“Look at those golden curls,” the wife murmured admiringly. “Like spun silk, they are.”
“And her dress,” added another woman, reaching out as if to touch the fine fabric before catching herself. “Never seen such delicate work. Is that English stitching?”
“Aye, from London,” Francesca confirmed, her hand resting protectively on Eloise’s shoulder as more people gathered around them. Declan felt pride well up inside him at the fact that she switched from the Englishyesto their Highland dialect, even when she didn’t need to.
An elderly man with a graying beard nodded approvingly. “She’s got the look of quality about her, this one. Well-mannered too.” He smiled at Eloise. “Can ye speak the Gaelic, wee one?”
Eloise shook her head shyly, pressing closer to Francesca’s side as the circle of curious faces grew larger.
“She’ll learn,” the man declared firmly. “Highland children always do. But look how she stands so straight and proper. Like a wee lady born.”
Declan watched the scene with growing satisfaction. While some of his clan might be skeptical of Francesca’s English origins, they were clearly charmed by Eloise. The child’s combination of English refinement and natural sweetness was winning them over one by one.
“Such clean hands and neat braids,” marveled another young mother. “Me own bairns are covered in mud within minutes of washin’.”
“’Tis the English way,” Morag explained sagely. “They train their children differently. Nae better or worse, mind ye, just different.”
But not everyone was so welcoming. He caught the muttered conversations, the skeptical glances, the way some of his people kept their distance as if measuring whether this English woman and her perfectly groomed child were worthy of their respect.
All around them, children darted between the tables, their faces sticky with honey cakes, while the older folk clapped along to the reels being played by the village musicians. The air was thick with the scent of roasted lamb, peat smoke, and the wild heather that grew on the surrounding hills.
“Fraser!” Eloise’s delighted cry rang out as Fraser approached their table, resplendent in his clan colors.
“There’s me wee Highland lassie,” Fraser grinned, sweeping her up in a brief hug before setting her down. “Are ye enjoying yer first ceilidh?”
“Oh yes! The music is so lively, and everyone seems so happy,” Eloise replied, bouncing slightly on her toes as she watched a group of young people forming sets for a country dance.
Declan found himself studying Francesca’s face as she watched the dancers. There was longing there, carefully hidden but unmistakable to his eyes. In London, she would have danced at countless balls, but here, she sat like a spectator, uncertain of her place among his people.
The current dance ended to enthusiastic applause, and the musicians struck up a slower air, something more suited to couples than groups. Several pairs moved onto the makeshift dance floor, and Eloise tugged on Francesca’s sleeve.
“Aunt Francesca, why aren’t you dancing? In London, you said you liked to dance at parties.”
Francesca’s cheeks colored slightly. “This is different, darling. I don’t know the Highland steps.”
“But you could learn,” Eloise insisted with the stubborn logic of childhood. She turned those green eyes on Declan with devastating effect. “Couldn’t she learn, My Laird? Won’t you teach her?”
Declan felt every eye at their table turn toward him. Fraser was grinning openly, clearly enjoying his discomfort, while several of the clan elders watched with interest. To refuse would slight Francesca publicly, but to dance with her would mean holding her in his arms.
“The lass has a point,” Fraser said with barely concealed amusement. “How can Lady Francesca learn Highland ways if no one teaches her?”
Trapped by Highland courtesy and a nine-year-old’s innocent manipulation, Declan rose from his seat and offered Francesca his hand. “Would ye do me the honor, Me Lady?”
For a moment, she hesitated, and he could see her weighing the wisdom of accepting. Then she placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
“I truly don’t know the steps,” she whispered as they took their positions.
“Follow me lead,” he replied, his voice rougher than intended. Having her this close, feeling the warmth of her hand in his, was doing dangerous things to his composure. “Highland dancin’ is about feelin’ the music as much as knowin’ the steps.”
