It was a matter of Highland honor, nothing more.
Or so he told himself as he watched Francesca’s grateful expression, refusing to examine why her safety was becoming important to him.
9
Francesca’s hands would not stop shaking.
She clutched her goblet of ale with both hands, trying to hide the tremors, but the confrontation with Tavish had shattered something inside her. The protective shell she had worn all evening, the careful composure that had carried her through introductions and polite conversation, lay in pieces at her feet.
She had stood up to the man, yes. Had defended Eloise with all the fire in her soul. But now, in the aftermath, she felt utterly exposed.
Raw. Like a creature stripped of its protective covering and left vulnerable to every predator in the Highland night.
“I need to speak with some of the elders,” Declan murmured, startling her out of her thoughts. His hand briefly touched her shoulder. “Will ye be all right?”
She nodded because she had no choice, because that was what was expected of her. But as soon as he moved away toward a cluster of older men, the panic began to claw at her chest.
You are alone. You are in a strange land among strange people with a man who is not even your husband yet. Without his protection, anything could happen.
She looked around desperately, searching for something to anchor herself to. Fraser had Eloise by the dessert table, the child laughing at something he was saying, her earlier distress forgotten in the wonder of Highland honey cakes. At least Eloise was safe. At least someone was watching over her.
But Francesca felt adrift, surrounded by faces that had seemed friendly just minutes before but now appeared calculating, judging. How many others shared Tavish’s sentiments but were simply too polite to voice them? How many were wondering what their laird was thinking, binding himself to an English woman and her bastard child?
“Me Lady?” Betsy appeared at her elbow with a plate of oatcakes and cheese. “Ye look a bit pale. Perhaps some food?”
Francesca accepted the offering gratefully, though the food tasted like ash in her mouth. She forced herself to eat, to smile, to maintain the pretense that she was perfectly fine. But her eyeskept drifting to Declan, deep in conversation with men whose names she did not know, whose loyalty she could not count on.
When she looked up again, she found Declan watching her, his grey eyes narrowed with concern and some disapproval.
He expected me to be strong.
He expected her to recover from the insult as quickly as he had delivered his threat. She would soon be the lady of the clan, unshakeable in the face of adversity.
But she was shaking. Trembling like a leaf in a Highland storm, and no amount of willpower could make it stop.
The realization crashed over her with devastating clarity: she was utterly alone. In England, she had no one who truly cared for her well-being. Her father’s letter proved that with its cold demands that she perform for London society’s entertainment. And here in Scotland, she had only Declan’s protection, conditional and temporary as it was.
What if he changes his mind? What if the clan convinces him I am more trouble than I am worth? What if he decides that an English wife is a liability he cannot afford?
The shivers were more intense now, despite the warmth of the torches and the press of bodies around her. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold seemed to come from within, spreading through her bones like winter frost.
“Francesca.” Declan’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He was beside her suddenly, his large frame blocking out the curious stares of his clansmen. “What is it?”
“I need to return to the castle,” she whispered, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she spoke louder. “Please.”
He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded curtly. “Fraser,” he called out, “put Eloise in the carriage. We are goin’ back.”
The journey back to Castle MacGhee passed in a blur. Francesca sat rigid in the carriage, fighting to maintain her composure until they reached the safety of stone walls and familiar corridors. Only when they arrived did she allow herself to breathe again.
“Will ye be needing anythin’, Me Lady?” Betsy asked as they entered the great hall.
“Please see that Eloise is properly settled for the night,” Francesca managed. “And thank you for your kindness this evening.”
She escaped to her chamber before anyone could ask more questions and before Declan could demand explanations she was not ready to give. Once safely behind her closed door, she collapsed onto her bed without bothering to change out of her gown, the emerald silk that had made her feel so beautiful now feeling like a costume she had no right to wear.
A soft knock at her door made her freeze. “Come in,” she called, though her voice sounded strange even to her own ears.
Declan entered, his expression stern and uncompromising. He had changed out of his formal Highland dress into simpler clothes, but he still looked every inch the formidable laird.
