He groaned, and his arms came around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, could taste the hint of whisky on his lips. The kiss deepened, becoming something desperate and consuming that made her forget everything except the feel of him, the scent of leather, and Highland air that clung to his skin.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed as if he were fighting some internal battle.
“This cannae happen again,” he said, his voice strained. “We cannae… I cannae…”
But even as he spoke the words, his hands remained on her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
“Declan,” she whispered, his name a plea on her lips.
“Nay.” He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his dark hair. “This is exactly what I swore wouldnae happen. What I cannae allow to happen. I warned ye.”
Francesca stared at him, her lips still tingling from his kiss, her body aching from the sudden loss of his warmth. She could see the war playing out across his features. How desire battled duty, want warred with will.
“It’s too late,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the chaos inside her. “The boundary is already broken.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw her own truth reflected in his eyes. Whatever careful distance he had tried to maintain between them had indeed shattered the moment his lips touched hers.
“Maybe, lass. But I can always set it again.”
He went towards the door.
“Good night,” he called without turning to face her.
And then he left, closing the door behind him.
Francesca was alone again. Perhaps, more alone than she had ever been. But for one thing she was certain: she’d want to break the new boundary too.
And that was the problem.
Because her betrothed wanted distance. And she didn’t know what to do about that.
10
“Ye look bonnie, Me Lady.”
Betsy’s voice was soft as she adjusted the final pin in Francesca’s hair, securing the delicate veil. The castle’s small chapel awaited below, filled with clan elders who had gathered to witness their laird’s marriage to an English stranger.
Francesca stared at her reflection in the polished glass, barely recognizing the woman who looked back. The wedding gown was simple compared to London fashions, cream-colored silk with Celtic knots embroidered along the bodice, yet somehow it felt more significant than any elaborate confection from Bond Street ever could.
“Are ye nervous?” Krista asked, appearing at her other shoulder with a sprig of white heather. “For luck,” she explained, tucking it into Francesca’s hair.
“Terrified,” Francesca admitted, her hands trembling as she smoothed the fabric of her skirts. “What if I say the vows wrong? What if the clan elders decide I’m not worthy?”
“They’ll think no such thing,” Betsy said firmly. “The Laird chose ye. That’s all that matters to them.”
A knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Fraser’s voice carried through the wood. “It’s time, Lady Francesca. The Laird is waitin’.”
Well,shehad waited to talk about their kiss for days, but he did a fine job avoiding her. So fine, in fact, that she had eventually started to avoid him back.
And now they were getting married and they had barely seen or talked to each other since that night in her room.
But there was no avoiding now, was it? There could not be.
The walk to the chapel felt simultaneously endless and far too short. Fraser offered his arm with a kind smile. “Breathe, lass. Ye’re about to become the most powerful woman in the clan.”
“I’m about to bind myself to a man who sees me as a political necessity,” she whispered back.
“Is that what ye think?” Fraser’s dark eyes studied her face. “Then ye havenae been payin’ attention to the way he looks at ye when he thinks no one’s watchin’.”
