The problem is that he doesn’twantto be looking at me like that, she wanted to say, but it didn’t matter. Fraser would not understand. She didn’t even understand it herself, and God knows she had tried really hard to. She had been thinking about it every moment of every day since their kiss.
They reached the chapel doors. The ancient stones seemed to pulse with centuries of MacGhee history—births, deaths, and marriages that had shaped the clan’s destiny. Now, she would become part of that legacy for better or worse.
Declan stood at the altar in full Highland dress, the MacGhee tartan draped across his broad shoulders, his dark hair combed back from his face. The formal attire did nothing to soften his raw masculine presence. If anything, it emphasized the powerful lines of his body, the way the wool stretched across his chest, the strength in his legs visible beneath the kilt.
He’s magnificent.
The thought came unbidden as Fraser led her down the narrow aisle, and with it came a flood of heat that had nothing to do with how nervous she felt. She remembered the feel of his hands on her waist again, and the way his grey eyes had darkened with barely restrained desire. It sent a shiver through her that made her stumble slightly.
Declan’s gaze locked onto hers, and the intensity there stole her breath. His eyes traced over her slowly, possessively, as though he were already unwrapping her from the gown. The corner ofhis mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smirk, almost as though he read every wicked thought racing through her mind.
Her pulse quickened.
Tonight, there will be no interruptions, no reason to avoid each other. Just the two of us. Will you demand I fulfill my wifely duties?
Francesca found that the thought set her heart in a flutter that was difficult to press down. Eloise sat in the front row, the child’s face bright with excitement despite the solemnity of the occasion. She waved enthusiastically, and Francesca smiled at her.
Then, the next moment, she was standing beside Declan, and Fraser was stepping back to join the witnesses. The priest began the ceremony in a mixture of English and Gaelic that washed over her like Highland mist. She caught phrases here and there—binding,honor,clan—but mostly she was aware of Declan’s presence beside her, solid as the castle stones.
“Do ye, Declan Blain, Laird of Clan MacGhee, take this woman as yer lawful wife?”
“I do.” His voice carried absolute certainty, echoing off the ancient walls.
“And do ye, Francesca Watson, take this man as yer lawful husband?”
Her mouth went dry.
“I do,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Declan’s hand found hers, his calloused palm warm against her trembling fingers. The priest wrapped a length of MacGhee tartan around their joined hands, binding them together with ancient tradition.
“What is bound here cannae be undone,” the priest’s weathered voice rang out through the chapel. “Before God and clan, ye are one. Ye may kiss yer bride, Laird MacGhee.”
Declan turned to face her fully, his grey eyes dark with an intensity that made her heart flutter. His hand moved up to cup her jaw, tilting her face to his, and the possessiveness made her breath catch.
His lips, when they claimed hers, were firm, just as she expected. The kiss was brief enough to be proper yet thorough enough to remind her of the passionate kiss they’d shared just nights before.
Heat raced through her veins, her body responding instinctively to his touch even as the clan elders watched. When he pulled back, she saw the same tension in his jaw, the same war between duty and desire that had plagued them since her arrival. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, and the promise in his eyes made her knees weak.
“I present to ye,” the priest announced to the assembled witnesses, “Declan and Francesca Blain, the Laird and Lady MacGhee.”
The clan elders rose as one, their voices joining in a traditional Gaelic blessing she didn’t understand but felt in her bones. Then Eloise was rushing forward, throwing her arms around Francesca’s waist.
“This was a great wedding. Everyone says so. But now the guests have gone, and ye must be tired. Come, Me Lady. Let’s get ye ready for bed.”
Betsy led her to her chamber through the castle’s shadowy corridors with Declan following behind, no longer just her room but the Lady’s chamber now. Fresh flowers adorned the mantle, and someone had lit a cheerful fire despite the mild evening.
“Will ye be needin’ help with the gown?” Betsy asked gently.
Francesca nodded, unable to trust her voice. She had barely had time to see her new husband with all the guests trying to catch their attention, and she had been almost grateful for that, but now she was acutely aware of his presence. The maid’s practiced fingers made quick work of the buttons and laces, soon leaving her in nothing but a thin chemise that suddenly felt far too revealing.
“Leave us,” Declan said with authority.
“Aye, Me Laird.” The maid curtsied quickly and slipped out, leaving Francesca alone with her husband.
He still wore his wedding finery, though he’d removed the formal jacket. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing the strong column of his throat, and his dark hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that made her fingers itch to push it back.
“Francesca.” Her name on his lips sent shivers down her spine.
