“Declan.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, to show no fear even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
He crossed to the fire, putting distance between them. “We need to discuss the sleepin’ arrangements.”
Confusion and disappointment warred in her chest. “I thought you said you need an heir.”
“I ken what I said.” He ran a hand through his hair, destroying its careful arrangement. “About producin’ an heir. About the conditions of our marriage. But I’ll nae share yer bed. Nae yet.”
The rejection stung more than it should have. “I see. But you said two months.”
“I ken what I said!” The words came out more as a growl, and she saw him visibly rein in his temper.
Francesca studied him carefully, trying to decipher whether this was kindness or simply another form of control. “So what are you suggesting?”
“We’ll consummate the marriage at some point,” he said bluntly. “It is expected. But I’ll nae share yer chamber after that.”
“I remember your conditions,” she said quietly. “No love. No feelings. Just duty and heirs.”
“Aye.” But she wasn’t sure if his words were as sincere as he wanted them to sound.
They stood in silence, the fire crackling between them, neither quite willing to bridge the distance. Finally, Declan moved toward the door.
“I’ll give ye time to prepare, daenae wait up for me.”
When the door closed behind him, Francesca sank onto the bed, her emotions a tangled mess. Relief that he wasn’t treating this as nothing more than an obligation. Hurt that he still maintained such a careful distance. And beneath it all, a treacherous warmth at his unexpected consideration.
“More porridge, wee one?”
Francesca watched as Betsy fussed over Eloise at the breakfast table, the normalcy of the scene almost jarring after last night’s intensity.
Now, Declan sat at the head of the table, methodically working through his breakfast as if nothing monumental had occurred.
“Aunt Francesca, are you listening?”
She startled at Eloise’s question, heat flooding her cheeks at being caught in such thoughts. “I’m sorry, darling. What did you say?”
“I said Bluebell found a new hiding spot behind the tapestry in my chamber!” Eloise’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Fraser says he’s the cleverest rabbit in all of Scotland.”
“Is he now?” Francesca smiled despite her tangled emotions, reaching for the teapot. She poured herself a cup, then noticed Declan’s empty one sitting before him.
Without thinking, she reached across and filled his cup as well, a wifely gesture so natural it surprised them both.
His grey eyes lifted to meet hers, lingering on her hands in a way that made her pulse quicken. For a heartbeat, she saw heat flare in those storm-cloud depths before he looked away sharply, jaw clenching.
“Thank ye,” he muttered, his voice deep and rough.
Fraser cleared his throat pointedly from across the table, his dark eyes dancing with barely concealed amusement. “So, cousin, what are yer plans for today?”
“Patrols need checkin’. The southern boundary fence needs repair.” Declan’s response was clipped, professional. “And I’ll be meetin’ with the elders about next season’s plantin’. But for now, just take a rest.”
“Sounds rivetin’,” Fraser drawled. “I’m sure yer new bride is thrilled to hear about fence posts and turnip crops.”
Declan shot him a warning look that would have made lesser men reconsider their life choices. Fraser merely grinned wider.
Francesca hid her smile behind her teacup, grateful for Fraser’s attempts to lighten the oppressive tension. Several of the castle staff had found reasons to hover near the breakfast table, smoothing already pristine linens, adjusting perfectly arranged flowers, all while sneaking glances at their Laird and his new wife.
They’re watching for signs of unity. Proof that this marriage is real.
She caught Declan’s gaze again and saw the same awareness in his eyes. They were performing for an audience, and they both knew it. In this, it was no different than life in London.
