Rain was falling harder now, but he seemed utterly unbothered by it, moving with the fluid grace of a predator as he approached their small party. With each step, Francesca became more acutely aware of just how imposing he was. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze when he finally stopped before her.The scent of wild Highland air and something uniquely male sent an unwelcome shiver of awareness down her spineand made her breath come shorter.
“Lady Francesca Watson, I presume.” His voice carried the unmistakable burr of the Highlands, each word precisely enunciated despite the musical accent. “I am Declan Blain, Laird MacGhee.”
Her betrothed. The man who would be her husband. The man who looked as though he could crush her with one hand, yet whose deep voice sent an unexpected shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold rain.
“My Laird.” She managed a curtsy despite the mud and her exhaustion, painfully aware of how bedraggled she must appear after days of travel.
His storm-grey eyes swept over her with clinical assessment, revealing nothing of his thoughts. There was something cold and distant in his gaze, as if he were looking at a piece of cargo rather than his future bride. Not that she expected any different from a man that hadn’t even cared toseehis betrothed before offering to marry her.
She couldn’t do anything about it either. Beggars could not be choosers, people always said that, after all.
“Betsy will show ye to yer chambers,” he said curtly, bringing her attention back to him. He was already turning away. “Supper is served at eight.”
Was he dismissing them? Just like that? Well, she didn’t expect him to care much for them, but at least he could be…less rude!
“Wait.” The word escaped before she could stop it, desperation making her voice sharper than intended.
He paused, those intimidating eyes finding hers once more. “Aye?”
“My daughter.” She gestured toward the carriage where the coachman still waited. “She is asleep inside. She will need someone to carry her inside.”
“Yer… what?!” The words came out like thunder, low and dangerous. In an instant, his entire demeanor shifted from cold indifference to barely controlled fury as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “What did ye say, lass?”
Francesca’s heart lurched at the storm gathering in his expression. “A little girl… Eloise. She is nine years old, and she’s asleep in the carriage.”
“I was told nothin’ of ye arrivin’ with a child.” His voice was deadly quiet now, more terrifying than any shout. “Nothin’.”
The blood drained from her face. “But surely there has been some misunderstanding. My father assured me that you had been informed of all the… complexities of our arrangement.”
Had her father lied? Had he been so desperate to be rid of both her and Eloise that he had deliberately misled this Highland laird? Or had the communication simply failed to mention the most important detail of all?
“There has been no misunderstandin’, Lady Francesca.” Each word was clipped, precise, and filled with a cold rage that made her step backward instinctively. “I agreed to wed an English rose to secure certain… alliances. I didnae agree to take on another man’s bastard.”
The cruel words hit her with as much intensity as her parents’ cold rejection, but she forced herself to stand straighter. This cold, forbidding man would be her husband, but she would not let him intimidate her when it came to Eloise’s welfare.
“She is not a bastard. Not in the way you think, anyway,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled. “She is under my protection.”
They were still staring at each other, well, glaring might be more appropriate on his part, and she forced herself not to avert her gaze. If he was going to be her husband, they would be equals. Or maybe she had simply traded one form of captivity for another, bringing an innocent child into the bargain. In either case, she would not bow.
Declan’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the scar on his cheek. When he spoke, his voice was still dangerously quiet. “Yer father left that particular detail out of his correspondence. Every single letter spoke only of a marriage alliance. Not a word about a bairn.”
So her fatherhadlied.
“I… I had no idea.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “He told me you had been informed of everything.”
“Clearly, he was delusional.” The words dripped with ice.
Francesca’s mind raced. If the Laird hadn’t agreed to this, she couldn’t force him to protect them. Not that he would. He most likely would send her and Eloise as far away from his castle as possible. And he’d be right to do so. “Then we have no choice but to leave. Tonight, if you wish. We can forget this betrothal ever happened.”
“Leave?” His eyebrows rose, and something that might have been amusement flickered in those storm-grey eyes. “And go where, exactly?”
The question hung in the air like a sword. She had no answer because there was none. Her father had made it clear she was no longer welcome in his house, not with Eloise anyway. And she couldn’t be parted from the girl. It was also not sure that her aunt would agree to take them in. Her father probably hadn’t even informed the woman of the situation. They had nowhere to go.
“Are ye a widow?” His voice cut through her panicked thoughts.
“No.”
“Was the child born outside of wedlock?”
