The cottage sat at the edge of the village square, smoke curling from its chimney in lazy spirals. An old woman greeted themwith obvious delight, ushering them inside where a basket of tiny kittens mewed by the hearth.
“Oh!” Francesca dropped to her knees beside the basket, her face lighting up with a smile that made Declan’s chest tight. “They’re precious.”
“Aye, bonnie wee things,” she agreed. “The grey one’s the boldest, always first to the milk. The orange tabby is gentler, likes her cuddles.”
Francesca carefully lifted both kittens, cradling them against her chest with obvious tenderness. “Eloise will adore them. She’ll probably name them within minutes of seeing them.”
“Ye’ll spoil the child,” Declan found himself saying, the words escaping before he could stop them. “Coddlin’ her at every turn.”
Francesca’s head snapped up, her green eyes flashing with sudden fire. “I can raise my daughter however I see fit, thank you.”
“She’s nae yer daughter.”
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and cutting. Declan saw the exact moment they struck home, watched the color drain from Francesca’s face, and watched hurt and fury war in her expression.
Ye bloody fool. Why did ye say that?
“Francesca, I—” he began, but the first drops of rain against the cottage windows cut him off.
“We should go,” Francesca said cooly, wrapping the kittens in her shawl with shaking hands. “Before the storm worsens.”
They barely made it out of the cottage before the heavens opened. Rain came down in sheets, soaking them within seconds as Declan grabbed Francesca’s arm and pulled her toward the village inn.
“Inside!” he shouted over the roar of the storm, practically dragging her through the inn’s door.
The innkeeper took one look at them, drenched and dripping on his clean floors, and immediately offered them his best room. “For the Laird and his Lady. I’ll have hot water sent up, and I can take those wee beasties to the kitchen. Me cook will see them fed and warm by the fire.”
Francesca surrendered the kittens without argument, her face set in lines of cold fury as she climbed the narrow stairs. The room was simple with a bed, a fireplace, and a washstand, but it was clean.
His wife moved immediately to the hearth, wringing water from her sodden skirts with hands that trembled slightly. Whether from cold or anger, Declan couldn’t tell. He was very aware of how the wet fabric of her riding habit clung to every curve, outlining a body he couldn’t look away from. He clenched his jaw, then his fists. Anything to stop himself.
“Francesca.”
“Don’t.” She didn’t turn to face him. “Just don’t.”
But he couldn’t stay silent. Not when he could see the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she held herself like she might shatter at any moment.
“What I said was cruel,” he began, moving closer despite knowing it was unwise. “I shouldnae have.”
“You spoke the truth.” Her voice was flat, emotionless. “I didn’t give birth to Eloise. She isn’t my daughter by blood. Is that what bothers you? That I dare claim a child who isn’t mine? Because I recall you saying something very similar when you defended us at that ceilidh.”
“Nay, that’s nae it.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. Two servants entered with a large copper tub, followed by several more carrying steaming buckets of water. They worked efficiently, filling the bath while studiously avoiding looking at either the Laird or his Lady. When they finished, the innkeeper’s wife appeared with clean linens and a drying cloth.
“There’s a robe here if ye need it. Ye can set yer clothes by the fire to dry, Me Lady,” she said kindly.
When the door closed behind them, an awkward silence settled over the room. Steam rose from the bath, filling the small space with warmth and moisture.
“Ye should bathe first,” Declan said gruffly, turning toward the window to give her privacy. “Before ye catch yer death.”
“And you?” Her voice was still cold, but he heard something else beneath it now—exhaustion, perhaps. “You’re just as soaked as I am.”
“I’ll manage.”
He heard the rustle of wet fabric, the soft sound of her unlacing her riding habit. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to look, to touch, but he forced himself to stare fixedly at the rain-streaked window. The sound of water sloshing as she stepped into the tub nearly undid his resolve.
“You can turn around now,” she said after a moment. “I’m decent.”
