“She was conceived outside of wedlock. But her parents got married before she was born.”
“Are ye her blood relation?”
“Yes.”
“Do ye have any other family who could take her?”
“No.”
“Have ye anywhere else to go?”
“No.”
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his large frame despite the cold rain. His presence was overwhelming, dominating the space between them until she felt as though she could barely breathe.
“I grow tired of yer monosyllabic answers, lass.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Do ye understand how dire yer situation truly is?”
Francesca swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his intimidating steel-grey gaze. “Yes.”
A small sound from the carriage made them both turn. Through the rain-streaked window, she could see that Eloise had awakened and was peering out at them with wide, curious eyes. The sight of that small, trusting face gave her the strength she needed.
She turned back to face this imposing Highland laird, lifting her chin with all the dignity she could muster. “Eloise is my late twin sister’s child, My Laird. She was orphaned over a year ago, and I have been raising her as my own ever since. She is innocent in all of this.”
She took a breath, steeling herself for his rejection. “But I understand if you feel the need to end our betrothal, especially since my father found it convenient not to tell you about her.”
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, those grey eyes searching her face as if trying to read her very soul. Rain continued to fall around them, soaking through her traveling clothes, but she refused to look away first.
He stepped even closer. His presence was overwhelming, making her feel small and feminine in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. She did look away after all.
“Ye’re a stubborn lass,” he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her chest. Without warning, his hand came up to cup her chin, tilting her face up to meet his intense gaze. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, the calloused pad rough against her soft skin. “I can see why ye’ve caused such trouble.”
The touch sent fire racing through her veins, and she had to fight not to lean into his hand. This close, she could see the flecks of silver in his storm-grey eyes and could feel his breath warm against her rain-chilled skin.
“Ye think ye can defy me, do ye?” His grip on her chin tightened just slightly, not painful, but just enough to show her he was in charge. “Think ye can stand there with that proud little chin raised and challenge a Highland laird?”
Her breath hitched at the dangerous promise in his voice and at the way his eyes had darkened as they dropped briefly to her lips before returning to meet her gaze.
When he spoke again, his voice carried a finality that made her knees weak.
“Ye’ll be mine, lass. And I will tame ye. No matter what.” He turned to the maid. “Betsy, take the new lady and the child to her chambers, and get them some warm water for bathing before they catch their deaths.”
With that, he left without sparing them a second glance.
3
“Come along then, Me Lady.” Betsy’s voice was gentle as she approached the carriage and helped Eloise get down. “Let’s get ye both inside where it’s warm and dry.”
Francesca gathered her skirts and followed the maid through the castle’s massive doors, Eloise’s small hand now clasped firmly in hers. The contrast to her father’s London estate was immediate and jarring.
Where Arcliff Hall boasted polished marble floors and crystal chandeliers, Castle MacGhee’s corridors were rough-hewn stone lit by flickering torches that cast wild shadows across the walls. The air smelled of peat smoke and something indefinably masculine, so different from the rose water and beeswax polish of home.
Her silk slippers, so appropriate for drawing rooms and ballrooms, felt absurdly delicate against the ancient flagstones.Everything here was built for function over beauty, for defense over decoration. These walls had clearly witnessed centuries of Highland warfare, not garden parties and afternoon tea.
“This is to be yer chamber, Me Lady,” Betsy said, pushing open a heavy wooden door. Inside, a spacious room greeted them, but again, how different it was from her elegant chambers at home. The furniture was solid, practical Highland oak rather than delicate mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
A large four-poster bed dominated the space, its frame carved with Celtic knots rather than the refined classical motifs she was accustomed to. The fireplace was massive, built to heat a room during harsh Highland winters rather than merely provide ambiance.
“And the wee one’s room is just through here.”
