“Maybe.” She grinned up at him. “Fraser says you once got fifteen skips. I want to see if it’s true.”
Declan weighed the stone in his hand, aware of both Eloise and Francesca watching him. He wound up and released, watching the stone dance across the water’s surface. One, two, three, four... the skips blurred together until finally it sank near the far shore.
“Twelve!” Eloise counted excitedly. “That was twelve skips! You’re amazing!”
“Not fifteen,” he pointed out, but he was pleased despite himself.
“Close enough.” She picked a wildflower from the riverbank and held it up to him with solemn ceremony. “I crown you the best stone skipper in all of Scotland. You have to wear this, so everyone knows.”
“Eloise.”
“You have to! It’s the rules!”
He looked at Francesca helplessly, but she was laughing too hard to rescue him. “I believe you’ve been coronated, My Laird. Best accept your crown with grace.”
Sighing, Declan bent down so Eloise could tuck the flower behind his ear. Her small fingers were gentle, her face scrunched in concentration as she positioned it just so.
“There! Now you look proper noble.” She stepped back to admire her handiwork, then giggled. “Aunt Francesca, isn’t he handsome?”
“Very handsome,” Francesca agreed, and something in her voice made Declan’s pulse quicken. “Quite the Highland warrior with his flower crown.”
“Mock all ye want,” he said, straightening, “but I earned this crown through superior skill and athleticism.”
“Superior modesty too, apparently.”
“That goes without sayin’.”
Their eyes met across the space between them, and for a moment, the teasing faded into something deeper. Something that made his breath catch and his carefully maintained control start to crumble.
“We should head back,” he said roughly, breaking the moment before it could become something more. “It’ll be dark soon.”
The ride back was quieter; Eloise was tired from her exertions and half-dozing against Francesca. Declan rode slightly ahead, trying not to think about how right this felt, the three of them together, away from the castle and its expectations, just… a family.
He was so lost in thought that he almost didn’t notice when Francesca’s horse shied suddenly, spooked by a rabbit darting across the path. She gasped, one arm tightening around Eloise while the other fought for the reins.
Declan reacted on instinct, his hand shooting out to grab her horse’s bridle and pull the animal to a stop. His other arm went around Francesca’s waist, steadying her even as she regained control.
“Easy,” he murmured, not sure if he was talking to the horse or to her. “I’ve got ye.”
For a long moment, they stayed frozen like that, his arm around her, her body pressed against his side, both of them breathing hard. He could feel her heart racing and could smell that damned lavender scent that haunted his dreams.
Heat flooded through him, sharp and immediate, desire coiling low in his belly as he became acutely aware of every point where their bodies touched. The soft curve of her waist beneath his palm, the way her breasts rose and fell with each breath, the warmth of her seeping through the layers of fabric between them—it all made him want to pull her closer, to taste that mouth that was so dangerously close to his own. His grip tightened reflexively, and he felt her shiver in response, which only made the wanting worse.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and her voice shook. Not with fear, he realized. With something else entirely.
He should let go. Should put a proper distance between them. Should remember all the reasons he’d been avoiding exactly this kind of proximity.
Instead, his arm tightened fractionally, holding her against him for one heartbeat longer than necessary. Her eyes met his, wide and dark with awareness, and he saw his own hunger reflected back at him.
“Declan.”
“Are ye hurt?” His voice came out rougher than intended. “Either of ye?”
“No, we’re fine.” She looked down at Eloise, who had barely stirred against her chest, the child’s small hands still clutching her riding habit. “Just startled.”
He forced himself to release her, to put distance between them, even though every instinct screamed to pull her closer. To hell with the flower in his hair and the sleeping child and the middle of the bloody path. He wanted to kiss her until neither of them could think straight.
“We should get back to the castle,” he managed, his jaw tight as he gathered his stallion’s reins. The beast shifted beneath him, still skittish from the commotion. “Before somethin’ else spooks the horses.”
