But as they continued down the path, he was acutely aware of her riding beside him.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the pine trees, dappling the forest floor with golden light that caught in her dark hair, making it gleam like polished mahogany. She’d worn her green riding habit today—the one that brought out the color of her eyes and hugged her figure in ways that made concentration impossible. The fabric had pulled slightly askew during their near-fall, revealing a glimpse of her collarbone and the rapid pulse beating at the base of her throat.
The horses’ hooves clopped steadily against the packed earth, a rhythmic counterpoint to the birds calling from the canopy above. A cool breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying the scent of heather from the moors beyond and the richer, earthier smell of the forest. In the distance, he could see the grey stone towers of Castle MacGhee rising above the tree line, solid and imposing against the darkening sky.
She kept glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her fingers worrying at the reins with a slight tremor. The flush that hadn’t quite faded from her cheeks made her look younger somehow, more vulnerable. Her mare walked close enough that occasionally their legs nearly brushed, separated only by the few inches of space and the leather of their boots.
She feels it too.
Eloise stirred against Francesca’s chest, mumbling something unintelligible before settling back into sleep. The movementdrew his attention to the way Francesca held the child—one arm wrapped protectively around her small body, the other managing the reins with practiced ease despite her obvious distraction. Her dark cloak had fallen open, revealing the crisp white of her chemisette beneath the riding habit’s fitted jacket.
“The flower,” she said suddenly, breaking the charged silence. A hint of amusement crept into her voice despite the tension still thrumming between them. “It’s still in your hair.”
He reached up automatically, his fingers finding the delicate bloom still tucked behind his ear where Eloise had placed it. He should remove it—he looked ridiculous, a grown man wearing flowers like some lovesick fool.
But Francesca was watching him with those green eyes, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and he found himself leaving it exactly where it was.
The path widened as they emerged from the forest, opening onto the moorland that stretched toward the castle. The heather was in full bloom, painting the landscape in shades of purple and pink that seemed to glow in the fading light. His stallion tossed its head, eager to be home, and beside him, Francesca’s mare nickered softly.
The way she kept glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The slight tremor in her hands on the reins. The flush that hadn’t quite faded from her cheeks.
She feels it too.
“I’ll take her,” he said, holding out his hand to carry Eloise’s. Her small body was warm and trusting in his arms. “Ye’ve been holdin’ her for hours. Let me.”
Something softened in Francesca’s expression as she watched him cradle the sleeping child. “You’re good with her.”
“She’s easy to be good to.”
“Still. Thank you. For today. For…” She gestured vaguely. “All of it.”
“It was just stone skippin’.”
“It was more than that.” Her eyes held his. “You know it was.”
He did know. Just like he knew being here with her child in his arms and the memory of her body pressed against his was dangerous territory. Just like he knew the flower still tucked behind his ear made him look ridiculous, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to remove it.
16
“Enter.”
Declan had made it precisely three steps into his study when the knock came. Soft, hesitant, utterly unlike the confident raps of his men or the efficient taps of his staff.
The door cracked open, and a small blonde head peeked through, followed by white ears and a twitching nose.
“Laird MacGhee?” Eloise’s voice was small, testing. “Are you very busy?”
“Aye, I am.” He gestured to the papers scattered across his desk. “These accounts willnae balance themselves.”
“Oh.” Her face fell, but she didn’t retreat. “It’s just that Betsy is looking for me, and I really don’t want a bath tonight. I had one yesterday.”
“Yesterday was two days ago, lass.”
“Was it?” She edged further into the room. Bluebell clutched against her chest. “It felt like yesterday.”
Declan recognized a delaying tactic when he saw one. “Baths are important. Keeps ye healthy.”
“But Bluebell hasn’t had a bath in weeks, and he’s perfectly healthy.” She took another step closer. “And he smells much better than me, so really, what’s the point?”
