She led them through a connecting door to a smaller chamber. Eloise’s eyes went wide as she took in the heavy tapestries depicting Highland battles instead of pastoral English scenes, and the fur throws draped over chairs instead of delicate silk cushions.
“Are those real swords on the wall?” Eloise whispered, pointing to the weapons mounted above the mantle.
Francesca felt her heart clench as she watched the child’s face. Eloise’s lower lip trembled slightly as she pressed closer to Francesca’s side, clearly overwhelmed by how foreign everything appeared. This was so far removed from the gentle nursery shehad known in London, with its painted flowers and music boxes and soft watercolor paintings, the same one her mother and aunt had been raised in.
“Is this really where we’re going to live?” Eloise whispered, pressing even closer to Francesca, if that was possible.
“Yes, darling. This is our new home.” Francesca smoothed the child’s tangled curls, trying to sound confident despite her own fears.
“Will that big, scary man live here too?”
Betsy busied herself laying out fresh linens while Francesca chose her words carefully. “That was Laird MacGhee. He is… he will be my husband soon. And yes, this is his castle.”
“Will he be my papa then?” Eloise’s voice was so small, so hopeful, that Francesca’s throat tightened with emotion.
“We shall see, sweetheart. For now, let’s focus on getting you settled and warm.”
As Betsy helped Eloise wash in warm water, then prepare her for bed, the child peppered them both with questions. Was the castle very old? Were there ghosts? Why did the Laird look so stern? Would there be other children to play with?
Francesca answered as best she could while her mind churned with worry. Declan Blain had agreed to take them both in, but what did that truly mean? What would he expect of her?
“There now, wee one,” Betsy said softly as she tucked Eloise beneath the heavy quilts. “Ye’ll be safe and sound here. The Laird protects all who dwell within these walls.”
Within minutes, exhaustion claimed the child, and her breathing deepened into the peaceful rhythm of sleep. Francesca stood watching her for a long moment, this precious girl she’d do anything for. Even marry that ‘big, scary man’. She almost smiled at the description.
Her own traveling dress clung uncomfortably to her skin, damp from the rain and wrinkled after days of continuous wear. She desperately needed to change into something dry and proper, but first, she needed to ensure Eloise was truly settled. She could imagine how difficult this change was for the girl, because it was so difficult for Francesca that she had yet to fully grasp everything that had happened.
“Shall I help ye with yer things, Me Lady?” Betsy whispered, producing a nightgown that had been laid out on Eloise’s chair. “And perhaps draw ye a bath? Ye must be fair exhausted from yer journey.”
The prospect of warm water and clean clothes was almost overwhelming in its appeal. She would get clean first, let the panic about her situation consume her later. “That would be most welcome, thank you.”
She was just fastening the stays of a clean day dress—it was far simpler than her London gowns, but at least dry and unwrinkled—when the soft knock came at the door.
Betsy moved to answer it, and another maid stood in the doorway, her expression apologetic.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Me Lady, but the Laird requests yer presence in his study. I’m to escort ye there now.”
Francesca’s stomach clenched with dread. The reckoning had come. Whatever the Laird intended to say about their arrangement, about Eloise, about their future, she would hear it now.
She pressed a gentle kiss to Eloise’s forehead and went to the maid, her heart hammering against her ribs with each step.
“I am ready,” she said. She was most certainly not.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside made him straighten. A refined English voice, polished as silver, drifted through the heavy oak door.
“Thank you for showing me the way.”
He hardened his expression, schooling his features into the mask of cold authority that had served him well these past years. When the knock came, he did not move from his position by the fire.
“Enter.”
His bride stepped through the doorway with the grace of a woman born to drawing rooms and garden parties, and despite himself, he found his gaze drawn to her transformed appearance.
Gone was the bedraggled traveler from the courtyard. Her golden hair had been properly arranged, catching the firelight like spun silk, and her day dress, though simple by London standards, displayed her feminine curves perfectly. So perfectly, that he couldn’t help his gaze traveling down her body.
“I was informed you wanted to see me, My Laird.” She curtsied politely, matching the neutral tone in her voice with her expression.
But Declan hardly heard her quiet words. The swell of her breasts beneath the modest neckline and the way the fabric hugged her waist before flowing over her hips combined to create a picture that made his blood quicken in ways he had not expected.
