Eloise pouted then turned to Declan, clutching Bluebell tighter, clearly gearing up for protest, but something in his expression must have convinced her. “Goodnight, Laird MacGhee.” She gave a solemn little wave before trudging toward the door, rabbit in tow, and then she stopped.
“Will you read to me tonight? After my bath?”
The request caught him off guard. His tone was deliberately flat when he responded. “I cannae.”
“Please? Aunt Francesca always reads to me, and maybe you could? Just once?”
He looked at Francesca helplessly, but she just smiled, offering no rescue. “That’s up to Laird MacGhee, darling.”
“Aye,” he heard himself say. “I’ll read to ye. After yer bath.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Eloise beamed, then threw her free arm around his leg in a quick hug before scampering back toward the door. “Thank you! You’re the best!” She paused in the doorway. “Come on, Aunt Francesca. You can help Betsy make sure I scrub behind my ears.”
“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.”
The door closed behind Eloise, leaving them alone. Francesca stood in the middle of his study, worrying that bottom lip again in a way that made him want to cross the room and kiss her senseless.
“I apologize for the interruption.” Her fingers twisted together. “She’s gotten quite attached to you.”
“It’s fine. There’s nay need to apologize.” He remained behind his desk, not trusting himself to get closer. “She’s a good lassie.”
“She is.” Francesca took a step toward him, then stopped. “Thank you. For being kind to her. For letting her sit with you even when you’re busy. It means more than you know.”
The praise made him uncomfortable. Her words hung between them, heavy with implication.
“Francesca.”
“I should go.” She turned toward the door too quickly, clearing her throat. “I’d better make sure Eloise goes to her chamber and not to another hiding place.”
Another beat of loaded silence, then she was gone, leaving him alone with his accounts and the lingering scent of lavender and the uncomfortable realization that he’d just promised to read bedtime stories.
But as he returned to his desk and the boring monotony of numbers, he couldn’t quite regret it. The weight of Eloise in his lap had felt right. The look in Francesca’s eyes had made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t experienced in years.
And maybe, just maybe, Fraser was right. Maybe the real weakness wasn’t in letting himself care. Maybe it was in fighting so hard against the inevitable.
Francesca found Betsy scrubbing Eloise in the copper tub, the child protesting every moment while Bluebell watched from a safe distance.
“I’m here,” Francesca announced. “How bad is it?”
“She’s threatened to run away three times and compared bathin’ to medieval torture twice.” Betsy’s tone was exasperated but fond. “Other than that, perfectly well.”
“I wasn’t threatening,” Eloise protested as Betsy scrubbed at her hair and poured water to rinse off the soap. “I was simply stating facts. People died from too much bathing in medieval times.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Fraser told me. He knows everything about medieval times.”
“Fraser,” Francesca muttered, “is a terrible influence.”
“He’s wonderful!” Eloise’s indignation was immediate. “He tells the best stories. And he said Laird MacGhee used to hate baths too when he was little.”
“Did he now?”
“Mmm. Said his mother had to chase him around the castle to get him in the tub.” Eloise giggled at the mental image. “Can you imagine? Laird MacGhee being little and naughty? Anddirty?”
