“What? It’s true! Have ye seen the other lairds? Old MacKenzie is twice yer age and half as tall as his own wife. Young Finlay is handsome enough, but daft as a post. And daenae even get me started on the Campbell—he’s got the personality of wet wool.” She leaned closer. “But our laird? Now there’s a man built like a mountain and sharp as a blade. Those eyes alone could make a woman forget her own name.”
“Krista, that’s highly inappropriate.”
“Is it inappropriate if it’s true?” The maid grinned unrepentantly.
Francesca’s cheeks burned. “You’re very observant.”
“I’m a maid, Me Lady. Being observant is half the job.” Krista finished with her hair and stepped back to admire her work. “The other half is knowin’ when to speak and when to keep silent. And right now, I’m telling ye what I see—a man and woman who want each other but are too busy fightin’ themselves to just admit it.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Love usually is.” Krista began tidying up. “But that doesnae mean it’s nae worth fightin’ for.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“Nobody. Yet.” Krista paused at the door. “But mark me words, Me Lady. The way that man looks at ye? That’s nae just duty. That’s nae just wantin’ an heir. That’s a man who’s fallin’ whether he knows it or nae.”
After Krista left, Francesca sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes bright with something she was afraid to name.
The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. Because if they were both falling, if this was becomingsomething more than a marriage of convenience, then everything became more complicated.
She touched her lips, remembering the heat of his mouth, the desperate edge to his kiss. Whatever walls he’d built around his heart, they were crumbling. She could feel it in the way he touched her, see it in the way he looked at Eloise.
The question was whether he’d let them fall completely or whether he’d rebuild them higher and stronger than before.
A soft knock made her turn. “Come in.”
Betsy poked her head through the door. “Just checkin’ ye had everythin’ ye needed, Me Lady. Eloise is settled and already half-asleep.”
“Thank you, Betsy. I’m fine.”
“Good.” The maid hesitated. “If I may say so, Me Lady, ye look happy tonight. Happier than I’ve seen ye since ye arrived.”
“Do I?”
“Aye. Like a woman who’s found somethin’ she’d been searchin’ for even when she did not ken that she was lookin’.” Betsy smiled warmly. “It suits ye.”
After Betsy withdrew, Francesca returned to her reflection.
Happy. Me?
She did feel happy, despite the confusion and uncertainty. Despite Declan’s walls and her own fears. Because for the first time in her life, she felt like she might actually belong here. Like this cold stone castle might become a home. Like the brooding laird and his loyal clan might become her family.
She climbed into bed, knowing sleep would be elusive. She knew the truth—nothing about Declan would ever be clear or simple or easy.
And somehow, that made her want him even more.
17
Francesca stood in Eloise’s doorway, her heart doing that complicated flutter it always did when she watched the child at peace. Both kittens were curled in Eloise’s arms—Declan, the grey one, purring loudly, and Flora, the orange tabby, kneading tiny paws against the blanket. At the foot of the bed, Bluebell dozed in his customary spot, white ears twitching occasionally in rabbit dreams.
“Are you ready for sleep, darling?”
“Almost.” Eloise stroked Declan the kitten’s grey fur. “I was just telling them about today. About the river and the stones.”
“Were you?” Francesca settled on the edge of the bed. “And what did they think?”
“Flora thinks Laird MacGhee is very clever for skipping twelve stones. Declan the kitten thinks he could do better if hehad thumbs.” Eloise’s face grew serious. “Do you think Laird MacGhee had fun today?”
