“Apology accepted,” Francesca said before Declan could speak. “Thank you for your concern.”
They spent hours in the village, watching Eloise slowly relax as people showed her kindness. She played with the puppies,accepted sweets from the baker, and even laughed when one of the village children tried to teach her a Highland dance.
“Look at her,” Francesca whispered, standing close to Declan’s side. “She’s smiling again.”
“Aye.” He wrapped his arm around her waist, no longer caring who saw the affection between them. “Ye were right. She needed this.”
“We all needed this.” She leaned into him. “To remember there’s still good in the world.”
As the sun began to set, they gathered Eloise and started back toward the castle. The child chattered the entire way, full of stories about the puppies and the bannocks and how one of the village girls had promised to teach her more Highland dances.
“Can we come back soon?” she asked as Castle MacGhee came into view. “I liked it there.”
“Aye, lass. We’ll come back often.” Declan found himself smiling at her enthusiasm. “Maybe next time we’ll stay longer. Show ye more of MacGhee lands.”
“And can Bluebell come? I think he’d like to meet the puppies.”
“I think the puppies might eat Bluebell,” Francesca said with a laugh. “But we’ll see.”
That night, after Eloise had finally fallen asleep in her own bed, a victory in itself, Declan and Francesca retreated to his chamber. She moved into his arms immediately, and he held her close, breathing in the lavender scent that had become as necessary as air.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.
“For what?”
“For loving her. For loving us. For becoming the man I always knew you could be.”
“I’m nae there yet.”
“Yes, you are.” She pulled back to look at him. “You’re gentle with her when she’s frightened. Patient when she has nightmares. You include her in everything, make her feel valued and loved. That’s the man you are, Declan. Not in spite of being a laird but because of it.”
“She makes it easy.” He traced her face with gentle fingers. “Both of ye do. I have everythin’ that makes a man happy. Me wife. Me daughter. Me family.”
“Your family,” she repeated, smiling against his lips. “I like the sound of that.”
“So do I, lass. So do I.”
Francesca’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “I know you’re afraid of being weak. But loving someone doesn’t make you weak. It makes you stronger. It gives you something to fight for beyond obligation or honor. Don’t you see? Your father wasn’t weak because he loved your mother. He was weak because he gave up after she died. But you—you would never give up. Not on me. Not on Eloise. Not on this family we’ve built.”
Her words cracked open something he’d kept locked away for years, and something in him snapped.
His mouth crashed down on hers with weeks of pent-up hunger. She made a small sound of surprise that quickly became a moan as she melted against him, her arms winding around his neck.
His hands roamed her back, her waist, pulling her flush against him until there was no space between them. She arched into him, her fingers tangling in his hair as she kissed him back with equal fervor.
“Declan,” she gasped when he moved to her neck, pressing hot kisses along the column of her throat. “Please?—”
“Tell me to stop.” His hands found the laces of her gown, fingers working them loose even as he gave her the chance to refuse. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
The laces gave way. His hands slid inside, finding warm skin, and she shivered at his touch. Her own hands pushed at his shirt, tugging it free from his plaid, fingers exploring the planes of his chest with increasing boldness.
A sharp knock at the door made them both freeze.
“Me Laird?” Betsy’s voice was apologetic but urgent. “I’m sorry to disturb ye, but there’s a messenger from Clan MacLeod. Says it cannae wait till mornin’.”
Declan dropped his forehead to Francesca’s shoulder, his breathing ragged as he fought for control. “Tell him I’ll be there in a moment.”
