After, they lay tangled together, his head on her breast, her fingers trailing through his hair.
“I never knew it could be like this,” she whispered. “That I could feel this safe, this loved.”
“Neither did I.” He pressed a kiss to her skin. “But now that I ken it, I’ll never let it go. Never let ye go.”
“Promise?”
“On me life, lass. On me life.”
They drifted toward sleep, wrapped in each other and contentment. Francesca felt herself floating in that space between waking and dreams, perfectly happy, perfectly at peace.
Then her stomach lurched.
She went very still, recognizing the sensation from before—from when Violet had been pregnant. The subtle queasiness that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with new life.
“Francesca?” Declan had felt her tense. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She forced herself to relax against him. “Nothing at all.”
But as she pressed her hand to her stomach, she knew. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
Their family was about to grow once more.
25
“Ye’re doin’ it all wrong, Me Lady.”
Francesca looked up from the dough she’d been attempting to knead, finding the old cook watching her with barely concealed amusement. The castle kitchens bustled around them, filled with the warmth of ovens and the chatter of servants preparing the evening meal.
“Show me again?” Francesca asked, not the least bit embarrassed.
“Aye, like this.” Morag’s weathered hands demonstrated the proper folding technique. “Ye push, fold, turn. Push, fold, turn. There’s a rhythm to it, see?”
Francesca mimicked the motion, feeling the dough begin to cooperate under her hands. “Like this?”
“Better! Yer learnin’, Me Lady. Soon ye’ll be makin’ bannocks as good as any Highland woman.”
“I wouldnae go that far,” Krista called from across the kitchen, grinning. “But she’s improvin’, that’s certain.”
“The Laird must be pleased,” Morag said, a knowing glint in her eye. “Havin’ a wife who wants to ken our ways.”
Francesca felt warmth spread through her chest. It had been her idea to spend time in the kitchens, learning traditional Highland cooking. Not because Declan expected it—he’d seemed genuinely baffled when she’d announced her intention—but because she wanted to. These were her people now. This was her home.
“Aye, he’s fair besotted with her,” Krista agreed. “Ye should see the way he looks at Her Ladyship when he thinks no one’s watchin’. Like she hung the moon and stars just for him.”
“Krista!” Francesca felt her cheeks heat.
“What? It’s true!” The maid laughed. “And we’re all glad of it. The Laird’s been a different man since ye came. Happier. More patient with the clan’s squabbles.”
“He smiles now,” Morag added sagely. “That’s how we ken ye’re good for him, Me Lady. He smiles.”
One hour later, Francesca walked through the village with Eloise, a basket over her arm. They’d come to deliver herbs to the healer and check on the blacksmith’s wife, who’d recently given birth to twins. Two guards stood close by, while several others mingled discreetly among the people, keeping a close eye on Francesca and Eloise.
“Ma?” Eloise tugged on her hand.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why are we bringin’ herbs to Mistress MacKay?”
