He gave a faint, humorless smile at that, his gaze steady upon hers. “Ye’ll find I offer what’s needed, nae what’s expected,” he said.
The words lingered between them, sharp and unyielding.
Eloise huffed softly, turning her face away for a moment before muttering, “Aye, that much I’ve already learned.”
“Is that why ye blush?” he asked.
“Och, I daenae blush,” she lied.
He smirked. “If ye say so. I will announce our betrothal at supper. I expect ye to look the part and nae in tattered rags as ye were last night. Lookin' like an urchin.”
He made his way to the door.
“Och! How dare…” she grabbed a cushion from the chair and flung it at him. But it hit the door with a soft thud as he had already stepped out and closed the door behind him.
An urchin…. I'll show him.
The great hall glowed with firelight and noise when Eloise stepped through its doors, yet the moment she crossed the threshold, the sound faltered and dimmed.
Conversations died mid-sentence, heads turned, and a hundred curious eyes settled upon her as if she were something rare, or dangerous. Her breath caught, though she kept her posture straight, her chin lifted just enough to mask the unease stirring within.
Keep yer head high. Act the part.
The gown Fiona had chosen clung softly to her form, the deep green catching the light and drawing out the green of her eyes, her hair braided with care and pinned to show her face. For a fleeting moment, she considered turning back, but the thoughtvanished as James appeared before her, solid and unyielding as ever.
Without a word, he took her hand, his grip firm and certain, and led her forward through the parted crowd. Heat rushed through her at the contact, startling in its intensity, though she gave no outward sign as she followed him toward the dais.
Can he feel me heart poundin'?
At the high table, he released her hand only to turn and face the gathered clan, his presence commanding silence once more.
“This is Miss Eloise Whitmore,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the hall, “and she is me betrothed.”
The words fell like a stone into still water, rippling outward into murmurs of confusion and disbelief. Eloise felt her stomach drop, her pulse quickening as the weight of their attention sharpened. No one spoke at first, the silence stretching thin and uncertain.
Then, abruptly, Callum loudly clap. “Well, then!” he called, grinning broadly, “to the Laird and his bonnie bride.”
A few others joined in, hesitant at first, then louder, until the tension broke into scattered cheers of, “to the Laird and his bonnie bride.”
Eloise inclined her head slightly, offering the faintest smile, though inside her thoughts raced without mercy.
They’ll never accept this. It’s too sudden, too strange…too false.
Yet she forced her shoulders to remain steady, her expression calm, as James guided her to sit beside him. The noise of the hall resumed, though it felt different now, edged with curiosity and quiet speculation. She folded her hands neatly before her, aware of every glance cast in her direction. This was no longer a quiet refuge, it was a stage, and she stood at its center whether she wished it or not.
Anythin' is better than Drummond.
“Ye look… well,” James said at last, his voice low enough that only she could hear, though it held that same measured restraint.
Eloise turned her head slightly, studying him, her brow lifting just a fraction.
“I look… well?” she repeated, her tone cool, though a spark of irritation flickered beneath it. “Is that all?”
He did not answer, his gaze fixed ahead as though the matter required no further comment. She let out a quiet breath, her annoyance rising at his refusal. Fiona had taken such care, braiding her hair, choosing the gown, ensuring every detail wasjust so, and for him to dismiss it so plainly stung more than she cared to admit.
Why do I care what he thinks?
“So I am better than an urchin, then?” she pressed, her voice edged now, though still soft enough to remain between them.
