For a moment, neither moved. His hand lifted, hesitating just short of her arm, as though testing a boundary he had sworn not to cross. His eyes locked onto hers. It held there for a quiet moment.
What does she want from me?
“Do ye test me,” he said, his voice rougher now.
“Do ye attempt to infuriate me?” she replied.
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. “A dangerous combination of questions,” he said.
“And yet ye invited me to dine with ye, alone,” she said softly.
“Aye,” he admitted. “I did.” The distance between them seemed to vanish entirely, the argument dissolving into something far more uncertain.
“This is a mistake, being together like this,” she whispered, though she did not move away.
“Aye,” he agreed, his voice thick with desire.
The moment stretched, fragile and charged, before he exhaled sharply and stepped back, breaking it himself.
“We’ve strayed from the point,” he said.
“What do ye mean by that?” she said.
James looked at her. His eyes moved to her lips, down to neck, and the creamy skin of her bosom as her chest heaved.
“I willnae say what I’m truly thinkin', for I have me honor,” he said.
He turned and marched out of the room.
This is wrong. I must nae be alone with her. I daenae ken how long I can restrain meself.
The next day, he met with the council. James sat at the long table in the stone chamber, though the voices around him felt distant, as if carried through water. Maps and ledgers lay spread before the lairds and councilmen, but his attention drifted again and again to Eloise.
He hated the way she intruded on his thoughts so easily now, uninvited and persistent.
Gregory’s voice cut through the haze, sharp enough to pull him back into the present.
“We were blindsided by this sudden betrothal,” the councilman said, leaning forward with clear displeasure. “An unknown woman brought into the heart of Calibroch without proper consultation.”
“She is nae unknown,” James said firmly, his voice calm but edged. He straightened slightly, forcing focus into his words. “She is the daughter of Alistair Whitmore, a wealthy landowner with influence beyond these glens.”
A few councilmen exchanged glances, though Gregory did not relent. “That may be,” Gregory replied, folding his hands. “Butwhat we mean is… she is unknown to us. Unknown to this clan. Unknown in what she brings beyond a name.”
James exhaled slowly through his nose, irritation building beneath his restraint. “She brings enough for me,” he said.
Gregory raised a brow. “Does she?” he asked.
The question lingered, and James forced himself not to react.
Gregory leaned back slightly. “What about Mairead, then?” he said, his tone careful but deliberate.
The name struck James, Mairead Cameron. Daughter of Laird Cameron, an ally clan. She was fostered at Calibroch since childhood under an agreement between their fathers, she had grown within these very walls beside him and Jenny. He had known her longer than most of the men in this room.
Gregory watched him closely. “It was always assumed ye would marry Mairead,” he continued. “The woman has waited patiently for so long.”
James’s fingers curled slightly against the table edge. “There was never any formal agreement between us,” he said at last, his voice quieter but firm. “The notion I would marry her was built on expectations between our families, nae on any vow I made.”
Gregory’s mouth tightened. “Expectations can be as binding as vows in the eyes of clans,” he said.
