And she did. The delight of shivers overtook her as she melted into the bed and thought…
I am undone. How can I ever leave now?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Iought to feel shame. I yielded to James. Me body has betrayed me. He isnae me true betrothed.
This arrangement was meant to end, yet she had allowed something far more dangerous to bloom between them. And still… she could not quite summon regret, not when her chest felt light, her lips prone to soft smiles she couldnae suppress.
“Ye are a fool, Eloise,” she murmured under her breath, though there was little conviction in it.
The contradiction unsettled her, for she felt both reckless and alive in a way she had never known before.
A knock came at the door, sharp but not unwelcome, and her heart leapt traitorously in her chest. For a fleeting moment, she thought it might be him, entering her room with that same fierce determination in his eyes.
She rose quickly and crossed the room, smoothing her hair as though it mattered, before pulling the door open.
“James…” she began, only to stop short at the sight of Beatrice standing there, grinning brightly and balancing a tray in her hands.
“Och, ye look disappointed,” Beatrice teased at once, stepping inside without waiting for invitation.
Eloise flushed faintly, closing the door behind her. “I am nae disappointed,” she insisted, though her voice betrayed her.
Beatrice raised a brow, her smile widening. “If ye say so, cousin, but I ken that look well enough.”
The tray was soon set on the small table near the window, and Eloise’s attention was drawn to the spread before her. There was fresh oat bread still warm, a wedge of sharp cheese, slices of smoked fish, and a small dish of honeyed berries glistening in their syrup.
A steaming pot of tea sat beside two cups, the scent of herbs rising gently into the air.
“I thought ye might need feeding,” Beatrice teased, pouring the tea with practiced ease.
Eloise smiled despite herself, taking a seat across from her. “Ye are too kind,” she said, reaching for the bread.
“Aye, I ken,” Beatrice replied lightly, passing her the cheese. “Now eat, and then ye we shall speak of the ceilidh.”
They spoke easily as they ate, laughter coming more freely than it had in days.
“The ceilidh is in two nights,” Beatrice announced, her eyes bright with excitement.
Eloise blinked, pausing mid-bite. “Yes, the ceilidh?” she repeated having forgotten about the small celebration, since all she could focus on was the wedding that would never come.
Beatrice nodded eagerly. “Aye, and we must decide what ye will wear, for ye cannae appear before the clan in anythin' less than perfection.”
Eloise laughed softly, the thought of such normal concerns easing the nervousness that had lingered in her chest. “Very well, then,” she said, a spark of excitement lighting within her. “Let us see what ye have brought with ye.”
Beatrice clapped her hands in delight. “That is exactly what I hoped ye would say.”
After the meal was cleared, they made their way through the corridor to Beatrice’s chamber, their steps light and their conversation lively. Inside, Beatrice wasted no time in opening her trunk, revealing a collection of gowns in rich fabrics and soft hues.
“I came prepared,” she said proudly, lifting a red dress trimmed with delicate embroidery.
Eloise laughed, stepping closer to run her fingers over the fabric. “Ye always do,” she said fondly.
One by one, they tried on the dresses, turning before the small mirror, adjusting sleeves and bodices, debating which suited best.
“This one brings out yer eyes,” Beatrice insisted, tugging gently at a green gown that hugged Eloise’s form.
Eloise tilted her head, considering, then smiled. “Aye… I think ye may be right. And the red one ye wear matches yer hair very well.”
