“There is another,” he said.
Connor’s patience thinned. “Who?”
Alex swallowed before responding. “Lachlan.”
The name settled between them with more weight than the dawn air deserved.
Connor nodded once. “Bring them.”
Alex did not ask whether he meant all the letters or only that one. He left the yard and returned with the small stack tied with a cord, the two important ones set at the top. Connor took them and walked back to the study without another word.
The room looked as he had left it, with some papers stacked on the desk and the quill set near the inkwell. He set Laird MacAdair’s letter on the desk first, then set Lachlan’s beside it.
His brother’s letter was worn at the edge, as if it had passed through too many hands before reaching him. That suited Lachlan too well.
Connor stood over the desk, looking down at the two sealed problems. He didn’t know which one to deal with first, but he knew one thing.
The taste of Violet’s lips lingered on his like a mistake he wanted to repeat.
Violet reached the nursery too quickly. She knew it the moment Moira looked up from the rocking chair with John in her arms.
Violet had meant to enter calmly, perhaps ask after him as any sensible woman would. Instead, she stepped through the doorwith her cheeks hot, her breath unsteady, and grass still clinging to the hem of her yellow-trimmed gown.
It was the running, she told herself. The cold dawn air. Hell, it was the embarrassment of being thrown to the ground during a lesson.
It was anything.Anything but the ghost of Connor’s mouth on hers.
John stirred at the sudden movement, his small face turning toward her. That was enough. Violet crossed the room at once and held out her arms.
“May I?” she asked, already taking him.
Moira let him go, though her gaze narrowed slightly. She did not resist, which Violet appreciated more than she could say. If Moira had asked why she needed the baby so urgently, Violet might have said something foolish.
“‘Tis shaping up to be quite a lovely day, me Lady,” Moira said.
Violet drew John close and adjusted his blanket with a hand that was not quite steady. “It is, is it nae?”
“Are ye saying that to me or the bairn?” Moira asked, setting aside the small cloth she had been folding before picking up the baby.
“Whichever one is less troublesome.”
“Then the bairn,” Moira said, with a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth.
John made a soft sound against Violet’s chest, a sleepy little complaint that loosened something tight behind her ribs. His warmth seeped into her, and his head fit beneath her chin.
The nursery smelled of rosemary, clean wool, and the low fire in the grate. These were innocent things.Usefulthings. Things that did not brace their hands on the grass beside her head and kiss her as if every rule she had made was a locked door he had decided to open.
She pressed her cheek against John’s cap and breathed.
Moira watched her for another moment before speaking.“Are ye all right?”
“Perfectly.” The answer came too quickly.
Moira’s eyebrows rose, but her tone stayed mild. “Aye. That is why ye look as if ye ran out of a burning chapel.”
Violet kept herself busy with the edge of John’s blanket. “Training is tiring.”
“The Laird trains the men every day.” Moira reached for a folded linen and smoothed it across her lap. “I have yet to see them come back blushing.”
