Violet’s head snapped up so sharply that Moira lifted both hands, the linen caught between her fingers. “I only meant ye look warm.”
The maid was not laughing at her. That was the trouble. Moira’s eyes were too kind, her manner too careful. Teasing would have given Violet something sharp to push against. But Moira was being kind, and kindness made Violet feel like she should give answers she didn’t have.
“I am warm because yer Laird believes dawn is an appropriate hour for throwing people to the ground,” she huffed.
Moira’s expression shifted, but she did not press. Instead, she looked at John, whose tiny fist had wiggled free of the blanket.
“He does favor dreadful hours,” she said quietly. “Alex says it is because sleep cannae argue with him.”
Violet almost smiled. Then she remembered Connor above her, his hand braced beside her head, his lips parting hers, his eyes dark with the same shock she felt.
The almost-smile died before it became dangerous.
Moira stood and moved to the cradle, straightening the little blanket folded there.“It is fine to be nervous before yer wedding, ye ken.”
Violet went still. “Why in God’s name are ye telling me that?”
“Because sometimes it helps to ken that fear isnae shameful.” Moira kept her attention on the cradle as she spoke, as if giving her the mercy of not being stared down by kindness.
“I am nae afraid of the wedding.”
“Nae?”
“There is no reason to be nervous.” Violet shifted John higher, using the movement to buy herself a breath. “It is only business, so John can have two parents.”
Moira’s hands paused on the blanket. She did not turn at once. When she did, her face held no accusation, which made the question worse.
“Do ye believe that?” she asked.
Violet looked down at John. His eyes were open now, unfocused and blue. Jane’s eyes. He looked at her as if she held the whole room in place, as if he knew nothing of vows, bargains, lairds, kisses, or the very act of lying badly to nursemaids who saw too much.
Because he didn’t.
“I promised him a story,” Violet murmured.
Moira glanced at the baby. “He cannae understand stories yet.”
“Good. That means he cannae complain about me taste.”
The excuse was thin. Moira let her have it.
Violet left the nursery with John in her arms and walked to the library as if she had chosen it for his benefit rather than her own escape.
The room was empty when she entered. Tall shelves lined the walls, and a chair near the window had a cushion worn soft by use. A thin layer of dust lay on the higher books, though the lower shelves looked like they had been used often.
Someone in Moore Castle reads, then.
However, she refused to wonder whether it was Connor.
She chose a book with a plain brown cover and sat carefully, keeping John tucked against her with one arm while she opened the book with the other. His hand opened and closed against her bodice, catching the fabric once before slipping free.
“Now,” she said, finding the first line. “We shall improve yer mind.”
John blinked, and she began to read.
She made it through three sentences before the words lost all meaning and all she could think about was Connor’s mouth and the pressure of his body above hers. She could even feel the pause before he had kissed her.
She hated it so much that she had not turned away.
