Come to think of it, he had seen that exact fabric once or twice. It must be quite important.
“This is blue,” he heard her tell the baby. “‘Tis the proper kind too, nae the sad gray-blue ye see on people all the time.”
John waved a tiny fist.
“Aye, exactly,” Violet cooed. “And one day, I will tell ye about markets, English roads, Highland passes—everything else ye could possibly imagine.”
Connor’s hand tightened on the edge of the desk. “Double the watch near the nursery,” he ordered.
Alex was quiet for a beat. “Because of Tolford?”
“The wedding is tomorrow. We cannae be too careful, can we?”
“Aye. And Lady Violet?”
Connor kept his gaze on the courtyard. “Nay one approaches her outside the walls without me permission.”
Alex nodded.
Later that night, Connor was haunted once again by the same recurring dream. As usual, it began with Violet’s mouth and the grass beneath his hand. It grew worse because she stayed and her fingers slid into his hair. Her breath even warmed his jaw.
He could feel everything in the dream. As usual, his mouth moved lower, down the neck and chest, and his body believed the lie until he woke before dawn. Again, he was hard and utterly angry. Before he could think twice, he climbed out of bed and went to the loch outside the castle.
The water was black and viciously cold. It struck his skin, locked his muscles, and dragged a harsh breath through his teeth. He waded deeper, jaw clenched, hands braced beneath the surface.
The coldness should have cleared his head. It did not. The castle waited behind him.
He knew the priest would arrive after sunrise. Violet would stand before him in a gown she had likely judged stitch by stitch, with her chin lifted and defiance clearer on her face than a blue sky.In a few hours, she would become his wife.
He gripped his length through his trousers and closed his eyes, his breath hitching.
Her mouth.Her hair.The version of her in his dream.
He took off his trousers and stroked himself once, roughly, teeth clenched. Then he swore under his breath, let go, and sank even deeper into the water.
It still wasn’t cold enough.
12
The morning of the wedding, Violet stood very still while Hannah adjusted the back of her wedding gown.
Being still, however, was highly overrated. It gave a woman like her far too much time to think.
The gown had better manners than she did this morning. It behaved when touched, accepted pins without complaint, and fell in soft, obedient folds around her body as if it had not been chosen for the most unreasonable wedding in Scotland.
“That pin is crooked,” she said.
Behind her, Hannah paused. “It isnae.”
“Well, it will be if I move.”
“Then perhaps ye should stand still.”
“I am getting married, Hannah. Must I lose movement too?”
Moira, kneeling to smooth the lower fold of the gown, lowered her head. Violet saw her smile anyway.
The maid at Violet’s side kept her mouth carefully shut as she placed another pin near the sleeve.
