Hannah sighed. “With ye, I am never certain.”
Violet gave a small laugh, and it nearly broke in the middle. She held Hannah for one moment longer than dignity allowed, then let go before either of them could make the parting worse.
Aiden waited with the reins in hand, giving them privacy without pretending he was not listening. When Hannah stepped back, he came forward and took Violet’s hands in his large, warm ones.
“MacBain’s doors are open,” he said. “Always.”
Violet smiled at him. “I ken.”
“Well, Violet, kenning and using are different matters.”
“Ye sound like Hannah.”
Aidan laughed. “That is the wisest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
This time, her smile came easier and hurt more.
Aiden bent and gently kissed her brow, then released her. The horses carried them away through the courtyard, with Hannah turning once in the saddle to look back. Violet lifted a hand and kept it raised until they passed beneath the gate arch.
When they were gone, Moore Castle seemed to become larger. The stones had always been high and the walls always thick, the corridors full of men who moved as if silence were discipline. Yet with Hannah’s sharp eyes gone and Aiden’s quiet steadiness riding away beside her, the place settled around Violet with a new weight.
Lady Moore.
The title felt less safe in the morning light for some reason.
Moira stepped out of the castle with John wrapped close against the cool air. He fussed, his little face scrunching up with dissatisfaction at the world. Violet took him at once, grateful for his warm weight.
“We shall be very calm,” she told him, smoothing his blanket. “One of us must be, and ye are clearly unsuited for the task.”
John caught her finger in his tiny fist.
Violet looked down at him and breathed more steadily.“Aye, that is fair. Hold me accountable,” she said, before carrying him to the breakfast hall.
The sight that greeted her made her stop just over the threshold. Connor sat at the table with Lachlan near him, their plates abandoned, their cups half full. Alex stood at the edge of the room, appearing careless until she noticed that his gaze rested more on Lachlan’s hands than on his face. Moira moved toward the sideboard, where christening clothes lay ready beside a tray.
For one strange moment, the room resembled a family.
Then Connor looked up.
Memory struck before Violet could prepare herself—his hands careful on her sleeve, his mouth on her throat, his voice asking whether she could not orwouldnot. It caused enough heat to bloom in her face.
She quickly turned her attention to Lachlan because he was dangerous in a different way, and for this morning, looking at somethingdifferentfelt safer.
Lachlan rose. His smile was tired and warm enough to hint at old grief.
“Lady Moore,” he greeted. “Violet, if I may?”
Her throat tightened at hearing her name from someone who had known Jane alive. “Ye may.”
Connor’s chair creaked faintly, but she did not look at him. Moira drew nearer with the linen.
“The christening clothes are ready for Master John, whenever the priest is called.”
Master John.
The name sat gently in the room.
Violet looked down at the baby. “With the christening so near, we should decide whether we are keeping his name as John.”
