Alex nodded once. “Aye.”
Connor remained in the passage after Alex left.
From the breakfast hall came Violet’s voice again, low and warm as she spoke to John.
What in God’s name are ye doing, Connor?
He had no answer.
18
That evening, Violet carried John into the library, trying to prove that her choice was sensible.
The household needed silence after the wedding.Even John needed some silence after being passed to too many arms, admired by too many guests, and discussed by too many people who thought a baby could not hear if his future was being weighed aloud.
Lachlan’s presence had made breakfast feel uneven beneath her feet. Connor had clan matters to manage, guards to order, letters to answer, and a brother to watch.
All of that was true.
None of it explained why she could still remember Connor’s hands on her skin almost all the time now.
The library was quiet, and it provided her with just the silence she needed. The morning light fell through the high windows and rested over shelves crowded with worn leather, old paper, and dust that smelled faintly warm.
There was a chair near the window, a small table with a lamp, and a stack of books that looked as if no one had opened them or even tried to arrange them for years.
It wasnothinglike Connor’s study. His study smelled of ink, whisky, power, and the kind of silence that she absolutely didn’t trust herself around, especially since the night of the wedding.
Violet settled into the chair, with John tucked securely in the crook of her arm. He blinked up at her with solemn displeasure, then worked one fist free of his blanket as if preparing to lodge a complaint.
“I ken, right?” she said. “This castle is far too full of complicated men.”
John waved his fist.
“Exactly.”
She reached for the nearest book and found a heavy travel account with a cracked spine and a title that promised rivers, passes, mountains, and roads she had never seen. A strip of blue cloth was tucked in her sleeve, brought from her chamber byhabit more than purpose. She opened the book to the first page with one hand, using the cloth as a marker.
“Ye will understand very little of this,” she told John. “That makes ye an ideal audience. I have met grown men with worse habits.”
John kicked beneath the blanket.
“Aye, I ken. Ye are already more attentive than most of them.”
She began to read.
The prose was dry, the type of writing that made even adventure sound as if it had been measured and weighed before being allowed onto the page. She gave the mountains a grave voice, the river a grand one, and the weary traveler a tone so full of grievance that John stared at her mouth in apparent astonishment.
He made a small gurgling sound.
Violet paused. “Was that approval or criticism?”
His eyes closed for one hard blink, and his feet kicked again.
“Approval, then. Very generous.”
She read another passage, changing the writer’s complaints about poor roads into a tragedy fit for a king. John’s fist found the edge of the blue cloth and caught it. Violet laughed before she could stop herself.
“Oh, ye villain. Ye cannae handle that properly.”
