Violet rolled her eyes before she could stop herself. “Ye make childhood sound like a siege.”
“It often is.”
“He is a baby holding yer finger, Connor. At present, his greatest act of rebellion is stealing a blue cloth.”
“Rebellion beginssomewhere.”
She looked at John, then at the old travel account lying open across her lap. The page had bent beneath the weight of the blue cloth being tugged away, and an inked sentence about mountain roads sat ignored near her knee.
“Ye cannae raise a child to never lose control,” she argued.
“Aye, ye can.”
“Ye can raise him to fear mistakes.”
“Better that than burying him because no one taught him consequences.”
The words were too grim for the soft light and John’s small fist.
Violet’s irritation faltered. Connor looked down at the baby still gripping his finger, and something flashed across his expression too quickly for her to catch.
“That is a hard thing to say over him, do ye nae think?” she huffed.
Connor’s gaze returned to her. “I am well aware control has its limits.”
Her breath caught because his tone changed the room more than the words did.
“Connor,” she said. “Control isnae just something ye can summon.”
“If I could control meself as well as ye think, ye wouldnae have moaned me name last night.”
Heat rose in her face so swiftly she turned toward the window.
The library was full of books, dust, light, and John’s innocent little sounds. The memory of their encounter in the study did not belong here. It should have stayed behind a closed doorwith everything else that had happened last night. Yet only one sentence had brought it into the safest room she had found in Moore Castle.
“That doesnae matter now, does it?” she said.
“Why?”
“Because we were breaking our rule.”
“Which one?”
She cocked her head. “I want ye to take a really wild guess.”
“Distance? Might I remind ye once again thatyekissed me back?”
“That is why it was broken.”
Connor watched her too closely. He did not smile. If he had smiled, she might have thrown the travel account at him and called it justified. His seriousness made the memory harder to dismiss.
John tugged on Connor’s finger and made an impatient sound.
Violet shifted him higher against her arm, grateful for the interruption. “Ye see? Even John thinks this conversation is unsuitable.”
“Please. For all we ken, the bairn thinks me finger belongs to him.”
“He is possessive.”
