His mouth curved, though his eyes remained too watchful. “Jane used to say ye were stubborn enough to insult death itself.”
“I cannae confirm or deny that.”
The old joke came too easily. Violet used it because she needed him to smile, step back, and let her leave before the tremors grew worse.
Lachlan released her slowly. His fingers lingered on her left arm half a second too long. When he stepped back, Violet curled that arm against her side and pretended the passageway had steadied because she had wanted it to.
“I can escort ye,” he offered.
“Ye can return to breakfast and tell nay one.”
“Connor would want to ken.”
“Good thing he isnae here, is it nae?”
The sentence struck harder aloud than it had in her head.
Lachlan nodded once. “As ye wish.”
She walked away before he could change his mind. Each step required care. She kept one hand close to the wall until she reached the corner, then forced it to her side in case a servant appeared. Her maid was waiting in her chamber, sleeves rolled up, the bathwater she had asked for steaming in a tub near the fire.
“Me Lady, shall I help ye undress?”
“Nay,” Violet replied. “Leave it. I only need to rest for a moment.”
The maid looked at her face. “Are ye unwell?”
“Nay. Go and ask Moira if she needs more linen for John.”
The maid hesitated, then curtsied and left.
Violet waited until the door closed before she sat on the edge of the bed. She did not undress or even try to take off her shoes. She bent forward and pressed one hand to her belly, then snatched it away.
John came to her mind first. His small hand around her finger. His little christening gown laid out beside the cap. His mouth opening on that delighted sound Jane would never hear.
If Violet became ill again, who would keep him from turning into another problem juggled between adults?
She lay back against the pillows and stared at the canopy.
Connor came next. His hand on her back after the vows. His mouth in the study. His body steady beside her in the library while John gripped his finger.
She had told herself John was the exception. Connor had become the mistake beside him. Her eyes burned, and she pressed the heel of her hand against her brow.
She had allowedbothof them to matter. She couldn’t believe she had been foolish enough to let herself believe she truly had a place at Moore Castle. If the sickness had returned, avoiding Connor would not keep him safe from grief. It would only give her fewer memories when the sickbed claimed the hours.
That thought made her sit up.
It was not noble. It was not even brave, but she wanted his hands on her again. She wanted John’s coos. She wanted a bath, a market road, a full life, a husband who irritated her so badly that she forgot to be afraid for minutes at a time.
She wiped her face with both hands.
Angelica.
The name steadied her more than prayer. Hannah had found it once. A bitter, ugly little miracle that had eased the symptoms when nothing else had. Violet remembered the taste, the smell,the way Hannah had cried after the fever broke because she thought Violet slept through it.
She could not write to Hannah or even send for Connor. She could not have the castle looking at her the way Hannah once had.
By nightfall, she had made her plan. She would nip this in the bud before it could become a big thing.
