Connor watched her with quiet satisfaction. He knew he had let her win, but the joy it brought her mattered far more than the truth. In that moment, he understood something simple and profound: letting her shine did not diminish him.
Eva gathered the pieces carefully, still smiling to herself. “Thank ye,” she said softly. “For teachin’ me. For playin’.”
“Thank ye,” Connor replied, surprising himself, “for remindin’ me how to partake in leisure.”
The candle guttered low. Connor felt a resolve settle deep within him, steady and sure. He would honor his past, but he would not live trapped within it, and Eva would not face the world without laughter again if he had any say in it.
Connor rose from the table, the scrape of his chair loud in the quiet library, and he turned toward Eva with a softened look. He extended his hand to her, palm open and steady, as though offering more than the simple gesture.
“’Tis late,” he said gently, his voice low with restraint, “I’ll escort ye to yer room, lass.”
Eva placed her hand in his without hesitation and smiled up at him. “I would like that very much,” she replied, her tone warm and sincere.
They left the library together, the candlelight fading behind them as the corridors swallowed their steps. Connor kept his pace measured, though every instinct urged him closer, and the feel of her small, soft hand wrapped in his sent a slow heat through his chest. Her warmth seemed to seep through the wool of her sleeve, and he became acutely aware of the way her shoulder brushed his arm with every step. He said little, afraid that if he spoke too freely, the control he clung to would fray.
As they walked, Connor felt the pull of her like a tide he had chosen to stand against. Her presence beside him was grounding and maddening all at once, her quiet breaths and subtle movements stirring thoughts he kept carefully locked away. He noticed how naturally she matched his stride, how she leaned just slightly toward him as though she trusted him to steady her. The scent of her hair, clean and faintly floral, teased his senses.
He reflected in silence, knowing with a certainty that both comforted and unsettled him that she would be his wife soon. The thought filled him with a fierce pride and a deeper hunger he dared not voice, not yet and perhaps not ever in such plain terms. He wanted her joy, her respect, and her future, not just her body, though denying that desire took effort. Connor toldhimself that patience was a mark of strength, even when every step tested it.
Eva glanced up at him as they neared her chamber, her eyes bright in the torchlight.
“Thank ye for walkin’ me,” she said softly, squeezing his hand before letting it go.
Connor stopped before her door and inclined his head, schooling his expression into calm courtesy. “’Tis only right,” he answered, though the words felt thin compared to what he held back.
He took her hand once more, lifting it with care, and pressed a respectful kiss to her knuckles.
“Sleep well, Eva,” he said quietly, his voice roughened despite his effort.
She smiled, her cheeks pink, and dipped into a small curtsy. “And ye, Connor,” she replied, “I wish ye a good slumber.”
He watched as she slipped into her chamber, the door closing with a soft final sound. Connor stood there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the wood as though it might open again. Then he turned sharply on his heel and made his way to his own bedchamber, his steps quicker now.
Inside, he splashed cold water over his face and neck, gripping the basin as the chill battled the burning heat within him,reminding himself that restraint tonight would make tomorrow stronger.
The next morning dawned grey and brisk, and Connor rose early, shrugging into his tartan with the practiced ease of habit. The castle was already stirring as he moved through the corridors, servants bowing and guards straightening at his passing, reminders of the weight he carried. Whatever turmoil lingered in his heart, his duties did not wait for a man’s mind to settle. By the time he entered the council chamber, his expression was once more that of the Laird of McLaren.
The long oak table was soon filled with his advisers, men weathered by years of wind, war, and hard decisions. David, his man-at-arms, stood at his right, while Fergus the steward and old Alastair the reeve settled opposite him.
“Right then,” Connor said, taking his seat at the head, his voice firm, “let us hear what troubles me lands this morn.” Fergus cleared his throat and spread out a ledger. “The western fences are still in disrepair, me laird, and MacRae’s cattle keep wanderin’ onto our grazin’.”
Connor leaned forward. “I’ve warned MacRae twice already,” he said flatly.
Alastair nodded, his lined face grave. “Aye, and the folk are growin’ restless over it, Connor, sayin’ their own beasts go hungry.”
Connor drummed his fingers once on the table. “Then send word that if the fences are nae mended by week’s end, I’ll have them rebuilt at MacRae’s expense in tax levy.”
David spoke next, his tone cautious. “There’s also talk of poachers in the forest.”
Connor snorted softly. “Double the patrols and make it clear nay poachers will be tolerated.”
The discussion moved on, voices overlapping as matters of grain stores, winter fodder, and disputed boundaries were raised.
Connor listened closely, interjecting when needed, his authority steady and unquestioned.
“We’ll see the widows through the winter,” he said at one point, fixing Fergus with a hard stare. “I’ll nae have any starvin’ under me watch.”
As the council drew to a close, Alastair studied him thoughtfully. “Ye’ve a firm hand this day, lad,” the old man said, almost kindly.
