Page 11 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Daphne bit her lower lip till it hurt. “Nae too much. It’s very pretty here.”

“Well, you might not have such ties to this place in a very short while. I want to know that you’ll be comfortable and safe once I’m gone.”

Willow perked up. “Are ye going somewhere, Lady Pilbury?”

Lady Pilbury pressed her lips together. “Possibly. But it’s nothing for you to worry about, my dear.”

Daphne closed her eyes for a half-second. “I am good at taking care of meself, Lady Pilbury.”

“Yes,” Lady Pilbury murmured, eyeing her thoughtfully. “You are. Now, shall we get on with this story?”

Daphne swallowed thickly and focused her attention on the page once more. She skipped several pages, waiting for her vision to clear. Steeling herself, she opened her mouth to start reading the final chapter, the one that would sum up the entire book. Before she could utter a word, however, a door slammed.

Lady Pilbury straightened up as much as she could in her weakened state. “What in Heaven’s name…” she trailed off.

Thumping footsteps echoed up the stairs. A maid shouted something.

And then the bedroom door flew open with a bang.

Daphne jumped to attention in an instant, furious. Wasn’t the whole household under orders to be quiet and still because Lady Pilbury was dying? They made allowances for Willow, true, but everybody else walked on tiptoe and eased doors shut.

“What is the meaning of this?” she snapped, glowering at the old woman who stepped through the door, smelling of rain and petrichor. “Lady Pilbury is ill. She doesnae want to be disturbed with such nonsense. I ken for a fact that ye pushed through the maids and the footman at the door, and this is entirely unacceptable. What have ye to say for yerself?”

But before anybody could say a word, a man stepped inside next, ducking his head to fit through the doorway. He wore a travel-stained woolen cloak, and a kilt swung around his knees.

Daphne’s voice died in her throat as she found herself staring at a pair of familiar ice-blue eyes.

It was Hunter, the man who had haunted her dreams for five years.

Five years and nine months, to be exact.

CHAPTER 2

A long silence followed the intrusion. At least, it felt long, for it couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds.

Daphne scrambled off the bed, her skirts getting tangled around her legs, making her hop, undignified.

I could scream for help. Could ring the bell, summon the servants.

She didn’t do any of those things. She just stood gaping at him.

Oh, it was ridiculous to pretend that she’d forgotten. Even if Willow wasn’t a daily reminder of what had happened—and what she’d escaped—that night was never far from her mind. She could almost feel his arms around her, the rough stubble on his cheek pricking the sensitive skin of her neck.

She cleared her throat. Now was not the time.

“Whatever ye are doing here,” she managed, her voice shaking, “and whoever ye are, ye cannae stay. I must insist that ye leave at once. I…”

Lady Pilbury leaned forward, the pillow rustling beneath her. “Helena?” she gasped, her voice quavering. “Is it really you? Oh, how long has it been?”

“It is me, Edith,” the old Scottish woman responded, pushing back her hood. She took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on a stick. “I’m surprised ye can recognize me under all these wrinkles and gray hair.”

Daphne blinked, taking a few steps back. The Scottish woman—Helena—limped forward, and all but stumbled onto the bed. She and Lady Pilbury threw their arms around each other and stayed like that for a long moment. She could have sworn that she heard Lady Pilbury sniffling, muffling tears in Helena’s thick braided hair.

“I was afraid I would be too late,” Helena whispered. “I left as soon as I received yer letter.”

“Oh, I should not have troubled you. But it has been so long, and I had such a hankering to see you.”

“It’s no trouble, Edith, nae a wee bit of it! I made me poor son race all the way here, but he claims it’s no trouble.” She turned, flashing a wry smile at Hunter.