Page 112 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Aside from the stuffed bird, the parlor was fairly neat and well-arranged. A sofa, chairs arranged around a fireplace, a window seat, shelves full of books. Pretty, pastel-colored, feminine, dignified.

Suitable, really.

He wondered briefly if it made Daphne feel as if she were being slowly singed, living in such a dignified space.

Then the door creaked open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Steady, he warned himself. Ye might turn around and see Lady Pilbury standing there with an apology in her eyes.

He turned slowly, pacing himself, trying to swallow down hope.

Daphne. It was Daphne.

She stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her jaw slack, staring at him.

He stared back.

“It’s ye,” she said simply. “It’s really ye.”

“Aye,” he answered. It seemed the obvious thing to say. “It’s me.”

Another moment passed. They eyed each other, neither one moving forward.

“Ye didnae write,” she rasped. “Ye didnae reply, I mean, to me letter.”

“We only just received it. I left straight away. Well…” He inclined his head. “Once I’d cleared up a thing or two.”

She coughed faintly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind her. The parlor seemed to shrink once the door closed, but neither of them made a move toward the other.

The world stayed as it was, just the two of them. The window was closed, letting in no birdsong or breeze from outside. The fire was made up, ready to be lit, but the wood stayed whole and silent. A faint scent of pine wood and mint hung in the air.

When he glanced briefly at the stuffed pheasant, he could have sworn it winked at him.

“Are ye settled in back here, then?” he heard himself ask. A pointless question, really. Polite small-talk, the kind of thing that English lords and ladies said to each other.

Daphne just stared at him for a long moment, then blinked, as if waking from a reverie.

“I havenae offered ye tea,” she babbled, abruptly turning away. “Did Lady Pilbury already offer ye some? If so, it’s probably already on its way. I could go and⁠—”

“No tea, thank ye.”

She coughed again. “I could fetch Willow to see ye. It’s her ye have come to see, aye? She’s having lessons at the moment.”

“Lessons? Already?”

“Oh, nothing too strenuous. Just a wee bit of book-reading, some drawing. Lady Pilbury found a nice governess for her. Willow cannae wait to read books of her own. I reckon it’s time.”

“Well, it sounds like ye all have things in hand.”

Daphne flinched at that, and Hunter wished he hadn’t said it. Was his tone resentful? Maybe. He’d gotten used to not thinking about his own words, or at least how he said them. It didn’t matter how a laird said something; it mattered what he said. He could snarl out an order and still have it obeyed.

In the real world, both mattered.

Daphne reached for the velvet bell-pull beside the door. “I’ll ring for one of the servants and have her brought here.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Hunter crossed the room and gently closed his fingers around her wrist.

“Nay, lass,” he said quietly. “I want to see Willow, that’s true, but I want to talk to ye first. It’s ye I came to see, Daphne.”