Page 12 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Lady Pilbury pulled back, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. They were red and puffy, but there was more color in her cheeks than there had been in a while. Not that Daphne dared keep much hope. She had made her peace with it, more or less. It wasn’t easy, knowing that her friend and protector would die and that she’d soon be out on her own again.

Nay, nae on me own. I’ll have Willow to care for.

“This is Lady Helena Brennan,” Lady Pilbury explained. “Lady MacCrimmon, they call her in Scotland. She’s quite an important woman.”

“Ah, give over,” Helena chuckled, swatting at her. “I’m an old dowager, and I sit on me backside all day, twiddling me thumbs and making trouble for me son and daughter. A widow’s dream, really.”

Beside Lady Pilbury, Willow shifted, leaning forward. Her initial caution had worn off, and now the spark of mischief had returned to her eyes.

Daphne felt a thrum of dread. Suddenly, nothing mattered beyond getting out of that room, and out from under Helena’s thoughtful gaze and Hunter’s impenetrable one.

He’d taken up residence in a corner of the room, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. For such a large man, he seemed to have a knack for melting into the background. At least, he would have had that knack, if every fiber of her being hadn’t been focused on it.

“Ye look strange,” Willow announced, her gaze fixed determinedly on Hunter. “Is that a skirt?”

Daphne’s heart sank so low that she was afraid it would fall out from under her petticoats.

“Willow,” she hissed, taking a step forward. “We must be polite, remember?”

Willow, with that particular skill children had, suffered an alarming attack of deafness and did not hear her mother’s summons. Instead, she reached out tentatively, drawing the hem of Helena’s cloak between her fingers.

“Soft,” she mumbled.

“Aye, it’s lambswool,” Helena laughed, tucking a strand of Willow’s hair behind her ear. “And the pattern is tartan. Have ye seen it before?”

Willow shook her head, entranced.

“Ahh, well, it’s very common where I live. And me son doesnae wear a skirt, nae in the way ye might imagine. We call it a kilt. It’s heavy and warm, with good pockets, and men wear them to move quickly and sure-footed over the hills and mountains.”

Willow eyed Hunter once more, tilting her head to the side. “It looks very comfortable,” she conceded.

“What a sweet thing she is.” Helena smiled. “Nae yer granddaughter, then?”

Lady Pilbury laughed. “No, not mine. She is Daphne’s daughter. She is Scottish—they both are—but I do not believe Willow has ever seen the Highlands.”

“Ah!” Helena exclaimed. “What a pity. We must take ye sometime, little one.”

Willow perked up, glancing from face to face. “Describe it to me,” she demanded, smiling hopefully.

Helena leaned toward her, a smile curving her lips. “It is a dark place,” she murmured. “Green, too, always very green. The rain isnae soft and gentle like an English rain. Our gales tear trees up by the roots and topple the highest stones from their perches. Our rivers boil in storms, flooding their banks, sending fish and water sweeping through houses. The sun doesnae shine often, and when it does, there’s rarely power in its stare. But the beauty… oh, the beauty of the place! Heather paints the hills purple and blue, and the seas curl around the cliffs as if they’re trying to climb up onto the land, as if they envy us.”

“Oh,” Willow breathed, her eyes huge.

“Very poetic,” Lady Pilbury chuckled. She glanced over at Daphne. “My dear, would you fetch tea? Helena and I will stay here and talk, if you don’t mind.”

Daphne could think of nothing to say, so she bobbed a curtsey and dived out of the room into the narrow, dark hallway beyond.

A shadow followed her. A tingle rolled down her spine, and she spun around to face Hunter.

His eyes met hers, and for a few seconds, they stood still, staring at each other.

He probably doesnae remember me, Daphne told herself, swallowing hard and lifting her chin. Why would he? He bedded one woman in the dark five years ago and never saw her again. He’s probably bedded hundreds since. He has no idea who I am.

“Well,” he drawled, his cool gaze sweeping over her. “We meet again. I thought I might find ye at the Leanan Festival, but I was wrong.”

Just me bloody luck.

“I daenae ken what ye are talking about,” she managed, her voice cracking.