Page 22 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Do ye really nae understand?”

“I understand that she must have asked. Children always do. Has she never asked ye who her father is? Why she and ye speak differently from the people around ye? Hm?”

Daphne flinched a little, just enough to confirm that he was right.

It made sense. Willow was a vibrant, clever little girl, full of curiosity and questions. She would have asked where she had come from, without a doubt.

“When I’m ready,” Daphne said, then pointedly turned back toward the carriage.

We’ll see, he thought, faintly amused, but didn’t bother saying it aloud.

The carriage door closed, and the driver clambered up onto the seat. He threw Hunter a questioning look, and Hunter nodded, hoisting himself up into the saddle.

“Off we go, then,” he ordered brusquely. “This good weather willnae hold, and God kens we’ll have bad weather waiting for us when we cross the border.”

The driver chuckled and flicked the reins.

The rain started a few hours into their journey. It was a light rain, nothing like the heavy downpours common in the Highlands. Even so, Hunter pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head. The drizzle wasn’t enough to penetrate the thick wool, so he estimated he had a good few hours before the cold and damp forced him inside the carriage.

The road they were following steadily got worse as they headed further north. The cobbles cracked and were missing altogether in some places. The trees and undergrowth hemmed in close around the path, a gentle susurrus echoing from the greenery, rain pattering its way down through the foliage onto the soggy ground. A green, earthy smell followed them, clean and fresh.

He was glad that Daphne hadn’t been living in London. Not only was that at least several days’ travel further, but everybody knew that city was cloaked with smog and smoke and filth, cluttering up the lungs of anybody who dared breathe deep on its streets.

Me daughter has been breathing clean air, at least.

A shiver rolled down his spine at that thought.

Me daughter. I have a daughter.

He hadn’t told his mother, of course. He hadn’t even told his sister, not that Skye would approve of him spending the night with a strange woman under a willow tree.

It wouldnae surprise me if Ma had guessed there was something going on, he thought grimly, half-amused. Not a lot got past his mother.

The great question remained, however. For now, they could concentrate on the journey and getting there safely. But once they’d reach the keep, what then?

I will have to do the right thing. I must wed Daphne.

‘The right thing’ made it seem like a sacrifice.

Hunter allowed himself a small smile at that. Sacrifice? He’d dreamt of the wretched woman ever since that night.

But why? He’d lain with other women, of course he had. What was it about Daphne that wormed its way under his skin? Why did she haunt his thoughts? How could he get rid of her ghost?

Do I want to?

He deliberately didn’t answer that question.

And then there’s the question of the vow. Me vow. I swore I’d never marry.

But then what am I going to do about Daphne and Willow?

A cold feeling swept over him. Tightening his jaw, Hunter urged his horse forward, trotting past the carriage. The curtains were closed, probably to keep heat inside, but he noticed the fabric twitching as he rode by.

“We’re making good time,” he remarked to the driver.

The driver, a thin, shrewd-eyed old man who’d served Laird MacCrimmon since long before Hunter held the title, nodded. “Aye, and the weather doesnae look too bad. Rain, of course, but nothing torrential. No storms. As we get to higher ground, there’ll be less chance of flooding, too. We should make it home safe, me Laird. Us and our guests.”

The last sentence seemed a little pointed.