Page 25 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Look at me,” he said firmly. “Look at me, lass. This isnae the Highlands. We’ve nae even crossed the border yet. She’s a small lass, and in a moment, she’s going to start looking around for her ma and wondering where ye are. Let’s nae panic yet. For God’s sake, woman, I thought bandits had set on ye!”

She yanked her hands free. “Oh, I’m so sorry that me daughter wandering off in dense woodland isnae enough of an emergency for ye.”

“Enough of that.”

“Daenae tell me what to do.”

“She’s me daughter, too!”

Daphne went silent.

“I keep forgetting that,” she mumbled, the panic easing out of her voice. “It’s only ever been me and her. When she was born, I held her in me arms, and we looked at each other and the world just… it just vanished. Poof. Like that. There was only me and her, and I never wanted it any other way.”

Hunter drew his lower lip between his teeth.

What must it feel like to feel that way about someone? To love someone so much instantly?

Too bad I vowed never to feel a love like that.

Although, had that been his vow? He’d vowed to his men never to marry or have children. Already the latter part of his vow was broken. Nothing was ever said about love.

“We’ll follow her,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “See? She’s left a trail. Let’s find her, aye?”

“Aye,” Daphne responded thickly, giving him a tired smile. “Thank ye, Hunter.”

This time, he didn’t ask what for. He nodded wordlessly and set off into the undergrowth.

Daphne followed, sticking close to his side.

Every pace felt like half a mile. After all, Willow’s legs were so much smaller. This distance would have felt longer to her.

What would make a child go running off into the forest, away from her mother? What had she seen?

With a pang of worry, Hunter thought of bandits, assassins, or just local, violent men. England wasn’t exactly safer than Scotland, and anyway, dangers were the same everywhere. He uneasily remembered that his mother and Lady Pilbury were alone in the carriage. John ought to have returned by now, but what if he hadn’t? What if he’d had his throat cut while he answered nature’s call? What if⁠—

“I can see her,” Daphne breathed, her voice giddy with relief. “Just up ahead.”

Putting on a burst of speed, she hurried forward, clambering up a low, mossy hill. Hunter followed, his fingertips digging into damp earth. The moss made for slippery going, but he saw tiny footprints and scrapes in the ground which indicated that somebody small had already come this way.

Daphne, lighter and apparently more nimble than him, reached the top of the hill first. Trees swayed in the breeze, clustered together. She gave a ragged gasp.

Something tightened in Hunter’s chest, and it took him a moment to realize what it was.

Fear. He was afraid.

Worst-case scenarios flashed through his mind. He saw Willow dead on the ground. It didn’t matter how she died, only that she was dead and he’d failed her. Failed her once more.

Bile rose in his throat, and he gasped, staggering. Then he reached the top of the hill, only to find Daphne standing still, staring at their daughter.

Willow was crouched by a copse of trees, peering at something near the ground. “I saw it run,” she whispered, not turning around.

It was as if the little girl had known, without needing to look behind her, that they were following.

A long moment passed between them. Hunter was just about to step forward to see what she was staring at when Daphne lunged forward.

Dropping to her knees, she seized Willow by the shoulders. She stared at her for a moment, then pulled her into a tight embrace. Willow wound her small arms around her mother’s shoulder, holding tight.

“What were ye thinking?” Daphne cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.