Page 40 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“I always had a notion that you’d been wronged, my dear,” she murmured. “I never pushed, because it’s not my business, and there was nothing I could do to help you. Well, now there is.”

Daphne flinched. “Help me? What do ye mean?”

“Why, I assume that he abandoned you. Many young men are similarly thoughtless. When I was younger, I sponsored a charity for fallen women, and you would be shocked at how many of those ‘fallen’ women were not fallen at all, but tripped up by various men in their lives. It was quite eye-opening, I tell you. I have long thought our world was hypocritical. A child born out of wedlock is called a bastard, and the woman who bears the child is called all sorts of terrible names, but the man gets away scot-free, doesn’t he? No names are shouted after him. No, it is not fair. I shall speak to Helena, and between us, we shall make him do right by you, one way or another. I can promise you that.”

Daphne stiffened. Leaning forward, she seized Lady Pilbury’s hand, carefully so as not to crush her fragile bones.

“Please, daenae do that,” she begged. “It’s more complicated than that. Laird MacCrimmon didnae abandon me. I was the one who left. And he never kent about the baby because I never told him. Nobody could have ken that it was his. He only kent of her existence when he first came to the house. The truth is, I believe that Willow and I are one of the reasons why we’re all here. He’s nae the sort of man who would get a woman with child and leave her on her own. Believe me, he’s nae.”

Lady Pilbury blinked, taken aback. “I see,” she murmured. “Goodness, how quickly you leap to his defense.”

Daphne blushed, releasing her hand. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean to be ungrateful.”

“Goodness, my dear, you are nothing of the sort! I shouldn’t fret, if I were you.”

There was a moment of silence, both women lost in thought.

Daphne cast a quick, worried look at Lady Pilbury. The old woman had a faint furrow between her eyebrows and stared blankly into space. Daphne wanted to ask her what she was thinking, but decided against it.

“Ye… Ye willnae tell Hunter that ye ken, will ye?” Daphne asked hesitantly.

“Well, not if you don’t want me to. I should like to talk to him about it, but naturally I’ll respect your choice.”

“And ye willnae tell Lady Helena?”

“I shan’t tell her, but I won’t lie to her, either,” Lady Pilbury responded gently. “In truth, it’s entirely possible that she’s guessed herself. She is a sharp woman and knows her son better than either of us. If I have noticed a resemblance, she certainly will.”

That filled Daphne with dread. She hadn’t imagined that Helena would know, but Lady Pilbury was right. Helena was clever enough to figure it out herself, and then what would happen?

“Oh, my dear,” Lady Pilbury sighed, leaning forward and patting her cheek. “What a poor start to your holiday. I hate to see you so worried. Is there anything I can do?”

“Nay, I’m quite all right,” Daphne said quickly.

What sort of companion am I, letting her worry over me? She’s ill, dying, and meant to be finding peace in her last days, nae worrying over the mess I have made of me life.

Nay, that’s nae true. Me life is a mess, but the one perfect part of it is Willow. I wouldnae give her up for the world, which I suppose means I would never change a thing.

“I’m glad ye ken, actually,” she admitted. “It’s a weighty secret. But please, keep it a secret for now. Having a laird’s child, especially if it’s his only heir, presents a great risk. Me being in the Highlands again might already put me family in danger.”

Lady Pilbury looked as though she were about to ask more questions, but then closed her mouth and nodded, letting the matter rest.

“I… I had better go and find Willow,” Daphne stammered. “To make sure she’s nae terrorizing poor Elspeth. And ye ought to sleep. I ken for a fact that ye havenae slept well on the journey here.”

“I think you might be right.” Lady Pilbury yawned, her eyes drooping. “I’m glad we had this talk, my dear.”

Daphne carefully rearranged the blankets around her, ensuring that she was comfortable.

“So am I,” she murmured, easing her into a lying position. “And whatever happens, I’m glad ye can have one last great adventure. Who kens? It might nae be yer last.”

“Oh, I hope it is,” Lady Pilbury giggled, closing her eyes. “Adventures are very tiring, my dear.”

CHAPTER 9

“Tell me more about the two women,” Hunter demanded, frowning down at the map.

The location of that year’s Leanan Festival was circled, with notes scribbled on a piece of paper beside it. The women in question were both MacCrimmons, Rosie McCarthy and Moira Gentt. Both were just short of twenty and said to have been good, lifelong friends.

“Well, I cannae help but wonder whether they were both taken because they were convenient.” Magnus shrugged. “They would have been together, their families say.”