Page 59 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Ah, never mind.

“I didnae mean to pry,” she said hesitantly. “I was just… curious.”

Helena didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes fixed on Hunter and Willow, still leaning over the wooden sword.

“It’s an old story, Daphne,” she murmured. “Nothing more. Daenae fret, alright? Now,” she continued, her tone lightening, “off ye go. I came to tell ye that ye can go off and spend the day with Willow and Hunter too, if ye like, as Edith and I will be entertaining each other in the library today. Ye are free!”

Daphne gave a weak smile.

She didn’t feel free. Whenever her gaze met Hunter’s, she felt like nothing so much as a fish, hooked by a lure, unstoppably tugged along.

No, that was stupid. A lure? She wasn’t being fished, for heaven’s sake.

She only nodded.

Helena smiled, patted her on the shoulder, and set off back toward the keep. Daphne watched her go, drawing her lower lip between her teeth.

It’s nae just an old story. There was an odd look in Helena’s eyes when she said that. Whatever the truth, there certainly is something keeping Hunter from marrying and having children.

But then, he did have a child, didn’t he? Willow was his daughter. Was that a mistake, or something more deliberate?

She focused her gaze on the two of them once more. Willow was saying something and pointing at the half-carved hilt of the sword. Even from where she stood, Daphne could see that it was meant to be a fox.

Her feet drew her closer to them, almost without her conscious thought. She was still a little way away when Hunter glanced up, his gaze landing on her. A shiver rolled down her spine.

Every time their eyes met, she could have sworn that they were back under the drooping willow tree once more, with darkness closing in and distant laughter from the dying festival drifting toward them on the breeze. She could almost feel his fingertips on her waist, his warm palms sliding up her back.

Her memories of that night had grown hazy with time, like a precious portrait that grew more and more ragged and grubby the more often it was taken out and looked at.

Or something like that.

Memories faded with time, and for a while, she’d wanted her memory of her and Hunter to fade. It hurt less that way.

“Why daenae ye show yer ma yer new sword?” Hunter murmured, jerking her out of her reverie.

Just in time, Daphne plastered an encouraging smile on her face.

Willow whipped around, beaming with delight, and brandished the wooden sword. “Look! Look! I’ve got a fox carved on the handle!” she exclaimed. “Is it nae pretty? Laird MacCrimmon said that when I’m older, I can have a proper sword!”

“Did he now?” Daphne drawled, shooting him a wry look.

“I also said that she’d have to get her ma’s permission first,” Hunter added, clambering to his feet and brushing wood shavings off his knees. “The whittling is very rough. We use a light, soft wood for the training swords. I’ll get her a proper, solid oak sword with a proper fox carved on it.”

“Will that nae be too heavy for her to use?”

“Nae in a year or two. Children of her age grow fast and get strong quickly.” He shrugged. “I wouldnae worry.”

She met his gaze. “I’m nae worried.”

He didn’t look away.

For a moment, or perhaps half a moment, they just looked at each other, the air tight and heavy between them. Daphne could have sworn that all the air left her lungs in one ragged breath.

She flinched when Willow tugged at her skirt, holding up the sword for inspection.

“We didnae do any fighting,” she mumbled, visibly disappointed. “Can we do some now?”

Daphne hesitated, glancing over at Hunter. In turn, he squinted up at the sky, sniffing the air like a dog.