Page 9 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

Hunter gave a short, bitter laugh.

No wonder I couldnae find her.

“And ye cannae say where?”

“I couldnae if I wanted to.” Ceana turned away, shaking out her wet hair. “But if ye find her, tell me where she is. I miss her, too.”

The music started up again. When had it stopped?

Gradually, throwing him distrustful glares, the couples resumed dancing, circling around him.

Ignoring them, he stomped off the dance floor, his boots squelching in the grass. His head spun. So, Daphne was real. There were certainly times that he’d thought she could have been a figment of his imagination. So beautiful, so fleeting. After all, he’d woken up to find her gone and himself alone under the willow tree.

She’s real. She’s real, and she’s got a sister.

Does she live in England with her husband?

Blinking water out of his eyes, he lifted his head, glanced across at the tent, and paused.

A woman stood there, swathed in a cloak, talking urgently to Magnus. She glanced his way, revealing a pale face in the depths of the hood, silver hair falling over the forehead.

“Mother,” Hunter breathed, and set off at a jog. He reached the tent, ducking under the awning.

“Lady Helena just got here,” Magnus murmured.

“I had to come,” Helena said, leaning heavily on her cane.

“It’s wet and cold. We agreed ye should stay inside to keep yerself healthy,” Hunter growled. “Skye will tear out me innards if ye get sick.”

“I’m nae afraid of either of me children, thank ye very much,” Helena responded snippily. “I’ve received bad news. Daenae look so pale; it barely affects ye. When I was a young girl, I went to a fine boarding school—a prestigious one. I didnae make many friends there, but there was one lass I was close with, an English girl. We’ve exchanged letters for decades. Well, her latest letter just arrived. She’s sick, very sick. She believes she’s dying and is asking me to visit her one last time.”

Hunter let out a ragged sigh. “Ye want me to take ye to visit an old friend?”

“Aye, and there’s no time to lose. I must see her, Hunter, please. Give me a carriage, and I’ll travel alone.”

“Well, that’s out of the question. Where does ye friend live now?”

“England. She lives in England. About three days’ journey from here, if we leave now.”

“Bloody marvelous,” Hunter muttered.

Three Days Later

Pilbury House, England

“How much further to the end, my dear?”

Daphne paused in her reading, flicking forward a few chapters. “About fifty pages or so, Lady Pilbury.”

The old woman pursed her thin, wrinkled mouth. “Oh, that’s entirely too much. Do you think you could skip a bit? I’m dying to discover what is behind the Black Veil. Mrs. Radcliffe is a fine writer, but she does tend to drag a little, don’t you think? I hope to discover Miss St. Aubert’s fate before I die, not after.”

A lump lodged in Daphne’s throat, powerful enough to make her eyes sting.

“I wish ye wouldnae talk like that,” she mumbled, leafing through the pages. When she glanced up, Lady Pilbury was looking at her with a soft, sad look.

“I’m sorry, my dear. Here, take my hand.” She stretched out a thin, gnarled hand, all bony knuckles and papery skin.

The illness had aged Lady Pilbury a decade in the space of several years, it seemed. She hadn’t left her bed since last Christmas. It was Daphne’s responsibility to change her bed, fluff her pillows, feed her, and keep her company. There were servants and nurses for the rest, and a rotation of doctors who called more and more frequently.