Chapter 12
Rhys squeezed Daisy’s hand for a quick moment before he let it go and called out to Myles ahead of him.
“Aye?” the man said, turning around with his teeth completely lodged into an apple.
“Bring Lady Amara to the library. Let her browse the old volumes if she must, but keep her from diggin’ too deep. Daenae let her wander.”
Myles raised a brow and chewed on his bite as he replied, “Aye, reckon she’ll be plannin’ treason over the course of the mornin’, then?”
“I think she’s clever. And curious. That’s dangerous enough.”
Myles smirked and gave a lazy salute before disappearing down the hall after her. Rhys tracked him down the corridor until he caught up to her, but he didn’t miss the clear anger in her step as her day dress swayed violently behind her rapidly.
He turned back to Daisy. Her small boot tapped impatiently against the flagstone, chin high and curls bouncing beneath her hood and it made him crack a faint smile.
“Ye remember what I told ye, lass?” he asked, his eyes flicked past her toward the stables in the distance.
“Aye,” she said, clearly reciting. “Hands soft, voice low. Mind me feet. Praise’m if he listens, nae yank when he doesnae.”
“That’s a good lass,” he said and offered his arm to her with exaggerated formality. “Shall we, me lady?”
She giggled and looped her fingers through the crook of his elbow.
The stables stood just beyond the training yard and sparring grounds.
Centuries had weathered the old stone and ivy, and the inside smelled of a scent that called to Rhys.
He had always found it honest. Comforting in a way that castles and keeps never were.
Hay, earth, sweat, hard work, and high rewards. Centuries of it.
Daisy slipped through the gate of the pen before he could think to stop her, already calling out, “Alastair! C’mere, ye wee rascal!”
The red pony, still half-wild despite the master’s best efforts, snorted and tossed his mane, easily trotting to the far end of the pen.
Rhys leaned against the rail, arms folded.
He watched as his daughter tried coaxing him with an oatcake she had stolen from the breakfast table. Then with soft clucks of her tongue. Then with full-on shouting.
“C’mere, ye stubborn brute! Sta’ bein’ so proud, I ken ye better than all that!”
The pony just blinked at her and turned his hindquarters toward her in a perfect display of defiance.
Rhys suppressed a laugh. “Ye’re scarin’ him, love.”
Daisy whirled around, cheeks flushed. “I was nae!”
“Were too.”
She hugged and stomped her tiny booted foot “He’s just bein’ a pain in me eye!”
Rhys pushed off the railing and stepped inside, calm and slow. “Aye, he is. But so are ye, lass.”
Her brows knit together so tight in offense that a line creased her youthful forehead. He reached out his hand and brushed the pad of his thumb against it. “Ye’re clenchin’ yer fists, love,” he pointed out. “Yer jaw is tight and proud. He feels all of that.”
His hands cupped her tiny shoulders and squeezed gently as she looked down at her hands.
“Animals can generally read what folk ignore. Horses best of all. If ye bring him yer proudness and storm of fury, he’ll bolt. If ye bring him the calm… he might stay. But ye have to remember, it’s his choice.”
She nodded, biting her lip.
He backed up. “Try again.”
This time she approached slower, voice low, hands relaxed at her sides. Alastair watched her warily but didn’t move.
She got two steps from him before tripping over a divot in the dirt and tumbling face-first into straw.
Rhys bit back a curse and hurried toward her, but Daisy popped up with a groan, hair full of hay, and scowled at the ground like it had betrayed her. “I’ll be back for ye later,” she vowed as she pointed at the divot.
He knelt beside her, a chuckle caught in his throat at her defiance.
“I’m fine, Da,” she grumbled, but Rhys still brushed strands of straw from her temple.
“Ye’re one tough lass. Just like yer ma.”
At the mention of her mother, Daisy softened. “Did Ma ever ride ponies?”
“Oh aye, lass,” the chuckle finally escaping softly. “Sidesaddle, back straight as a spear. Never looked afraid.”
Daisy turned to him. “Was she brave?”
He hesitated. “Aye. She once saddled me stallion just to prove she could ride him. Nay creature was too large for that woman.”
She nodded once and stood, brushing herself off. “I’ll try again.”
He didn’t stop her.
She walked back toward the pony, slower now, and whispered something Rhys couldn’t hear. Alastair flicked his ears and watched her.
Step by step, she got closer. Her fingers touched his neck. Then his mane. And then the pony knelt low enough for her grip his mane and swing herself up onto his back. She sat upright beaming, and Rhys exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
She looked so small up there. But so sure of herself. Like the world could come crashing down and she’d stay stead in that staddle.
She belongs out here, he thought. Among the beasts and earth, nae lace and letters.
His chest ached.
He hadn’t loved her mother. Not in the way his father had loved his mother. There’d been no poetry in it, no grand passion. But there had been trust. It was a partnership. She was strong where he was hard, and they’d built something steady in the brief time they’d shared.
And that woman had been a damn good mother. Fiercely devoted to Daisy. The kind of woman who could have kissed scraped knees in the morning and wield a dagger that afternoon — which she had on the day she had died.
He had only seen her with their daughter for five months.
The truce fest was her first time away from their daughter, and Rhys had taken the time and care to put her mind at ease through the journey and the dinner.
And then the blood bath came.
Rhys looked away, fists curling. The memory still burned of her gown soaked in red, eyes wide in disbelief, gasping. Gripping his arm, he made his promise to her.
He watched over Daisy now. She guided the pony around the pen with uneven grace, laughing despite the mud on her cheek. The sight of her solidified his rage.
The Murdochs ripped a maither’s love from a babe needlessly. Disgustin’.
His jaw clenched until his teeth ached as his mind swirled while his eyes followed Daisy. She steered the red pony in a slow, wobbly circle around the pen, arms out for balance like she was the queen of the Highlands.
A flicker of movement caught Rhys’s eye.
In the shade beyond the stable archway, William leaned against a post, one boot braced up behind him, calmly carving into an apple with his dagger. His attention had never strayed far, despite the illusion of casual loafing.
Rhys gave a sharp whistle and urged the man over with a nod.
William looked up, grinned faintly, and tossed the apple core into a nearby trough.
With a quick swipe of the blade across his sleeve, he tucked it back into his belt and came striding over.
Rhys noticed that the man had called out over his shoulder before his boots hit the dirt in the pen, and following the man was the stable master.
“She’s got that pony trained already?” he asked as they turned toward the keep.
“She’s got grit,” Rhys muttered. “Might have some competition, Master Shannon.”
“Oh aye, the young miss may very well take over for me soon,” the older gentleman joked, but Daisy heard, and a wide smile broke out across her face with a stunning glow.
The two men turned and maneuvered outside of the pen railing. Rhys left his daughter in the care of the master with a caring wave, and she beamed somehow even wider than she had been. “Bye, Da! Love ye!”
“Love ye too, precious lass. See ye later.”
“Bye Mister Billy!”
“See ye later on, miss,” William had said with a fond chuckle, and Rhys recalled that there was once a time where William had absolutely loathed the nickname ‘Billy’ that Myles had given him.
He used to correct him and everyone within a half-second of it being said.
The memory brought a wide grin to his mouth, as his daughter seemed to make the man more amenable to the name.
William is a mouthful anyway — look forward to the day he just snaps and lets us all call him ‘Billy’…
They walked in silence across the bailey. The mist had burned off, leaving sunlight to glint off the stone walls and clatter of tools from the forge ringing through the yard. When they reached the inner stairwell, William fell into step behind him without any indication needed.
By the time they reached the landing near the study, William was already speaking.
“Council caught me this mornin’ before I came out to the stable.”
Rhys opened his gait a bit wider, but William remained in step, and the two men took a turn down the corridor. “Oh, aye?”
William continued without missing a beat, reading the rhythm that the conversation would potentially go with ease. “Leighton and Robert brought new suggestions for settlin’ the Murdoch matter without a direct strike. Might be worth a listen, Rhys.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye,” William said, waiting for Rhys to indicate that he was ready to hear more. Which he did with a slight inclination of his head.
“Robert’s proposin’ to intercept their trade lines. Starve ‘em slow. Leighton favors callin’ in the McKinnons. Claims they’d jump at a chance to edge into the North and gut Murdoch in our name.”
Rhys’s jaw flexed. “Nae a direct strike, but a far greater impact?”
“They daenae wish to die,” William said evenly.
Rhys pushed open the study door. Dust motes swirled in the beam of light from the window. The heavy table in the center was strewn with maps, markers, and old ledgers.
“They shouldnae have pledged their steel to me if they dinnae mean to use it, Billy, and ye can tell them that directly,” Rhys said, striding toward the table.
William said nothing in response.
Rhys didn’t look up as he asked, “Where’s the lass?”
William raised a brow. “Myles is in the library as he was instructed to do with the Lady Amara...”
Rhys’s eyes flicked up at that.