Chapter 2
A long silence followed the intrusion. At least, it felt long, for it couldn’t have been more than a handful of seconds.
Daphne scrambled off the bed, her skirts getting tangled around her legs, making her hop, undignified.
I could scream for help. Could ring the bell, summon the servants.
She didn’t do any of those things. She just stood gaping at him.
Oh, it was ridiculous to pretend that she’d forgotten. Even if Willow wasn’t a daily reminder of what had happened—and what she’d escaped—that night was never far from her mind. She could almost feel his arms around her, the rough stubble on his cheek pricking the sensitive skin of her neck.
She cleared her throat. Now was not the time.
“Whatever ye are doing here,” she managed, her voice shaking, “and whoever ye are, ye cannae stay. I must insist that ye leave at once. I…”
Lady Pilbury leaned forward, the pillow rustling beneath her. “Helena?” she gasped, her voice quavering. “Is it really you? Oh, how long has it been?”
“It is me, Edith,” the old Scottish woman responded, pushing back her hood. She took a few steps forward, leaning heavily on a stick. “I’m surprised ye can recognize me under all these wrinkles and gray hair.”
Daphne blinked, taking a few steps back.
The Scottish woman—Helena—limped forward, and all but stumbled onto the bed.
She and Lady Pilbury threw their arms around each other and stayed like that for a long moment.
She could have sworn that she heard Lady Pilbury sniffling, muffling tears in Helena’s thick braided hair.
“I was afraid I would be too late,” Helena whispered. “I left as soon as I received yer letter.”
“Oh, I should not have troubled you. But it has been so long, and I had such a hankering to see you.”
“It’s no trouble, Edith, nae a wee bit of it! I made me poor son race all the way here, but he claims it’s no trouble.” She turned, flashing a wry smile at Hunter.
Lady Pilbury pulled back, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
They were red and puffy, but there was more color in her cheeks than there had been in a while.
Not that Daphne dared keep much hope. She had made her peace with it, more or less.
It wasn’t easy, knowing that her friend and protector would die and that she’d soon be out on her own again.
Nay, nae on me own. I’ll have Willow to care for.
“This is Lady Helena Brennan,” Lady Pilbury explained. “Lady MacCrimmon, they call her in Scotland. She’s quite an important woman.”
“Ah, give over,” Helena chuckled, swatting at her. “I’m an old dowager, and I sit on me backside all day, twiddling me thumbs and making trouble for me son and daughter. A widow’s dream, really.”
Beside Lady Pilbury, Willow shifted, leaning forward. Her initial caution had worn off, and now the spark of mischief had returned to her eyes.
Daphne felt a thrum of dread. Suddenly, nothing mattered beyond getting out of that room, and out from under Helena’s thoughtful gaze and Hunter’s impenetrable one.
He’d taken up residence in a corner of the room, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. For such a large man, he seemed to have a knack for melting into the background. At least, he would have had that knack, if every fiber of her being hadn’t been focused on it.
“Ye look strange,” Willow announced, her gaze fixed determinedly on Hunter. “Is that a skirt?”
Daphne’s heart sank so low that she was afraid it would fall out from under her petticoats.
“Willow,” she hissed, taking a step forward. “We must be polite, remember?”
Willow, with that particular skill children had, suffered an alarming attack of deafness and did not hear her mother’s summons. Instead, she reached out tentatively, drawing the hem of Helena’s cloak between her fingers.
“Soft,” she mumbled.
“Aye, it’s lambswool,” Helena laughed, tucking a strand of Willow’s hair behind her ear. “And the pattern is tartan. Have ye seen it before?”
Willow shook her head, entranced.
“Ahh, well, it’s very common where I live. And me son doesnae wear a skirt, nae in the way ye might imagine. We call it a kilt. It’s heavy and warm, with good pockets, and men wear them to move quickly and sure-footed over the hills and mountains.”
Willow eyed Hunter once more, tilting her head to the side. “It looks very comfortable,” she conceded.
“What a sweet thing she is.” Helena smiled. “Nae yer granddaughter, then?”
Lady Pilbury laughed. “No, not mine. She is Daphne’s daughter. She is Scottish—they both are—but I do not believe Willow has ever seen the Highlands.”
“Ah!” Helena exclaimed. “What a pity. We must take ye sometime, little one.”
Willow perked up, glancing from face to face. “Describe it to me,” she demanded, smiling hopefully.
Helena leaned toward her, a smile curving her lips.
“It is a dark place,” she murmured. “Green, too, always very green. The rain isnae soft and gentle like an English rain. Our gales tear trees up by the roots and topple the highest stones from their perches. Our rivers boil in storms, flooding their banks, sending fish and water sweeping through houses. The sun doesnae shine often, and when it does, there’s rarely power in its stare.
But the beauty… oh, the beauty of the place!
Heather paints the hills purple and blue, and the seas curl around the cliffs as if they’re trying to climb up onto the land, as if they envy us. ”
“Oh,” Willow breathed, her eyes huge.
“Very poetic,” Lady Pilbury chuckled. She glanced over at Daphne. “My dear, would you fetch tea? Helena and I will stay here and talk, if you don’t mind.”
Daphne could think of nothing to say, so she bobbed a curtsey and dived out of the room into the narrow, dark hallway beyond.
A shadow followed her. A tingle rolled down her spine, and she spun around to face Hunter.
His eyes met hers, and for a few seconds, they stood still, staring at each other.
He probably doesnae remember me, Daphne told herself, swallowing hard and lifting her chin. Why would he? He bedded one woman in the dark five years ago and never saw her again. He’s probably bedded hundreds since. He has no idea who I am.
“Well,” he drawled, his cool gaze sweeping over her. “We meet again. I thought I might find ye at the Leanan Festival, but I was wrong.”
Just me bloody luck.
“I daenae ken what ye are talking about,” she managed, her voice cracking.
He took a step towards her. The hallway seemed to warp and shift, closing in on her. Daphne shivered despite herself, and not because of the draft.
“Oh, but I think ye do,” he murmured, his tone a little thoughtful. “Daenae say ye daenae remember me, lass.”
Daenae remember ye? How could I forget?
For an instant, she felt a phantom hand trail down the curve of her spine, fingertips pressing into the small of her back. She could almost feel the warm softness of his breath on her neck and the weight of his arm around her waist.
Stop it!
Swallowing again—her mouth insisted on drying out—she met his eyes as boldly as she could.
“Sir, I daenae ken ye.”
“Can ye nae guess? I am Laird MacCrimmon. And that is me daughter in there, is it nae?”
She could have sworn that the floor shifted under her feet. A quick glance down confirmed that the creaking old boards remained where they were, much to her surprise.
“D-Daughter?” she squeaked, a little embarrassed at how thin and panicky her voice had become.
Hunter’s face darkened. His eyebrows drew together, heavy and almost angry. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her chest tightened. It wasn’t fear, though, not the way a woman ought to feel fear when faced with a large man in a small hallway.
No, the feeling was dangerously like the way she’d felt that fateful night. Prickling, over-aware, tension coiled in her chest and refusing to let her breathe. The sort of feeling that reordered a person’s life when it came and went, tearing away everything as it left.
Does he feel the same?
That thought, traitorous and thoroughly unhelpful, vanished from her mind as if it were frightened.
And then a floorboard creaked further along the hall. Both she and Hunter glanced at the same time.
An elderly man crept along towards them, raising a shiny silver candlestick in thin, mottled hands, trying his best to disguise his limp.
“Unhand her, you brute!” he quavered. “Step away from him, Daphne. I shall send for the authorities at once!”
Daphne’s shoulders relaxed. She glanced up at Hunter, who was watching the old man’s progress with amusement.
“His name is Smithy,” she said shortly. “Lady Pilbury’s butler. There’s nothing to fear, Mr. Smithy. This man is Laird MacCrimmon, and his mother is an old friend of Lady Pilbury’s. I’ve been sent to ask ye to make tea.”
This, apparently, was not what Smithy had expected to hear. He blinked, gingerly lowering the candlestick.
“Oh,” he said, sounding relieved and disappointed all at once. “Well, I should have rushed to your aid, Miss Tulloch. Fear not.”
“Thank ye.”
“Lord MacCrimmon, is it?”
Hunter gave a low grunt, eyeing the old man with growing interest. “Tell me, is that candlestick the best weapon ye have in the house? I’d nae care to leave me wife and children in a house so poorly guarded.”
The butler stiffened, pushing out his thin chest. “I seized the first weapon at hand, sir. You should consider yourself lucky not to have encountered Cook. Candlesticks and shoe polish might be the tools of my trade, but hers are knives, and they are remarkably sharp.”
Hunter grunted again. “I ken. It’s an old adage. Never challenge a cook to a knife fight, and daenae arm-wrestle a laundrywoman.”
Perhaps that was meant to be a joke. At any rate, he didn’t smile when he said it.
Smithy narrowed his eyes.
“Smithy?” Lady Pilbury’s voice drifted out from the bedroom. “Tea, if you please.”
“Yes, my Lady,” he called back. “Daphne, perhaps you could help me?”
Daphne gave a wry smile. Smithy, bless him, was trying to save her. Before she could respond—she was not sure what she would say, whether she’d accept his offer of escape or not—Hunter stepped forward.