Chapter 7
Is that a threat?
Daphne barked out the words in her head, but didn’t say them aloud. She just glowered up at Hunter.
He gave a small, tight smile and turned on his heel, walking across the courtyard. He didn’t head toward the main entrance, which Rhiannon was guiding Helena and Lady Pilbury toward. No, he seemed to be rounding the side of the castle, where the courtyard narrowed a little more.
It occurred to her that if she stood staring for much longer, she’d lose sight of him. And once he’d disappeared in that castle, which was probably as complex as a maze inside, she might not catch up with him.
She considered it. She could slip away, avoid whatever it was he had to say to her. The coward’s way out, really.
Too bad I’m not a coward. Anyway, I suppose a conversation is long overdue, she thought unhappily. Better get it over with.
This way, it was easier to attribute the bubbling in her chest to anxiety over their conversation, and nothing to do with any other, more troublesome feelings.
Feelings that the last few years should have dampened down. They hadn’t, of course, and no doubt she’d have to face that sooner or later.
Ideally, later.
Hiking up her skirts, she hurried after him.
He must have heard the approaching tap-tap of her feet, hurrying to keep up, but made no move to glance behind him.
She caught up, and they walked side by side in silence.
The carriage was out of sight by the time he turned towards a narrow doorway.
A single thick step led up into the door, and a young maid sat on the step, sewing a crisp linen shirt.
She glanced up at them and smiled, ducking her head respectfully to Hunter.
However, she didn’t jump up and curtsey, only shuffled out of the way.
“The servants behave differently here than the servants in England,” Daphne remarked, stepping through the doorway after him. The hallway was narrow, cool, and dark, and the footsteps on the stone floor echoed. “They’re less subservient. I suppose I have gotten used to the English way.”
“Do ye prefer it? The English way, I mean.”
She considered, then shook her head. “Nay, nae at all. Lady Pilbury treats her servants like family. She’s a good, kind woman. But I used to go with her to pay calls, back when she was well, and I saw how other families treated their servants.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Bad?”
“Bad,” she confirmed. “I watched a woman dismiss a maid for dropping a teacup. The girl cried and begged, but it did no good. Lady Pilbury, on the other hand, learned that I was pregnant and didnae throw me out. Now that was unusual.”
“Any woman me mother loves so much must be special.” Hunter shrugged. He kept his back turned to her, his broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow hallway. “That’s why I invited her. Our healers might do her good, ye ken. And it will do me mother good to have a child to spoil.”
He didn’t say her grandchild, but the words rang in her head anyway. She wondered briefly if Hunter had heard the words in his head, too, ringing out clear and crisp, like a bell.
A person could never undo being a parent.
A home could be left behind, a spouse could be abandoned or might die, but once a child had been born, a person never ceased being a mother or a father.
After all, how many mothers or fathers did she know who only had dead children?
No, the brand of parenthood remained, no matter what.
I am a mother. He is a father. That knowledge cannae be taken back. It just cannae. What does he think about that? Does it terrify him?
It had certainly terrified her, long before Willow was born.
That was normal, though, wasn’t it? New parents dreaded the event as much as they longed for it.
It wasn’t just the pain and horror of childbirth, but the reality of what came after.
Raising a child. Not an easy task. In fact, based on what she’d observed herself, it was one of the hardest things a person could ever do.
Enough of these musings, she scolded herself. Concentrate on the here and now.
Now that he was here, with the dark, cold walls of Keep MacCrimmon looming around her, the reality of her situation flooded in. She was far from home, both her real home and Lady Pilbury’s house, the place that had become home.
And I am mother to the only MacCrimmon heir.
I suspect that’s a dangerous situation to be in.
The endless hallway opened at last into a wide, cavernous space, full of tapestries and old portraits.
The ceiling swept up and up, furred with dust and old cobwebs.
A galley ran around the walls, and she saw soldiers and servants milling around, smothering their boredom or going about their business.
Hunter didn’t stop.
“This way,” he ordered brusquely, and set off across the room. He didn’t bother to moderate his pace to let her keep up. He just walked, fast, and assumed that she’d follow.
For the most part, he was right, so far. She did follow him. There was something undignified about trotting after him, like a sheep hurrying after a shepherd, but what could she do?
I could stop dead, I suppose, but what’s the point of that?
No point at all. So, she kept going.
Eyes lingered on Daphne as she followed him. Soldiers eyed her with curiosity, and the maids whispered as she went by. Uneasily, she realized that her appearance here would be remarked upon and gossiped about. Gossip like that would easily escape the keep and make it to other clans.
“Hunter!” a male voice echoed across the space.
She glanced up to find a tall, broad man striding toward them, not quite as large as Hunter but close. His long, dark hair was pulled back in an untidy knot, and his keen, hawk-like black eyes raked over her, missing no detail.
Apparently, he decided that she wasn’t worth greeting or worrying about, for his gaze immediately slid to Hunter.
“I’m glad ye are back.”
“I’m glad to be back,” Hunter responded. “What is it, Magnus?”
“We have things to discuss.” Magnus stopped, digging his thumbs into his belt. “Nothing pressing, but ye ken how these matters build up when ye are away.”
“Aye, I ken. Later, I think. I have business to attend to.”
Magnus frowned, glancing briefly at Daphne. “Can this nae wait?”
“Nay,” Hunter responded simply, taking a few more steps toward a small, heavy wooden door, rounded at the top with an iron doorknob in the center. “It cannae. Come on in, lass. Let’s talk.”
Magnus blinked, his eyes widening. He actually rocked back on his heels with surprise and stared at Daphne with intrigue. He still didn’t address her, however.
She made no move to speak to him and simply slipped through the doorway after Hunter.
The room beyond the door was small, round, and overfull.
Bookshelves lined the walls. Some shelves were nailed to the walls; others were simply bookcases propped up here and there.
A low window seat sat in front of a narrow window, laden with books and papers.
There was only room for a large desk and two chairs, and both chairs were full of papers.
A large map was pinned down on the desk, weighed down in the corners with four books.
Pencil scribbles covered the map, and there were various little figurines and items that were probably meant to represent something.
Hunter stepped forward, deftly yanked up the map, scattering the items in the process, and rolled it up.
“Forgive the mess,” he said bluntly. “This is me study. Me personal study, that is, so I rarely hold meetings in here.”
Daphne said nothing. She stepped forward and bent to pick up one of the little things that had been standing on the map. It had rolled onto the floor and sat just beside the desk leg.
She held it up to the light, turning it over and over in her fingers.
“A toy soldier,” she remarked, a little surprised. “One of yers?”
“Aye,” he responded lightly, reaching over and plucking it out of her fingers. “I use them to show where our forces are on a map. Useful.”
“Willow wanted a set of these. I cannae afford them, of course. I didnae want me family to ken where I was, so… I made her a doll for her last birthday. She adores it, but it’s nae what she wanted.”
Hunter tilted his head. “Why nae ask Lady Pilbury? She loves Willow. I reckon she’d buy her anything she wanted.”
Daphne pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Nay, I daenae want to ask for too much. Lady Pilbury already does enough for us. I earn a living because of her. I can raise me daughter as a lady, and I daenae face the dangers a single mother would usually deal with.”
A long silence passed before Hunter responded. She could feel his eyes on her like a weight, sending tingles down her spine.
Clearing her throat, she turned to eye the books on the shelves. She’d expected to see history books, books of maps, tales about the Highlands and the clans, and she was right. However, among the dusty old history tomes, she spotted something surprising.
“Novels,” she murmured, taking a step forward and tapping a spine with her forefinger. “The Italian, by Mrs. Radcliffe. I finished reading this one to Lady Pilbury last year. I didnae take ye for a man who reads novels.”
“Ye daenae think it’s human nature to love stories? It’s just as well that I did. A secret daughter, a hidden vow, and a reluctant mother? That could be straight out of Mrs. Radcliffe’s pages.”
Daphne stiffened, whipping around to face him. “When ye say reluctant mother, I assume ye mean me?”
He eyed her thoughtfully. “I suppose. It’s nae an insult.”
“Well, it sounds like one.”
“Willow wasnae exactly planned.”
“Aye, well, I daenae want her to ken that!”
“Why nae?”