Chapter 13
Daphne decided to keep her distance, for now. She stood at the edge of the field, watching Willow and Hunter together.
Hunter was talking in a low voice, the tip of his knife working deftly. Tiny flakes and spirals of wood curled up, drifting away in the breeze. Willow was transfixed, splitting her attention between the wood and Hunter’s face.
I cannae remember the last time I saw her so fascinated.
Guiltily, Daphne had to admit that sometimes Willow wasn’t at the forefront of her mind. With Lady Pilbury’s illness and the constant stream of visitors, Willow often had to be left in her room with her dolls.
Sometimes, Lady Pilbury would have Willow in her room, and they would entertain each other for a while as Daphne did any chores which took her away from her employer’s side. But lately, Lady Pilbury was just too ill, and even the servants, such as Cook, simply didn’t have the time to watch Willow.
And the little girl never complained, never really misbehaved. Still, in the back of Daphne’s mind was a niggling worry that she wasn’t giving her the best life she could have.
But now, here, out in the fresh air, with a new little wooden sword, Willow was practically glowing with happiness.
It was the right thing, coming here, Daphne thought with a rush. I’ve made me daughter happy. What more could I ask for?
At that moment, Hunter glanced up, his cool gaze catching hers all the way across the field. Her breath caught in her throat, and she coughed, half-turning away.
“The Laird is good with children,” remarked a familiar voice, making her jump.
Daphne glanced over her shoulder to find Elspeth standing there, a large hamper of laundry balanced on one hip. She was smiling fondly in their direction.
“Aye, he seems to like Willow very much,” Daphne managed.
“He always has a wee smile for the children of the keep,” Elspeth responded, taking a step forward so that they were standing side by side.
“Some lairds are awfully stern, ye ken. They daenae care for children, or anyone, really. But nae Laird MacCrimmon. He’s a man of the people, through and through.
I admire him; we all do. And like I said, he has a knack for making children like him.
Children and animals adore him, and I always say that they’re the best judges of character. ”
“Amen to that,” Daphne responded, relaxing a little. “Me daughter adopted a baby fox, and it climbed onto his lap at breakfast.”
Elspeth snorted. “Did it really? Well, I’m nae surprised. It’s just a pity that he’ll never have another child of his own.”
Daphne paused, her blood running cold. “Wait, what did ye say?”
Elspeth tore her gaze away from Hunter and Willow. “Only that Laird MacCrimmon willnae have another child.”
“Well, why nae?”
Elspeth stared at Daphne for a long moment. “I suppose ye wouldnae ken,” she murmured. “Everybody kens, but it’s nae the sort of thing we talk about.”
The back of Daphne’s neck prickled. “Elspeth, what are ye talking about?”
It occurred to her that she should be less interested. It wasn’t seemly to talk about what heirs a man might have, especially a man who wasn’t supposed to mean anything to her.
Elspeth didn’t seem wary, however. She just sighed, shaking her head. “He swore a vow years ago, in front of half of the army, that he’d nae wed or have a child of his own. A laird’s vow, made like that, is binding. He cannae go back on it.”
“But that’s nae fair. It was years ago.”
Elspeth gave her an amused smile. “Why, thinking of wedding him yerself, are ye?”
Color bloomed in Daphne’s cheeks. “Nay, of course nae!”
“I’m only messing with ye,” Elspeth chuckled. “He’s a handsome man, and an interesting one, but nobody who kens him would be foolish enough to try to catch him. He sticks to his vows.”
“Surely nobody would hold him to such a vow.”
She shrugged. “His vow proves that we, his people, mean more to him than any new child ever would.”
Daphne’s head spun.
New child? That seems pointed. Do they ken about Willow? If Helena and Lady Pilbury guessed, perhaps others could work it out too.
Then what would I do?
She didn’t have the answer. It would simply have to be something that she’d worry about when it came to it.
“I daenae understand why he’d make a vow like that in the first place,” she said, frowning. “Daenae lairds need heirs?”
“Nae blood heirs. They have to name an heir, aye, but it doesnae have to be their child. Of course, if a laird names somebody other than their eldest living male heir, it generally leads to war, so most just have that child succeed them. But nay, Laird MacCrimmon doesnae need to have another child.”
There it was again. Another child.
Daphne glanced uncertainly at the maid. There was more to this story than she was hearing; she was sure of it. The smile had faded from Elspeth’s face a little, replaced by a worried expression.
“Why did he make the vow?” Daphne whispered.
Elspeth shifted, clearing her throat. “That’s nae me tale to tell, me Lady. I hope ye will forgive me.”
“Oh, of course, of course. I… I didnae mean to pry.”
Elspeth shook her head tightly. “It’s just that we’re nae encouraged to speak of it. There are many secrets kept in this keep.”
Daphne swallowed.
Is Willow one of those secrets? Do they all ken about her already? If he’s made a vow like that, what will happen when people find out that he does have a child?
It couldn’t be anything good; she was sure of that.
Elspeth shifted uneasily from foot to foot, not meeting Daphne’s eyes. She cleared her throat once or twice, adjusting her laundry basket. It was pretty clear that she hoped to escape, but Daphne had more questions. Surely if she asked directly and made it clear that she wouldn’t give up, then—
“Ah, Elspeth, lass, off ye go, on yer way,” came Helena’s voice from behind.
Daphne glanced back to find Helena standing only a few feet behind, a small smile on her face.
“We daenae want to tire our guests unduly. On with yer work, then, and let Daphne here enjoy her holiday, aye?”
“Aye, me Lady,” Elspeth responded, bobbing a quick, relieved curtsey. She scurried off without so much as a backward glance.
Daphne said nothing for a moment. Had Helena heard what she was asking Elspeth? Was that her subtle way of warning her off?
Nay, I’m imagining it. There’s nay way Helena heard.
“I would pay nay mind to that story, lass,” Helena said briskly.
Daphne winced.
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.