Page 128 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
Together.
3 weeks later
The war table had never seen such chaos.
Where once it had held maps and battle plans, it now bore scraps of fabric, handwritten guest lists, bits of twine, two half-eaten scones, and what looked suspiciously like a candied apple that no one was admitting to having brought inside.
Amara stood at its center like a general in her element, sleeves rolled up, curls pinned loosely, eyes bright with purpose. Mabel hovered to one side, nodding in approval as she stitched a smallsampler to keep her hands busy. On the other, Daisy was elbow-deep in a pile of lace, declaring each piece either“perfect”or“itchy.”
“Why is there lace at all?” William asked, sprawled in one of the armchairs like he owned it. “Ye said ‘simple affair’, did ye nae?”
“She meant ‘simple’ the way a storm means ‘a little wind’,” Myles muttered from the window, where he was carving initials into the wood frame with a butter knife. “Ye havenae learnt?”
“I can hear ye both,” Amara said, not looking up from the list she was writing. “And if I remember correctly, yeofferedto help.”
“Aye, but I dinnae ken that would involve bein’ dragged into arguments about parchment color and oatcakes versus shortbread.”
“Thatisa valid debate,” Mabel added, lifting her eyes briefly.
“Mabel.” Myles groaned, and threw his arm across his eyes dramatically. “Nae ye too.”
Rhys watched them from the far edge of the room, arms crossed over his chest, heart fuller than he knew how to hold. The keep was quiet now, mostly. The bodies were buried, the wounded healing, and the smoke had cleared from the last of the broken halls.
The O’Donnell banner flew again, stitched with a golden thread by Daisy’s own hands.
He still bore bruises from the battle. A cut along his side had reopened twice that week. But nothing stung worse than the betrayal of his kin.
But now, looking at the woman he loved, the daughter who had never left his side, and the friends who filled the room with warmth again, he felt whole.
At least until Tomil arrived.
The knock came soft. Hesitant.
Before Rhys could speak, the door creaked open and the steward stepped in, messaging tray in hand.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lord,” he said, nodding toward Amara. “Me lady. I’ve somethin’ that was brought for ye.”
Rhys stepped forward and took the folded parchment from her. “Who brought it?”
“Messenger on horseback. Said it was urgent. Came from the north road. He’s gone now.”
“Thank ye, Tomil.”
The man dipped his head and set the tray down, and backed away toward the door.
Rhys turned the parchment over in his hand. It bore the Murdoch seal. He stared at it for a beat longer.
“Please leave us,” Rhys said, softly, and the room cleared of everyone but Amara. She stood in her spot, and without another word, he turned the letter over, broke the seal, and read.
His eyes scanned quickly, shoulders tightening with every line.
“Lady Amara
I write not as a father in search of forgiveness, as I know I’ve not earned it.
In recent days, truths have come to light that I could not even dream to be true, and I have come to understand that I was wrong. About many things. Chiefly among them, you and your mother.
I won’t dress it in false kindness or sentimental words. I see now that the choices I made, the bitterness I held — none of it justified the way I treated you. I know that now.
