Page 32 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
His dark eyes had slipped even further into darkness. Thunder cracking beneath the surface.
Amara tugged the shawl around her tighter to hide her pebbling skin.
Whatever the storm he carried inside of him… it was nowhere near passing…
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 hecaught 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… hemightstay. But ye have to remember, it’shischoice.”
