Page 33 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
She nodded, biting her lip.
He backed up. “Try again.”
This time she approached slower, voice low, hands relaxed at her sides. Alastair watched her warily but didn’t move.
She got two steps from him before tripping over a divot in the dirt and tumbling face-first into straw.
Rhys bit back a curse and hurried toward her, but Daisy popped up with a groan, hair full of hay, and scowled at the ground like it had betrayed her. “I’ll be back foryelater,” she vowed as she pointed at the divot.
He knelt beside her, a chuckle caught in his throat at her defiance.
“I’m fine, Da,” she grumbled, but Rhys still brushed strands of straw from her temple.
“Ye’re one tough lass. Just like yer ma.”
At the mention of her mother, Daisy softened. “Did Ma ever ride ponies?”
“Oh aye, lass,” the chuckle finally escaping softly. “Sidesaddle, back straight as a spear. Never looked afraid.”
Daisy turned to him. “Was she brave?”
He hesitated. “Aye. She once saddledmestallion just to prove she could ride him. Nay creature was too large for that woman.”
She nodded once and stood, brushing herself off. “I’ll try again.”
He didn’t stop her.
She walked back toward the pony, slower now, and whispered something Rhys couldn’t hear. Alastair flicked his ears and watched her.
Step by step, she got closer. Her fingers touched his neck. Then his mane. And then the pony knelt low enough for her grip his mane and swing herself up onto his back. She sat upright beaming, and Rhys exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
She looked so small up there. But so sure of herself. Like the world could come crashing down and she’d stay stead in that staddle.
She belongs out here,he thought.Among the beasts and earth, nae lace and letters.
His chest ached.
He hadn’t loved her mother. Not in the way his father had loved his mother. There’d been no poetry in it, no grand passion. But there had been trust. It was a partnership. She was strong where he was hard, and they’d built something steady in the brief time they’d shared.
And that woman had been a damn good mother. Fiercely devoted to Daisy. The kind of woman who could have kissed scraped knees in the morning and wield a dagger that afternoon — which she had on the day she had died.
He had only seen her with their daughter for five months.
The truce fest was her first time away from their daughter, and Rhys had taken the time and care to put her mind at ease through the journey and the dinner.
And then the blood bath came.
Rhys looked away, fists curling. The memory still burned of her gown soaked in red, eyes wide in disbelief, gasping. Gripping his arm, he made his promise to her.
He watched over Daisy now. She guided the pony around the pen with uneven grace, laughing despite the mud on her cheek. The sight of her solidified his rage.
The Murdochs ripped a maither’s love from a babe needlessly. Disgustin’.
His jaw clenched until his teeth ached as his mind swirled while his eyes followed Daisy. She steered the red pony in a slow, wobbly circle around the pen, arms out for balance like she was the queen of the Highlands.
A flicker of movement caught Rhys’s eye.
In the shade beyond the stable archway, William leaned against a post, one boot braced up behind him, calmly carving into an apple with his dagger. His attention had never strayed far, despite the illusion of casual loafing.
