Page 79 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
Before she could fully answer, Daisy darted in, face alight with delight.
“I’m comin’ with ye!” she announced.
Amara blinked. “Where?”
“To the courtyard,” Daisy said matter-of-factly. “Papa said I could.”
“Well, did he now?”
Daisy nodded vigorously. “Said ye could use a bit of supervision.”
Amara grinned. “I see.”
She reached for the teacup again and took a long sip. The Laird O’Donnell, it seemed, liked to set traps wrapped in tenderness.
Not that she necessarily minded being caught in one.
Nina helped lace up her gown and fasten her hair into a loose braid that hung over one shoulder. The day dress was a soft green fabric, warm against the breeze that still crept along the stone floors. When Amara emerged from her chambers, Daisy was already bounding down the corridor ahead of her like a puppy let off its leash.
“Come on!” the girl called back. “Ye’ll miss the sun!”
Amara followed, her boots whispering against the rugs, steps light despite herself. There was something different in her chest this morning. Something soft. Hopeful.
She was halfway through the corridor when a door opened on her left. It had been hidden and tucked between two carved pillars that she hadn’t noticed before.
A man stepped out and closed the panel behind him with practiced ease.
He was tall, with salt-streaked dark hair and a face weathered not with age, but with years of watching. A calmness hung about him, like still water before a storm.
“Lady Amara,” he said, bowing his head. “Forgive the surprise. I’ve a habit of usin’ the old paths.”
Amara blinked, startled. “I’m sorry. Do I ken ye?”
“Nay, but I ken ye,” he said kindly. “Leighton Baird. I serve on the laird’s council. I kent yer maither, once.”
Her breath caught. “Ye… did?”
The man nodded slowly, voice quiet. “Long ago. We were younger, and far more reckless with our words. Both of us were interested in a truce. Both of us had their laird’s ear. She was a kind soul. Stubborn as anythin’. But kind. She and me wife were close once.”
Amara’s hands folded in front of her. “Ye… ye were… friends?”
“Aye. Shared many a long afternoon and too much mead. She made her own handkerchiefs even after me wife gave her prettier ones. Always smelled of mint.”
A tremble moved through Amara. She didn’t feel sadness, exactly, but it was a deep and aching sense of missing her mother. The memory of her mother’s arms. The way she’d sing when she thought no one was listening.
“She sounds… just as I remember her,” she whispered.
“She was always consistent. And proud. Quite proud of ye, lass.”
Her throat tightened.
“If ever ye need a respite from all this,” he continued, stepping back toward the panel, “me wife and I would be honored to host ye. Tea and stories, whenever ye like.”
Amara nodded, barely able to speak. “Thank ye.”
Leighton tipped his head again and disappeared behind the door, which clicked seamlessly back into place.
For a long moment, she just stared at it.
