Page 13 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

He took a step towards her. The hallway seemed to warp and shift, closing in on her. Daphne shivered despite herself, and not because of the draft.

“Oh, but I think ye do,” he murmured, his tone a little thoughtful. “Daenae say ye daenae remember me, lass.”

Daenae remember ye? How could I forget?

For an instant, she felt a phantom hand trail down the curve of her spine, fingertips pressing into the small of her back. She could almost feel the warm softness of his breath on her neck and the weight of his arm around her waist.

Stop it!

Swallowing again—her mouth insisted on drying out—she met his eyes as boldly as she could.

“Sir, I daenae ken ye.”

“Can ye nae guess? I am Laird MacCrimmon. And that is me daughter in there, is it nae?”

She could have sworn that the floor shifted under her feet. A quick glance down confirmed that the creaking old boards remained where they were, much to her surprise.

“D-Daughter?” she squeaked, a little embarrassed at how thin and panicky her voice had become.

Hunter’s face darkened. His eyebrows drew together, heavy and almost angry. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her chest tightened. It wasn’t fear, though, not the way a woman ought to feel fear when faced with a large man in a small hallway.

No, the feeling was dangerously like the way she’d felt that fateful night. Prickling, over-aware, tension coiled in her chest and refusing to let her breathe. The sort of feeling that reordered a person’s life when it came and went, tearing away everything as it left.

Does he feel the same?

That thought, traitorous and thoroughly unhelpful, vanished from her mind as if it were frightened.

And then a floorboard creaked further along the hall. Both she and Hunter glanced at the same time.

An elderly man crept along towards them, raising a shiny silver candlestick in thin, mottled hands, trying his best to disguise his limp.

“Unhand her, you brute!” he quavered. “Step away from him, Daphne. I shall send for the authorities at once!”

Daphne’s shoulders relaxed. She glanced up at Hunter, who was watching the old man’s progress with amusement.

“His name is Smithy,” she said shortly. “Lady Pilbury’s butler. There’s nothing to fear, Mr. Smithy. This man is Laird MacCrimmon, and his mother is an old friend of Lady Pilbury’s. I’ve been sent to ask ye to make tea.”

This, apparently, was not what Smithy had expected to hear. He blinked, gingerly lowering the candlestick.

“Oh,” he said, sounding relieved and disappointed all at once. “Well, I should have rushed to your aid, Miss Tulloch. Fear not.”

“Thank ye.”

“Lord MacCrimmon, is it?”

Hunter gave a low grunt, eyeing the old man with growing interest. “Tell me, is that candlestick the best weapon ye have in the house? I’d nae care to leave me wife and children in a house so poorly guarded.”

The butler stiffened, pushing out his thin chest. “I seized the first weapon at hand, sir. You should consider yourself lucky not to have encountered Cook. Candlesticks and shoe polish might be the tools of my trade, but hers are knives, and they are remarkably sharp.”

Hunter grunted again. “I ken. It’s an old adage. Never challenge a cook to a knife fight, and daenae arm-wrestle a laundrywoman.”

Perhaps that was meant to be a joke. At any rate, he didn’t smile when he said it.

Smithy narrowed his eyes.

“Smithy?” Lady Pilbury’s voice drifted out from the bedroom. “Tea, if you please.”

“Yes, my Lady,” he called back. “Daphne, perhaps you could help me?”