Page 87 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“I must have ye with me,” he breathed.

Daphne lifted her eyes to his, her lower lip trembling.

Daenae ask me about the vow, he begged silently. Give me more time. Time to try and explain what happened, time to think of how to tell the clan.

Will they forgive me? Will she forgive me? After all, it was all me fault.

Daphne closed her eyes briefly. “Hunter, I’m nae sure…”

“Ye daenae have to decide now. But ken that I willnae let ye go, ye and Willow. Nae now that I ken the truth.”

Her eyes shot open, full of defiance. He should have known she would resist him. It filled him with a shivering desire, and he wondered briefly if she felt the same way he did when he was around her, as if he were dragged forward by an unstoppable force, practically a prisoner.

No, there was no practically about it. His free will had been stripped away. It was almost funny, the way a man like him, who’d always been in charge, a laird who took pride in never being ordered about, was now at the whims of his own treacherous heart.

Who had first called the heart treacherous? A poet, maybe. Or the Bible. Somebody had noticed long ago that following one’s heart was a dangerous thing, likely to be a painful thing.

And yet here we all are, led by our hearts like a bull led by the ring in its nose. I never thought it would be me, though.

He reached out, gently pinching Daphne’s chin. “Come on, lass,” he coaxed. “Ye ken ye want this.”

Her face screwed up, her eyes fluttering shut. “I… I cannae,” she mumbled.

The words were like cold water pouring over his shoulders.

“Cannae? Daphne, we are meant to be together. We always were. Just give me a little time, and I’ll show ye. At least for Willow’s sake.”

Her eyes snapped open again. “Daenae ye see? It’s for Willow’s sake that this cannae happen.”

He frowned, opening his mouth to ask what exactly she meant. But there was no chance, because at that moment, the door crashed open, making them both flinch.

“Hunter!” Helena cried out, loud enough for her voice to echo through the room. “What are ye doing?”

Hunter breathed out slowly. He met Daphne’s horrified gaze just for a moment, then gingerly released her chin and turned to face the music.

It looked terrible, of course, Daphne sitting on the desk and him leaning over her, their noses almost touching. However, all he could think was, Thank God she didnae come in a few minutes earlier.

Lady Pilbury stood behind his mother just beyond the doorway, leaning heavily on a stick. She took in the scene, wide-eyed. A pair of servants passed by, goggling unashamedly.

Hunter clenched his jaw. “Mother, close the door.”

“I willnae,” Helena retorted.

“Ye must!”

But it was already too late. More servants carrying dishes of food and jugs of wine went by and gasped softly.

Is everybody out in that bloody corridor?

Hunter bit back a growl and forced himself to meet his mother’s eyes. “Close the door.”

A tentative hand touched his elbow.

“It’s a little late for that,” Daphne whispered.

On cue, a familiar face walked by. It was Laird Gordon, his tartan kilt swinging around his knees. His eyes widened, before he hastily looked down and scurried out of sight.

Hunter growled. “Mother, what are ye doing? Do we want everybody to see?”