Page 43 of Fire in his Highland Heart

Mirellain wriggled off his lap, oblivious to her father’s stunned expression, and ran to Arguen, clinging to her dark green skirts. “Angel is back!” she shouted with glee.

Arguen looked down fondly at her. “I’ve told ye sweet one, I’m no angel,” she said, as she knelt to hug the child.

Blake felt as if his heart might burst upon witnessing the scene. Mirellain hadn’t liked another person this much for quite some time, and it warmed his very soul to see Arguen so tender with his daughter.

“I hope ye’ve been a good lass,” she said.

“Aye, I’m a good lass,” Mirellain stated with full confidence.

Arguen smiled. “Braw. An’ ye feel well?” Out of caution, she scanned the child with her eyes for any evidence of the fever coming back. With God’s grace, there was none.

“Aye! Papa lets me play in the garden,” the child informed her.

“Is that so?” Arguen asked, stealing a glance up at Blake. There was a bit of redness in his cheeks, and he smiled giddily.

“Aye. The fresh air does her good,” he answered, wishing he’d said something a little more clever. But right now, Mirellain was the center of attention—it was doubtful Arguen noticed all the little things about him that he was saying and feeling.

“Can ye read the story with Papa?” asked the child, looking up at Arguen with wide eyes.

“I...” Arguen wasn’t sure what to say, and so looked up at Blake for guidance.

“Nay, Mirellain. ‘Tis high time ye went tae bed,” he answered.

Mirellain stomped her little foot, her curls quivering with anger. “I want a story!”

Arguen knew many parents who would beat their child without a second thought for such a brazen demand, but Blake seemed much milder than that.

“Oh, aye? I just read ye half o’ one.”

She stuck out her bottom lip. “I want all of it!”

Blake sighed and rose from his chair, crossing the room to kneel in front of his daughter.

“Wee lass, there is somethin’ called delayed gratification. ‘Tis when ye wait for somethin’ good, and the longer ye wait, the better it gets. So let’s wait ‘til tomorrow tae read again, aye?” he asked.

Mirellain looked like she might stomp her foot and shout again, but she regarded her father’s eyes with a suspicious glare before giving up with a yawn. Blake scooped her up and held her. “I’ll get her tae bed, and be back soon, a’right?” Arguen nodded, and moved further into the room so she wasn’t blocking the doorway.

“Goodnight angel!” Mirellain said, twisting around in her father’s arms to look back at Arguen.

“Goodnight, my dear. Sleep well.”

Blake smiled warmly. “Make yerself comfortable in the meantime. I’ll be back.”

With that, he left. Arguen placed her basket on the table at the end of the room, which seemed to already be set with plates and cutlery for dinner, then she walked around the library, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked up at the ceiling. The painting really was exquisite, and she felt as if she could look at it forever, even if she did have to crane her neck the whole time.

“’Tis the angels,” she heard him say from the doorway, a few minutes later.

She tore her gaze away from the ceiling to look back at him. “What?”

He smiled softly. “The painting. ‘Tis the angels visitin’ the shepherds tae tell them about the wee bairn, Jesus.”

Arguen looked up again, finally understanding. In that moment, it was suddenly even more beautiful to her. One of the angels was painted wearing white robes, having gold wings, and silvery, almost white hair. Then it struck her. “Is this why Mirellain calls me the angel?” she asked, pointing up at the painting.

“I...” Blake crossed the room to stand next to her and look up.

She was acutely aware of the closeness of their bodies in that moment, how his arm touched hers as he stood there, his natural scent of cloves and parchment filling the air around him.

“I never noticed that ‘afore,” Blake said. “I reckon so, then. I always thought she meant it as in... ye’re angelic. Kind an’ beautiful, ye ken,” he added, stumbling over his words.