Page 25 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
She barely heard the knock at first.
Then it came again, followed by the gentle creak of her door.
“’Scuse me, lady?”
The clatter of cutlery was far softer in the smaller hall, but the uproar of the men next door still crept through and echoed off the stone walls from time to time.
Rhys sat opposite Daisy. His hands wrapped loosely around his goblet as she nattered on about her latest attempt to train the stable’s most stubborn pony. He knew of course the master was training the pony, but indulging his daughter seemed to be the only thing he could think to do.
Her little voice was so animated, and her cheeks flushed from excitement and the warmth of the hearth.
He smiled and listened intently. These private dinners with Daisy had always been prioritized anytime he had returned from patrol or negotiations or any damned excuse to be away from her. It was sacred, in its own quiet way.
Tonight, though, his thoughts tugged elsewhere.
He hadn’t introduced her to Daisy, and she had been standing right there. But it was because he didn’t wish to bring her into his and Daisy’s world. She might be a special guest of his, but she was still a Murdoch.
He took a slow drink of his ale and looked down at his plate, only half-eaten. “Ye will have to show me what ye taught the pony tomorrow, aye?”
Daisy beamed. “Aye! He’ll come when I whistle now… well, most times, anyway.”
He chuckled softly, the sound genuine, and was just reaching for a fresh slice of oatcake when a dull roar erupted from the hall beyond the wall.
Laughter, then slamming cups. The unmistakable sound of something being knocked over. Voices that were louder than they should be. Rowdy. Unruly.
Rhys went still.
His fingers curled around the table’s edge, and he stood before his daughter could speak again.
“Stay here,” he ordered, voice low but firm.
He crossed the short corridor and pushed through the doors leading into the main dining hall.
The noise didn’t stop when he entered, but it did waver. The scent of stew and roasted meat still lingered in the air as did the tension.
Amara was nowhere to be seen.
His gaze swept the room once, then again. Neither were William or Myles, apparently.
Only one place setting lay undisturbed near the head table, except it wasn’t undisturbed. The trencher had been left there and untouched, the napkin was wadded up to the side, the chair pushed back as though someone had risen quickly.
Rhys’s blood turned to fire.
His jaw clenched and he stepped forward, slowly and measured. The hall seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his rage as his boots struck the stone louder than any of the dying chatter.
He stood before the empty seat. Reached for the back of the chair she’d surely sat in. Lifted it with ease and smashed it on the stone.
The wood splintering violently, and the sound silenced the last of the murmurs.
“Whose idea here,” he said quietly, too quietly, “was it to let aguestofminefeel so unwelcomed that they left the table before eatin’?”
No one answered.
“Who decided, as the newapparentLaird O’Donnell, to treat a Highland Lady as if she were naught but a cheap minstrel?”
He turned slowly, scanning the tables. “Ye,” he pointed to the serving lad. “What happened here? Is it as I think?”
The boy gulped audibly before stepping forward, head bowed. “It wasnae any of that, me laird. Just a wee bit of fun.”
