Page 91 of The Highlander Steals a Virgin
His heart beat like a war drum in his chest.
But before she could speak again, a rustle sounded behind them. Daisy popped up with a rock in each hand.
“Papa! Watch me throw this one. Can ye see? It’smassive!”
Rhys grinned, swallowing down every word and every ache.
“I’m watchin’, mo chridhe.”
And he was.
But he also couldn’t stop watching the woman beside him, and wondering if she might be the one to save them both.
“Lady Amara! Will ye come and help me?” young Daisy hollered over her shoulder.
A startled laugh slipped from Amara’s lips before she could stop it. “Help ye with what, exactly?” she called back, stepping lightly over the damp grass.
The child stood in the middle of the orchard, her small arms wrapped around the widest, lumpiest apple she could find. It looked like it weighed half as much as she did.
“This beast of a thing’s too heavy for me throwin’ arm,” Daisy grunted, chin tucked down in determination. “Papa said I’ve got to build strength if I want to toss one far.”
“And ye picked the largest apple on the tree?”
“Aye. He said ‘train hard’. This is trainin’.”
Amara crouched beside her with a grin. “That looks more like a challenge than a snack.”
“I already ate two,” Daisy admitted sheepishly, brushing her sticky fingers on her skirt.
“Well then,” Amara said, brushing hair from Daisy’s cheek, “let’s give yer arm a break and let me help with the launching.”
Together, they hurled the apple as far as they could into the tall grasses at the edge of the orchard. It bounced and rolled and was almost immediately lost to the wild.
Daisy whooped. “We nearly made it past the wall!”
Amara laughed again, fuller this time. “We’ll say we did.”
The morning sun warmed the back of her neck. The castle loomed distantly behind them, but it felt far away in the best way.
They wandered through the orchard a bit longer, chasing shadows and apples and bits of wind. Eventually, Daisy tugged on Amara’s sleeve.
“Will ye braid me hair like ye did the other day?” she asked.
“Of course.”
They sat beneath the low branches of a gnarled tree, its leaves whispering overhead. Amara gently combed her fingers through Daisy’s thick curls, working slowly to separate the strands.
“Me maither used to sing when she brushed me hair. Nae that I remember. Me da told me about her, ye ken,” Daisy murmured after a while, voice quiet.
Amara’s hands stilled for half a breath. “Aye?”
“Aye,” she said, eyes far off. “Nae like a bairn’s song. Just wee hums. ‘Like she was tellin’ a story without words’ is what me da said.”
Amara swallowed. “She sounds lovely.”
“I think she was.” Daisy twisted to glance up at her. “Ye kind of hum, too. Even when ye daenae mean to. When ye brush or sew. Or look out the window.”
Amara blinked down at her. “Do I?”
