Page 22 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

“I like her,” she announced to no one in particular, though her gaze landed pointedly on her son. “I like her very much.”

Dougal said nothing, but Skye caught him watching her over the rim of his cup, something unreadable in his eyes, something that lingered a moment longer than it needed to before he looked away.

Dinner continued until he turned to Lily. “It’s time for bed, little one.”

“Already, Da?” Lily groaned.

He nodded. “Aye, it is time for ye to get to sleep. Let’s nae argue.”

“But—”

“Ye can talk more to Skye tomorrow.”

Kenna was already standing and moving towards Lily.

Lily was pouting, but clearly the pout was not working that never worked on her grandmother. Dougal always found it amusing.

“Let’s get ye to bed, Lily. Yer da and his betrothed have a lot to discuss.”

“Like what?”

“Bed, Lily,” Dougal said, more firmly.

It was important to put his foot down when it came to Lily. It was too easy to give her everything she wanted. But that didn’t mean it was right.

He bid his daughter and mother goodnight before turning back to his nearly empty plate.

Skye was eating slowly, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. He imagined she was trying to figure out how Lily came to be and how he had managed to keep her existence secret for so long.

But he would tell her the truth. Some of it anyway.

Should she ask, he would tell her that Lily was not of his blood. But for now, they sat there in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

The first night of their arrangement was surely awkward.

Kenna's footsteps faded down the corridor, Lily's sleepy chatter trailing after her, and then it was only the two of them, the candles burned low, throwing more shadow than light across the table between them.

Neither of them moved to leave.

Skye told herself she should rise, should bid him goodnight before the silence grew any heavier than it already had. But she stayed rooted to her chair, achingly aware of him across the small distance, of the way his eyes had darkened in the low light.

"Ye're staring, lass," Dougal said, without looking up from his cup.

"So are ye. Ye have been all evening."

His gaze lifted to hers, slow and deliberate, dragging a path she felt everywhere it touched — her mouth, her throat, the place where her pulse had begun to hammer. "Aye. I have."

She should have had a clever reply. She usually did. But her thoughts had scattered somewhere between the heat pooling lowin her belly and the memory of his hands from two nights past, of what those same hands might do given the chance.

He reached for the wine, and his fingers brushed hers as he refilled her cup. The touch was brief, barely anything, and still it sent a shiver clean through her, her breath catching audibly enough that his mouth curved at the sound.

"Careful," he murmured, low and rough, "or I might mistake that for an invitation."

"I daenae ken what ye mean." The lie came out breathless, unconvincing even to her own ears.

"Nay?" He leaned forward, just enough that she caught the warmth of him, the faint scent of leather and woodsmoke. "Because I find meself wanting badly to misunderstand ye tonight, lass."

Her whole body went taut, waiting, wanting, terrified of what she wanted.