Page 39 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

“Then stop looking at me as though ye already have.”

He stepped closer to the water’s edge, every part of him straining toward her despite the voice in his head screaming at him to leave.

“What would ye like to do? Keep me locked up inside those walls like ye’re doing to Lily?”

His blood ran cold.

She didn’t understand beyond knowing that Lily was not his blood. She couldn’t possibly understand the true reason why he kept Lily inside. Why he protected her from the dangers of the Highlands. Her birth had been violent. She had come into this world moments after losing her mother at the hands of the man who had sired her.

Lily would never know.

He would do whatever it took to protect her. That was all that mattered. She was all that mattered.

Skye’s expression shuttered instantly, something sharp replacing the heat. “She needs to be a child, Dougal. What do ye even ken about fun, locked away as ye are?”

“She needs to be safe. Ye daenae understand the situation.”

“How can I understand when ye refuse to tell me anything?” she snapped. “Is that what ye were thinking when ye touched me?” The words escaped before she could stop them. Color flooded her cheeks even as she lifted her chin higher, daring him.

He said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t make it worse. Sometimes, staying quiet was the best decision one could make.

Skye sank further into the water, her shoulders slumping.

“I think this fake betrothal was a mistake,” she said, quieter but no less fierce.

“Aye? And why’s that? Was the version of me ye built on paper kinder than the real one?” Dougal sneered. “Are ye starting to realize that the rumors may be true?”

The words landed exactly where he’d aimed them, and he watched something flicker across her face. Hurt, then something worse—recognition.

“Ye’re right.” Her voice was soft, almost defeated. “I’m sorry. But I cannae talk about this anymore tonight. I want to go to bed. Goodnight, Dougal.”

She turned and waded toward the bank, before reaching for the cloak she’d left folded on a stone. Dougal made himself look away this time, staring hard at the tree line instead of the water dripping off her skin.

He followed her back at a careful distance, close enough to see her safely to the castle doors, far enough that she wouldn’t feel his eyes on her the whole way. She never once looked back to see if he was there, and somehow that stung more than if she’d told him plainly to leave.

He stood outside her chamber door longer than he meant to, listening to the quiet sounds of her settling in for the night, some part of him wanting to knock, to take back the words he’d thrown at her like weapons.

He didn’t. Instead, he pressed his palm flat against the wood—a foolish, useless gesture—and let out a slow breath.

“Goodnight, Skye,” he murmured, too quiet for her to hear.

Then he turned and walked away, telling himself it was only a month, and knowing, with a certainty that unsettled him, that he no longer believed it.

Dougal did not sleep that night. He kept replaying his conversation with Skye in his head. Kept seeing the way she had slunk back defeated to her rooms.

Regret. One did not need to be a mind-reader to tell she was regretful. Regretful that she had agreed to their arrangement.

Stephen found him in the yard at dawn, sword already in hand, hacking at the training post with more force than the exercise strictly required.

“Ye’re up early.”

“Couldnae sleep.”

“Aye, I gathered that much.” Stephen leaned against the fence post, arms crossed, and watched him take another swing hard enough to rattle the training post in its socket. “Ye look like a man who’s lost a fight, nae won one.”

“I havenae been fighting anyone.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Stephen nodded toward the training post. “That poor bit of wood seems to disagree.”