Page 58 of The Laird's Secret Bairn

“Did ye, now?” He reached for the pages before she could stop him, though she made only a halfhearted attempt to pull them back. “May I?”

Skye looked reluctant at first. He waited for her permission, not wanting to snatch the papers out of her hands. She would get angry with him if he did that, and if there was one thing he wanted, it was to remain in her favor.

“Ye may,” she allowed.

She busied herself with her tea, refusing to watch him read, though he could feel her attention on him regardless, every line of her tense with anticipation.

He read in silence, the words settling strangely in his chest. This Lion knelt before children. This Lion was gentle with a captive he had no right to touch so carefully. It was nothing like the Lion people had feared for seven long years, nothing like the Lion she had first written, cold and unapproachable.

“This isnae the story ye started with.”

The story had taken a turn he had not expected. Dougal wasn’t a man of many words, and he chose his words carefully, but he was rarely speechless. And of course, it was Skye who did that.

How did she manage to keep surprising him again and again?

“Nay.” She finally looked up, her expression vulnerable. “The Lion changed. I suppose I couldnae keep writing him the way I first imagined, nae after…” she trailed off.

“Nae after what, lass?”

“Ye ken well enough what.”

He set the pages down carefully, studying her carefully. “How do ye think yer sister will react? I imagine she willnae be thrilled about it.”

Skye’s fingers tightened around her own cup. “I daenae ken how she’ll feel, truthfully. But I ken that she will tell me her opinion. She’s never been shy about telling me the truth.”

He was likely the first person to read what she had written. It satisfied something in him that he didn’t understand.

“Ye’re frightened of what she’ll say.” It was a statement and not a question.

Freya was important to Skye, and her opinion could change everything. But Dougal wasn’t going to let it bother him.

“I’m frightened of what it means that I wrote it at all.” The admission seemed to cost her something, the words comingslower than usual. “That I couldnae help but write him kind, when kindness was never meant to be part of the bargain.”

Dougal said nothing for a long moment, turning the confession over in his mind, unable to decide if he was pleased or unsettled by it.

“Ye ken the bargain still stands. A month, and then ye leave.”

“I ken,” she murmured. “I remind meself of it every night.”

“And does it help?”

She met his eyes then, something raw and honest passing between them that neither seemed prepared to name aloud. “Nae as much as it used to.”

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his own, and for once said nothing clever or cutting, only held her gaze until she looked away, her cheeks flushing, the pages resting between them like evidence neither of them was ready to examine too closely—the story neither of them could quite bring themselves to end nor find the courage to write toward its close. Not tonight. Perhaps not for many nights yet to come.

She turned her hand beneath his, palm to palm, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Until Dougal broke the silence.

“Skye.”

“Aye?”

“Whatever ye decide for the ending,” he said quietly, “write it true. Nae for the readers, nae for yer sister, nae even for me. Only for yerself.”

She studied him, searching for the trick, the way she always did, and found none. “That’s nae the advice I expected from ye.”

“I’m full of surprises, lass.”