Prologue
With a sigh,Pherson Ross closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the single wooden chair his cottage contained. More than once he’d considered bartering with the woodworker for a second one, but wee Wren seemed happy enough with stools, now that she was tall enough to sit upright on her own, and he’d just never gotten around to it.
Tiny fingers dragged along his scalp and he wasn’t able to stop the sound of pleasure which escaped his lips. The touch froze, and he grinned ruefully.
“Dinnae fash, little bird, it just feels good.”
His daughter hesitated, then continued her practiced movements. She was sectioning his hair for braiding, something they did weekly, a ritual which brought them both peace.
As soon as Wren gathered a section of his hair, he felt the familiar tugs which meant she’d begun braiding. She worked in silence, of course, but over the years he’d come to understand her without speaking.
Because she couldn’t run and play with the other children, she’d always seemed happiest to stay near him. Although she was only six, he’d long ago discovered she enjoyed being useful, and she seemed to believe braiding his hair was useful.
So each sennight, after he’d bathed, she would comb his hair and form it into intricate braids. Sometimes he left them in for a few days, sometimes longer—in the winter, particularly—and sometimes he combed them out immediately, leaving his hair crimped tightly in waves Wren always found particularly funny.
Pherson didn’t care. He would just be tying his long hair back otherwise, and it made his daughter happy, so who was he to argue?
“Did ye see the strangers today?” he murmured, eyes still closed. “A group of MacBains.”
Her hands paused and she tugged once on his hair, her cue to hear more. His lips curled briefly.
“I was in the courtyard with Geraldine, delivering her catch to the kitchens. The laird is with them, a tall man, broad shoulders. He rides with several warriors and a small man I heard called the King’s messenger.”
He’d noticed them, oh yes. He’d lived here on Oliphant land for years, paying special attention to any strangers, watching. Always watching, waiting.
Fearing.
But none of the strangers he’d seen were there for him and Wren.
One day, he knew, men would come for him and Wren, and he’d have to make the choice between fighting and fleeing.
Behind him, his daughter had finished the left half of his scalp and gave another little tug, this time with a quiet grunt.
He shrugged in response to her unasked question. “’Tis all I ken, little bird. I suppose we’ll hear more, aye? I did hear ‘twas to be a banquet tonight in the great hall, welcoming the visitors.”
His daughter made a noise like a hum, which sounded almost wistful to Pherson’s ears. He knew she—just like any other lass her age—enjoyed seeing the laird’s daughters in their finery. And he couldn’t blame her.
“Aye, just imagine the ladies all arrayed in their silks, Wren. With Laird Oliphant introducing them to the visitors. Do ye think he’ll try to match one of them with Laird MacBain?”
Wren didn’t answer, of course, but he’d become used to their one-sided conversations.
“Me too. I wonder which one? Lady Leanna will marry Laird McClure soon.”
‘Twas idle gossip, the kind which half the clan was engaged in at any point. But for Pherson, there was more to it. Not because he particularly cared what happened to most of the laird’s daughters, but there was one….
He realized he’d been pointlessly picturing her in his mind—sun-touched curls, confident smile, laughing eyes—for too long. His daughter was finishing off the last of his braids, and under his Oliphant kilt, his cock had gone harder than was appropriate.
As Wren’s tiny fingers flew across his hair, tying the leather cords he otherwise used on the falcons’ ankles around the ends of his braids, Pherson struggled to get his erection under control.
Think of cold lochs, laddie. Grandmother’s toothless grin. The queen of England on a cold winter’s day. Turnips. That time yer sporran smacked ye hard in the bollocks.
That last one did it, and by the time Wren patted him on his shoulder, he felt confident enough to sit upright.
In fact, as she limped around to face him—and admire her work—Pherson grinned and held out his hands, palms up.
As if she knew he was asking for her opinion, Wren cocked her head to one side, her finger against her lower lip as she studied him. Her expression was serious, but there was a sparkle in her pale eyes he’d always adored.
With a little grunt, she reached out and pulled one of his braids forward to rest across his shoulder, then nodded firmly.