“But ye being odd has naught to do with—“ Her eye widened, and his grin grew. “Och, ye meant awed, no’ odd.”
“Is there an echo around here?”
“See, I thought ye were saying ye were odd, which I thought was an unusual thing to—“
She finally stopped talking when he kissed her.
And when she gave an eager little moan against his lips and snaked her arms around her neck, he smiled.
Kissing Wynda felt…right.
As right as holding her hand. As right as standing beside her as they watched Wren learn. As right as working with her to make a better life for the lassie.
As right as holding her in his heart.
His cock strained against his kilt, and as much as he wanted a repeat of the other night in his cottage—where he licked and sucked and felt her come apart in his arms—he forced himself to focus on the moment. Focus on the sexy little sounds she made, on the way she strained against him, on the way she seemed to know exactly what she wanted.
Mayhap there was some truth to that story she told about the ghost teaching her intimacy.
He felt the chuckle bubbling in his chest and didn’t bother to stop it.
Being with Wynda made him happy, damnation, and he didn’t want it to stop.
After years of running and hiding, he was ready to stop living in the past.
This woman—this woman’s mind and heart and inventions—made him want to start building a future. One with her.
Aye, he was in love with her, and at that moment, he couldn’t think of a single reason that was a bad thing.
“Da!”
Wren slammed into the back of his legs. Pherson stumbled forward and managed to keep the three of them upright only through some fancy footwork.
“Are ye aright?” he asked Wynda, who was sagging from one of his arms, her fingertips against her lips.
“Yer tooth slammed into me. Am I bleeding?”
She looked so damn irritated, he had to smile. “Ye’re no’.” To be sure, he leaned in and brushed a quick kiss against the possibly-injured lips, pleased to see she didn’t wince.
“Da!” Wren stomped forcefully. “I’m flying.”
Chuckling now, he decided his daughter hadn’t liked he’d been distracted. “Aye, and we owe Wynda our eternal thanks for yer new wings.”
His daughter grabbed one of Wynda’s hands with both of hers. “Thank ye, Wind.”
Had it only been a month ago that his daughter refused to speak more than a few words? Now, she wasn’t exactly talkative—not like Wynda—but it really was remarkable.
The red-head was grinning down at his daughter. “My sister Nichola, the clan’s healer, wants to check the fit of yer new boot. She’s going to ensure the inner leather willnae harm yer skin over time.”
“The castle?”
“Aye, Wren, she’s in the castle. Ye lead the way.”
The little girl grinned hugely and took off in her odd—awed?—sort of hopping run uphill. Pherson couldn’t help but smile as he watched her.
Wynda’s hand slipped into his as they strolled along behind. “We’ll have to make another one as she grows. But that should be easier now we have the template. ‘Tis vital the boot stay snug so the brace can support her, but we’ll likely make improvements with each iteration.”
We.