The Hunter slowly shook his head, but it was more in confusion than denial. “I dinnae understand, falconer.”
Was this such a strange request then? “On my father’s grave, Hunter. I’ll return within the hour. Just…” He had to swallow. “Allow me to say goodbye.”
Nichola sucked in a breath and the other man’s eyes widened.
He didn’t do anything as overt as nod, but Pherson took it as an agreement, and slowly backed away from them.
“An hour,” he murmured, his thoughts already on his daughter, alone in their cottage, likely reveling in her new ability. “‘Twill be enough.”
Would it?
It would have to be. He was done running.
Pherson remembered very little of how he got from Oliphant Castle to his home, but certain things struck him as he hurried. The clear sky above, the smell of baking bread, the waves and cheerful greetings from the Oliphants, even though he was too distracted to respond.
They were his people now, in a way the Campbells never had been. He knew them, and despite keeping to himself all these years, they considered him one of theirs.
He was Pherson Oliphant, and he was proud to wear the plaid he’d accepted all those years ago. He’d made a home here. A home for Wren, aye…but also for himself.
The cottage loomed large, as if conjured by his thoughts, and his palm was on the door before his mind had processed the fact it hadn’t been latched.
“Wren? Wren, where—“
He should’ve relaxed when he saw her standing before the table. The table where they’d dined, where she’d learned her letters. Where she now stood, gripping the edge as if to stay upright, her pale eyes full of fear as she turned to him.
“Wren?” he choked, stepping into the room, wondering how she’d learned of his predicament already.
It wasn’t until the door slammed behind him and he whirled about that he realized the danger.
The bald brute behind the door wasn’t a man he recognized, but Pherson knew that plaid, and knew the evil grin.
Fook.
Had he thought this the worst day of his life? If not, it was now.
“Da?” Wren whispered.
“Aye, Da,” drawled a mocking tone, and Pherson did recognize that one.
He slowly turned to see a man stepping out of the shadows, his finger fiddling with the edge of his leather eyepatch in a sickeningly familiar gesture.
Roger Campbell.
The man he’d betrayed six years ago.
Pherson’s hands dropped to his daggers, but his old leader made a tutting sound and grinned as he nodded over Pherson’s shoulder.
A second leering brute had a big hand on the top of Wren’s head.
She wasn’t struggling, but her eyes were scared, and Pherson knew how easy it would be for a man that size to break her tiny body.
Fook fook fook.
He slowly pulled his hands away from his blades and held them out by his side.
“There’s nae need to frighten my daughter.” He tried for his calmest voice. “Let her leave. I’m here now.”
So much for the chance to explain. The chance to say goodbye.