Pherson looked up, his eyes full of fury, and her heart broke to know he’d gone through such worry for his daughter.
As the lassie half-ran, half-limped toward him, he stood—although he listed heavily to the left, and that arm hung at his side—and wiped his dagger on his already-bloody kilt. He slid the blade into the sheath at the small of his back moments before Wren threw herself at him.
Wynda heard his grunt, although the lassie’s wails almost covered it, and she wondered how hurt he was.
When he sank to his knees, it didn’t seem entirely voluntary. He crushed his daughter to him with his right arm and buried his face in her hair. Wee Wren’s arms were around his neck and she was sobbing when Wynda reached them.
She hesitated, then dropped to her knees in front of him, unsure where to touch him. St. Tiffani’s sacred earlobe, he was covered in blood, and now Wren was as well.
Please, God, dinnae let her remember that.
Just remember her father was alive and loved her.
She’d found Wynda only a few minutes ago, her little awkward run taking her into the great hall. The lassie’s head had been whipping about frantically, as if looking for help. Wynda, who had managed to tie herself back into her gown and had been talking with Evander by the main hearth, instinctively reached for the girl.
Wren had refused a hug, refused to calm, and had said only five words. “Da needs help. Bad men.”
She’d pointed toward the north meadow and Evander had reached for his bow.
“I’ll go up on the wall.”
Wynda had nodded. “I’ll go through the passages.”
She knew she’d thank St. Tiffani until her dying day that they hadn’t tarried even a minute longer.
Pherson’s eyes opened, the gray looking somehow cold. But as she held his gaze, he blinked, warmth returning, and he lifted his arm from his daughter’s shoulders, opening a space for her.
Wynda threw herself forward, reaching for him as he reached for her.
He tasted of desperation and heat and, aye, blood, an experience Wynda hoped not to repeat. But by the grace of St. Tiffani, he was alive.
He was alive, and he’d remain that way.
His hand cradled the back of her head, Wren trapped between them. When they had to come up for air, Pherson pressed his forehead against Wynda’s and took three long, steadying breaths.
With his eyes squeezed shut, he finally murmured. “I love ye. Sweet Christ, I love ye.”
Her hands fluttered over his shoulders, around his arms, trying to determine what was wrong without actually touching him and causing more pain.
“Ye have a shite way of showing it, Pherson Ross— Nay, Pherson Oliphant! Running from my bed, getting yerself beat half to death!” She pulled away, her attention on his lower left arm, when she realized he was grinning. “What?” she snapped.
His lip was cracked and bleeding. Still, his grin looked relieved when he admitted, “I love ye, Lady Wynda Oliphant. Marry me?”
“Now?” She shrieked, reaching for his forearm, gently lifting it. “Ye think now is the best time to finally confess yer love for me?”
Wren had stopped crying, and now her solemn gaze swung between the two of them, her arms still around her father’s neck, as Pherson’s hold dropped to Wynda’s waist.
“Is this broken?” Wynda asked, unsure how to immobilize his forearm if ‘twas.
“I just proposed marriage to ye, milady.”
“And I’m ignoring ye until we get yer injuries tended to,” she snapped in return.
Wren grinned. “Say aye, Wind!”
“No’ now!” St. Tiffani’s eyebrows, why are none of them concerned about his injuries? “We need to get yer father inside.”
He sighed. “I’m fine, Wynda, or I will be. Help me up.”