The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

“Diarmid…”

Diarmid kept looking at Christina. “Your mamma is a real heroine.”

“Uncle Allan said—”

“Uncle Allan was a liar.”

“So you still love me, Mamma?”

“Of course I do,” Fiona said in a husky voice. Longing and desperate love made her voice shake. She wanted to kill Allan all over again when she saw the mistrust in her daughter’s wan face. “You’re my girl, don’t you know that? I’ve missed you every day since they took you away, and I’ll never let anyone take you away again.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Fiona held her hands out, wishing they weren’t bloodstained, wishing she’d been strong enough to protect her daughter from the wrongs the Grants had done her. “Christina?”

After a pause that cut like a razor, Christina stumbled forward and flung herself at her mother. Fiona’s arms closed hard around her daughter’s shaking body.

Tears poured down her face, as at last Christina’s nearness filled the agonizing absence that had tormented her for a year. Every difficult moment, every terror, every sacrifice was worth it in return for the chance to hold her child close.

“I’ve missed you so much, Mamma,” Christina said, her voice muffled with tears.

“And I’ve missed you so much. There wasn’t a second I didn’t think about you. I love you so much, Christina.”

“I love you, too.” Christina pulled away and sniffed loudly. Fiona noted that her daughter already looked less frozen and more like the little girl she remembered. “Do we have to go back to Bancavan?”

“Never,” Fiona said fervently. “Never, never, never.”

“So where are we going?”

Fiona hesitated, as she wondered how much she should tell Christina right now. But when her delay in replying brought the fear back into her daughter’s eyes, she rushed on. “I’ve got so much to say to you. But first let’s go somewhere safe and warm and let me change out of this frock.”

A flash of the earlier vulnerability. “You won’t go away again?”

“Never, my darling.” She reached out to cup Christina’s face. Such a simple action. Such a privilege to touch her child after all these months apart. “Believe me.”

“I do.”

“Then give me another hug.”

As her daughter stepped back into her embrace, she turned her head to say thank you to Diarmid. But he was already several yards away, climbing into the shabby carriage with Hamish’s help.

“Diarmid?” she called after him, and he turned to give her a brief wave with his good arm.

“Lady Invertavey, Mr. Mactavish asked me to return you and your daughter to Lyon Castle in my carriage.” Sir Quentin was at her elbow, his spare, undistinguished face full of concern. “I’ll ride with the driver and give you both some privacy on the way back.”

“I wanted to…” Her voice trailed off, and she noted the sympathy in his gray eyes.

“We’ve sent for a doctor to see Mr. Mactavish. It’s best we get him to the house as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.” It was the right decision, but still she felt bereft. Some deep instinct told her she should be with Diarmid. “What about Allan?”

“I’ve sent one of my men for a cart to collect the body. His kinsmen will want to take him back to his estates for burial, I assume, but first we’ll need an inquest.”

“I see.” She shivered. The rain had retreated, but the wind still cut like a knife.

“If you’ll come this way?”

“Mamma, why did that man call you Lady Invertavey?” Christina asked, her gaze darting with fearful curiosity between her mother and Sir Quentin.