It sounded good. It sounded right.
It sounded as if she wanted a future with him as well.
She’d told him she loved him.
Nay, she said she loves Pherson Ross.
Pherson Ross was a lie, as much as his life here with the Oliphants was. He had no real name, not any longer, and it was selfish and cruel to imagine having a future.
Especially with someone as wonderful as her.
“I can feel ye going all stiff, ye ken.”
His gaze slashed to hers, and she smiled sort of sadly.
“I suspect there’s a cock joke in there somewhere, but this is likely no’ the time.” Before he could do more than blink, she shrugged. “Ye’re thinking about Wren’s mother, are ye no’?”
The question shocked him. “What?” he blurted.
Their steps had slowed as they crossed into the courtyard of Oliphant Castle, but his thoughts raced as he tried to follow her reasoning.
“Sometimes ye look at me, no’ like ye’re trying to figure me out, but like ye’re thinking of the past. Or mayhap the future.”
She was perceptive. Pherson’s chin jerked once in agreement.
She shrugged again, that little sad smile on her lips as she turned her attention to the main steps. “I can guess ye’re thinking of Wren’s mother. ‘Tis aright; ye dinnae have to lie for my sake. Ye sometimes get this wistful look on yer face when ye’re watching yer daughter, as if ye wish her mother was still here.”
He was having trouble following. “Who?”
“Yer wife.”
They stepped into the great hall, the noise and bustle of the clan momentarily interrupting their conversation. He was glad for the distraction, because he knew he needed to tell her the truth.
When she glanced up at him with that soft smile, he blurted it out. “I’ve never been married.”
Around them, people called and laughed and argued, and Wren seemed happy to be at the center of her own little excitement. But Pherson kept his attention on this special woman, as he turned to face her fully.
She was slowly flushing, her gaze on his chin. “Yer lover, then.”
Slowly, distinctly, he said, “I never kenned her mother.” A deep breath. “Nor her real father.”
Wynda’s lips formed an “oh”, but she didn’t have the chance to question his statement.
Her sister—the healer—bustled up from one side, Wren trailing her happily.
“Wynda, this is remarkable. I kenned yer design for Brodie was revolutionary, but this…!” She was beaming as she grabbed wee Wren’s hand. “Can I borrow her? Evander will be joining us for the meal later—which means I need to whip up some calming draught for Mother—but I would love the chance to examine yer design so we can ken the long-term effects of the brace.”
Wren swung happily from the healer’s hand and Wynda was nodding along. Pherson trusted her to know what was best for Wren, but she rolled her eyes and asked, “A calming draught? Ye mean watered down whisky?”
“Aye, of course.” When the healer smirked, she looked like Wynda. “Ye ken Mother needs to be calmed before being faced with one of Da’s infidelities.”
Infidelities? His mind jumped over the previous conversation. “Evander is yer brother?”
“A bastard,” Nichola said cheerfully. “Mother needs dosing afore he dines with us.”
“Bastard!” yelled Wren, and the healer winced.
Wynda tugged on his hand. “If Wren ever says anymore naughty words, it was definitely Nichola who taught them to her, and no’ me.”