Hiding his smile, Pherson nodded solemnly. “She’s likely learned far worse from hearing me curse at the hawks.”
“Nae shite,” piped up his daughter.
Without missing a beat, Wynda whirled on her sister. “Nichola!” she gasped theatrically. “How could ye teach her such a word?”
The healer just rolled her eyes. “If it makes ye feel better to no’ be blamed for teaching her such things…”
He didn’t miss the way Wynda winked at his daughter, and the grin the lassie sent back made his heart light.
“Go with Auntie Nichola, Wren,” she instructed. “Show off the boot, and if she teaches ye words ye shouldnae ken, ignore her.”
The little girl nodded gravely, her pale eyes twinkling.
“Now, go away,” Wynda instructed her sister. “Pherson has something important he needs to tell me.”
Och, he should’ve kenned she wouldnae rest until she’d learned his secret.
Oneof his secrets, at least.
Since she was still holding his hand—how had he not noticed that? They were standing in her family’s great hall where everyone could see them!—it was easy enough for her to tug him toward the main set of steps.
Which seemed fairly overt if anyone had asked him.
He might as well have been yelling “Hey! Hey ye! I’m heading upstairs to make love to the laird’s daughter, eh? Tell everyone!”
But Wynda didn’t hesitate, nor act as if anything out of the ordinary was going on. And not a single person paid the pair of them any special attention, except for Nichola, who turned once and winked at him over her shoulder.
He wouldn’t be surprised if he started blushing.
To distract himself from this awkwardness, he blurted, “Auntie Nichola?” and when Wynda raised a questioning brow at him, he shook his head. “Ye called her Auntie.”
“She’s no’ my aunt, she’s my sister,” Wynda corrected as they reached the top of the steps.
“I ken that. But to Wren ye called her Auntie, as if ye want her to call her—och, I’m getting my pronouns confused.”
“Aye.” She grinned mischievously, tugging him toward the next set of steps. “Ye’re blathering. Beginning to sound like me.”
“My point is, Nichola’s no’ her auntie.”
“She would be, if we—if ye and I— If we…”
When she trailed off, Pherson saw the flush climbing her neck again.
“Why, Lady Wynda,” he teased. “Are ye proposing marriage to me?”
She halted abruptly, spinning to face him so quickly her skirts brushed against his knees. “I told ye I love ye, Pherson Ross. Aye, I’ve been thinking of a future with ye.” Her chin rose in challenge. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
His palms itched to reach for her. “Ye ken it wouldnae,” he muttered, then winced at how rough he’d sounded. Trying to make light of the situation, he twitched one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Yer father says whichever of ye marry and produce a son first, her husband will be the new Laird Oliphant.”
Wynda’s eyes widened slightly as she stepped closer. “Is that it?” she breathed. “Ye want to become—“
“Och, nay!” he cut her off, reaching out and settling his hands on her hips, in order to pull her flush against him. “How can ye claim to love me and still think me the sort of man who’d marry a lass for that reason? I’d be a shite laird; I’m no’ even part of this clan.”
Her neck was still pink, but she stared boldly up at him. “Ye might not bear our name, but ye wear our plaid, and ye’ve sworn to my father. Ye’re an Oliphant, same as me, Pherson. So is Wren.”
Reluctantly, he nodded. “But I’m no’ a leader. I’m used to being alone.” Just him and Wren and the hawks.
“Me too.” Her smile seemed a little hesitant. “I dinnae want to be married to a laird, Pherson.”