“Me!”
There was a great deal of pride in Deidra’s answers. Rose didn’t want to diminish that, but the girl’s bodice was hooked askew, and the points were so knotted that Rose couldn’t fathom how the child took her sleeves or kirtle off.
“You certainly are a big lassie, combing your own hair and dressing yourself.”
“That’s what my da says. Ouch!” She winced as the comb caught on a snarl of black curls, then immediately straightened her shoulders. “Sorry.”
“That’s fine. You may say ouch, but you must not pull away or I might hurt you worse.”
“Aye, Mistress MacDonell.”
The formal address was quite a mouthful for the child, and though Rose was pleased that Strathwick had not neglected his daughter’s manners, she said, “You may call me Rose, if I might call you Deidra.”
Deidra nodded, black curls bobbing. “Or you can call me Dede.”
“What about Wee Squirrel?”
“If you like.”
The combing grew easier, and Dede’s stiff spine softened.
“What do you prefer?” Rose asked.
“Only da calls me Wee Squirrel.” There was a note of reservation in Deidra’s voice that made Rose smile wistfully. As a child, she’d adored her father, and he had been fond of her, but there had never been any special nicknames, or the closeness Rose witnessed between Deidra and her father.
“Then I shall call you Dede—or is that your uncle’s special name for you?”
“No. Uncle Drake calls me other names, but they’re secret.”
The statement startled Rose, and she dropped the comb. It clattered onto a stone beside them. Rose grabbed clumsily at it, her heart somewhere in her throat, her belly queasy. Surely she’d misunderstood.
“What do you mean?” Rose asked, her voice strange. She continued combing the black curls mindlessly, although all the tangles were gone. Deidra didn’t protest. She leaned back against Rose’s legs.
“I cannot tell! It’s a secret.”
Rose’s stomach turned hard. “A secret from who, Dede? From strangers, like me? Or from everyone. Including your father?”
“You’re not a stranger, silly! And aye, from everyone—most especially my da.”
Rose’s fists dropped to her thighs, pressing hard into them. “Will you tell me your secret?”
Dede shook her head firmly, curls bobbling. “Can’ttell.” She twisted around, peering into Rose’s lap. “Is the ribbon in my hair now?”
As if in a dream, Rose pulled the front of Dede’s hair back and tied the ribbon in it, making a small bow so the tails hung down to mingle with her curls. Dede patted it, fingering the ribbon tails reverently.
She jumped to her feet and raced away, back to camp. Rose slowly gathered up their things, her mind searching frantically for a solution to the frightful thing she’d just heard. What kind of secret would Drake ask a child to keep from her own father? The worst kind, she feared, the kind she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate, to remember. But she must, for Dede’s sake. She could not stroll into camp and begin flinging accusations about. She knew from experience that an outsider making such accusations would not be believed but reviled.
She pressed at her stomach, the sickness in her rising until she took several quick steps away and threw up. She dropped to her knees, rubbing her hands over her face, forcing the heels of her hands into her eyes, driving back the images trying to insinuate themselves into her mind. Memories. Things she’d worked so hard to forget.
Corpulent, sweating Fagan MacLean, leering at her, lying to her. Her innocent, stupid trust. It sickened her, humiliated her. Her vision blurred, but she fought it, digging her fingernails into her palms. Stupid, stupid to be so upset still, when it was long over. There was nothing that could change what had occurred, and she knew it. Stupid to be so angry still. It took time and effort, but she managed to push it away.
She splashed water on her face and straightened herarisaid. There was nothing for it but to protect Deidra herself. The decision calmed her, infused her with sudden strength and determination. She had been denied a champion when she’d needed one most, but by God, Deidra would have one.
Deidra raced into camp with a dark blue ribbon in her hair, dancing about to make her curls and ribbon bounce to maximum effect. After receiving exclamations of how bonny she looked from all present, she settled down against William’s knee to eat. Her freshly scrubbed cheeks glowed, and her hair had been combed to a glossy sheen. He could thank Rose for that—he was haphazard at best when it came to such things, trusting the servants to see to such matters. He ran a hand over the thick curls, and Deidra tipped her head back to smile at him upside down.
He smiled back. “What’s become of Mistress MacDonell, Squirrel? Did you frighten her away?”
Deidra’s attention returned to her meal of cold ban-nocks and dried beef. “No, she’s still at the burn.”
