“Ye seem to be more tired than me.”
She shook her head, but her mouth opened in a wide yawn that made him smile.
“Ye should have slept hours ago, little one,” he said with a smile.
“I didnae feel tired,” she insisted stubbornly.
He sank down heavily onto the mattress and stretched himself against the counterpane. He was absolutely tired.
She pulled her feet from beneath him and came to sit by his side. “What are ye doing here, Da?” she asked with a playful glare.
He flinched. He used to spend so many nights in her room that she would never have questioned his presence.
“I only wished to check up on ye.” Which he had failed to do in so long.
She scrambled down to stand in front of him, and he tilted his head to look at her. Then she grabbed both his arms and pulled. “Nae in these clothes. Nae on me bed. Ye stink.”
He felt indignant enough to roll around in her floral-scented sheets and spread his sweat and grime over them, but was not willing to take the risk and find out what the adolescent mind construed as revenge on a pesky father. He resigned himself to the couch in front of the fireplace.
“Are ye happy now?”
Her eyes narrowed in thought. She looked between him and the bed, seemingly assessing the situation. “The counterpane is easier to wash than upholstered furniture.”
He let out a loud groan. No matter what, he wouldn’t be moving.
He moved.
She decided the wooden stool hidden beneath her writing desk—which he suspected she used to support her dirty shoes—was the most agreeable with his state, so he went to stand by the window. She was satisfied either way and stretched out on her soft, plush bed. He felt mocked.
“Now ye have a good view of me room,” she giggled.
“And what purpose does this serve?” He crossed his arms. She was still his pesky little girl.
“Daenae ye suspect I might have snuck a boy into me chambers?”
He felt a chill run down his spine. He waved her off, not willing to accept it as a joke. “I am nae ready for that conversation.”
“It’s only a matter of time before?—”
“When the time comes, ye shall discuss with yer great grandmaither…” She pouted. “Or Violet.”
He hadn’t intended to broach the topic with her in this manner.
“How do ye feel about Violet?” He came to the bed, and this time, she did not fight him.
“In what context?” She sat up.
“As me wife.”
Her smile tore through the awkwardness in the air. “Are ye asking me permission to marry her?”
It was something he should have thought to do weeks ago, before proposing to Violet. He had realized when he lay on his bed that he had never considered his daughter’s feelings about the change taking place. They never spoke much of her mother, and she never told him about how she felt about never knowing her. He had failed in those aspects as a father, and he intended to rectify that.
If she didn’t want him marrying Violet, if she didn’t want him marrying another woman…
He didn’t know what he would do.
“Aye.”
