Page 8 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

She heard me.

Glancing around, baffled, she made to step off the wooden planks and onto the wet grass. The dancing boards creaked under his weight. Diving forward, Hunter seized her wrist, hauling her back.

“Daphne, I…” he began, then froze. She stared back at him, her eyes a glittering green behind her mask. “Take it off.”

She blinked at him, saying nothing.

“Your mask,” he added. “Take it off.”

Somebody was shouting something. Most of the dancers had stopped and were now watching them, bewildered, as they stared at each other. Somebody was pushing their way through the crowd towards her. A brother, maybe.

Or a husband. I met her on the eve of her wedding.

Slowly, the woman lifted her hand to her mask. One-handed, she undid the leather ties at the back of her head, and the owl mask slipped away.

Hunter blinked.

For an instant, it was Daphne. The eyes, the dark eyebrows, the widow’s peak hairline. Then he looked again, but it wasn’t her. There were similarities, but this woman was not Daphne.

He sucked in a ragged breath and let her arm drop.

“Forgive me,” he managed, a little weakly.

People were staring. He didn’t care if they stared, of course. The disappointed hope was worse than that. Disappointed for the fifth year in a row.

“I thought ye were someone else.” He turned on his heel and began to stride away.

“Aye, ye thought I was me sister.”

He froze. Turning slowly, he met the woman’s eyes. Her gaze was fixed on him, her arms folded tight across her chest.

“Who are ye?” he asked shortly.

“Me name is Ceana, daughter of Laird Morrag. Ye might ken me as Lady McKane.”

He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening. He didn’t recognize her face, but the name was familiar.

“Ye thought I was Daphne. Daphne Tulloch. She surely does look much like me. And now that I’ve told ye who I am”—she took a long, deliberate step toward him—“it’s time for ye to do the same. Who are ye, and how do ye ken me sister?”

“Me name is Hunter,” he answered shortly. “Laird MacCrimmon. Daphne and I are… old friends.”

Her eyes narrowed as if she sensed there was more to it than that.

“And ye are looking for her?”

“Aye.”

“Will she want to see ye?”

“I cannae tell. I just hope to see her.”

Ceana pursed her lips. “Well, I cannae help ye. I’m looking for her meself.”

His shoulders drooped. “Ye daenae ken where she is, either?”

She shook her head. “She’s in England, I ken that much.”

England!