“Yes.”
Silence settled between them.
“Who is he?” Jamie asked then, gaze sharp in a way that reminded her painfully of someone else. “The tall one.”
Iona’s fingers stilled.
She had known this question would come.
“He is… important,” she began carefully.
“That isnae an answer,” Jamie said, echoing words spoken the night before.
Despite herself, she huffed a faint breath.
“He is yer father,” she said plainly.
The words felt strange, heavy and fragile all at once.
Jamie blinked.
“Me father?”
“Aye.”
Jamie’s expression rushed through obvious confusion and then curiosity, “Why did ye never tell me?”
“Because I didnae think we would see him again,” she replied honestly.
Jamie absorbed that, small brows furrowing. “Does he ken?”
Her throat tightened. “I havenae told him outright, but I reckon we are here in part because he sorted it out for himself.”
Another pause.
“Is that why we are going to his castle?”
“Yes.”
Jamie considered this with the seriousness only a child capable of sudden maturity could manage. “Is he going to be angry?”
Iona crossed the room and knelt so they were eye to eye. “He is nae angry with ye.”
“Is he angry with ye?”
The question hit closer than she expected.
“I can handle that,” she said softly.
Before Jamie could press further, the rumble of wheels reached them from outside.
Erin sniffed. “He is punctual.”
Through the small window, Iona saw it: a modest carriage and several mounted men waiting at the edge of the clearing. Frederick stood at the front, posture straight, cloak falling neatly over broad shoulders. He looked every inch the laird in daylight.
Jamie sprang from the chair. “They’re here.”
“Slow down,” Iona warned, though the child was already halfway to the door.