He had to chuckle—as if that one braid would somehow make him attractive!—and reached for her.
As she stepped forward to slide into his lap, her left foot—the wrong one—caught in her skirts and caused her to pitch forward.
With reflexes born from years of accidental fatherhood, Pherson swooped forward and caught her, cradling her in his arms. He pulled her closer, settling her on his lap, hating the way her sparkle had turned to an embarrassed flush.
“Dinnae fash, little bird,” he murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder. “We’ll find a way to fix yer broken wing.”
The look she turned on him could only be described as exasperated, as she pointed at her elbow, which she flapped up and down, as a wing.
It made him grin. But then, he was used to grinning when it came to this little miracle of his. Sometimes, like tonight, he’d look at her and see a glimpse of the beauty she would become. Whoever her real parents had been, they’d been handsome people—and dumb ones, to give her up so easily.
He hoped one day, some worthy man would see how beautiful his little Wren really was. And he hoped that man would be a better man than himself. Because Pherson would do anything to keep her safe.
“I ken yer foot isnae a wing. But ‘tis what makes us fast, eh? Falcons soar on wings, lassies run on two feet.” He tweaked her nose. “And we’ll find a way to make ye soar.”
There was a question in her pale eyes as she peered up at him, and he had to shrug.
“I dinnae ken. I’m just a falconer, and birds are complicated in their own way. But I do ken there are people much smarter than me who can solve problems like this. Ye’d like that?”
Her eager nod shouldn’t have surprised him, but now he scrambled to think of a solution.
“There’s a man…a McClure warrior. He was wounded on an attack on Lady Leanna and his laird, remember?” At her eager nod, Pherson continued. “He works in the kitchens—I see him sometimes when I deliver meat. He wears a brace on one knee, constructed from metal and leather.”
Wren tugged at one of his braids, and he saw the excitement in her expression. Grinning ruefully, he wrapped his arms around her, lacing his fingers at her waist. “Ye think I should ask him who made it for him? He wasnae wearing it when he arrived—for certes ‘tis because of his injury. Mayhap the healer….”
Pherson trailed off as he realized the truth.
There was only one person in Oliphant Castle brilliant enough to have designed and built a brace such as the one he’d seen Brodie McClure wearing. Only one person who possessed the knowledge and understanding.
Wynda Oliphant, the laird’s third daughter.
Fook.
He did not need any more excuses to think about her.
Since his daughter was still staring up at him, Pherson forced a confident smile. “Lady Wynda could likely do it. We could ask her, at least. She might have some suggestions.”
Wren nodded eagerly, her face splitting into a grin. When she relaxed against him, her little cheek pillowed on his shoulder, he felt some of his tension drain out as well.
She would soon be too old to sit in his lap, but for now, he’d cherish the sensation of holding her. For years, she’d fallen asleep just like this; curled up on his lap, one hand wrapped around a lock of his hair and her thumb in her mouth. She didn’t suck her thumb anymore, but her little hand did creep up to play with one of the braids she had created.
“Da,” she whispered quietly, and his heart melted.
It was one of the few words he’d heard her say over the years. He knew his daughter could talk, but just assumed she didn’t want or need to.
“Aye, little bird. I love ye.”
“Da,” she repeated, and he understood.
He tightened his hold on her, and saw her eyes flutter closed.
Of all the names he’d gone by over the years, good and bad, this was the one he loved the most.
Da.
He’d do anything for her. Including facing an inconveniently intriguing lady.