Oh fook. What a horrible moment for his cock to make itself known.
She blinked, her green eyes trying to focus on him. “Pherson?” she whispered, and he had to swallow. She knew his name?
“Aye, lass,” he croaked. “Aye, ‘tis Pherson. Can ye see me? Can ye understand what I’m asking?”
She lifted one shaky hand to her head, but her fingers hovered above the skin. “I—I think so. What…?”
“Ye fell.” He cleared his throat and tried to move her into a more comfortable position, but it was only then that he realized her other hand had wrapped around his wrist, as if she didn’t want to move. “Ye fell off the battlements. Did ye hit yer head?”
“I fell.” It wasn’t a question. In fact, when she winced, he had the impression she was disgusted at herself. “I fell. Out of a castle.”
“Well…aye. Are ye having trouble thinking? Remembering?”
She scoffed. “I dinnae ever have trouble thinking.” Already her voice was sounding stronger. “But I think, mayhap, I should just lie here a bit longer.”
He couldn’t help himself; he had to touch her, to ensure himself she was well. He brushed a red curl from her forehead, his fingers skimming over the cut which he now realized was small enough to have come from the hedge. Since her fingers were still in the general vicinity, this resulted in him cupping her hand as well.
Entirely accidentally.
“Aye, Wynda.” His voice sounded husky to his own ears. “I mean, milady. We’ll lie here a bit longer—until ye’re feeling strong enough to stand.”
She blinked again, a few times, as if trying to really see him. “Am I…lying on ye?”
One corner of his lips twitched. “Ye are indeed. Can ye see me?” he asked yet again.
“I see…birds,” she whispered, her brows drawn in adorably. “Birds circling yer head.”
He raised a brow. “I thought I was supposed to see birds circling yer head, a visual prompt to indicate a concussion.”
“What are ye talking about? Mayhap ye’re the one who hit his head.” Still, her hand was shaky when she pulled it from his and pointed above his head. “Birds. See?” she finished weakly.
Humoring her, he glanced skyward…and did indeed see circling birds. He began to chuckle. “That is Geraldine, chasing our supper. It looks like a dove.”
“Oh,” she breathed as her hand dropped again.
It landed on his wrist.
Also entirely accidentally, he was sure.
Mayhap they would’ve rested there for the rest of the day—the rest of his life!—had Wren not edged her way closer. She’d likely seen the fall, but it was in her nature to hang back.
“She’s well, little bird,” he called soothingly. “We both are.”
His daughter peered over his shoulder at the beautiful woman in his lap. “See?” he murmured. “Lady Wynda, this is my daughter Wren.”
The dazed-looking redhead in his lap gave a little wave with two fingers. “Hello, Wren.”
And to Pherson’s complete surprise, Wren sidled her way closer, sinking to her knees near Wynda’s opposite shoulder. She hesitantly touched the woman’s arm, then her forehead, near the scrape.
“Wind,” she whispered.
As Pherson stared at her, stunned, the woman in his lap smiled.
“That’s right, Wren, Wynda. It sounds like ‘wind’, aye?” She struggled to push herself upright. “Birds use the air currents to fly. That’s like wind. I suppose a wren might use the wind—Dear God, I’m blathering.”
Wren was watching her, wide-eyed, and now she gave an energetic nod which caused Wynda to smile, although her chuckle turned into a wince.
It took Pherson two times to get his own voice to work. “They—the two words do sound alike, little bird. Wynda and wind.” He’d never heard her speak so readily, especially not to another person.