Grinning, Wren rearranged the nuts to form the letters of her name.
“Well,” whispered Wynda, her heart still hammering, and unsure if she should be relieved. “At least ye’re learning.”
Coira, who had been hiding her smile this whole time, snagged five nuts from the N. “Wren, pay attention. If I have two nuts in this hand,” she barked as she opened her palm to reveal the nuts, “and three in this hand, how many do I have in total?”
The little girl frowned, her pale eyes darting between Coira’s hands, then held up five fingers.
Instead of praising her, Coira grinned, then squeezed her eyes shut. “Wren,” she repeated, “I have two nuts in this hand, and three in this hand.” She wiggled each without opening her eyes. “How many nuts do I have?”
Wren was frowning. Not at the nuts, but at Coira’s closed eyes. Wynda held her breath to see if the gamble would pay off.
Finally, Wren sighed. “Five,” she said softly, then rolled her eyes in Wynda’s direction, who was grinning.
That was when Pherson stepped up behind Coira, his gaze not on his daughter, but on Wynda. Her smile grew.
“What’s—“ He cleared his throat, then offered a bow. “Miladies.”
“Och, none of that,” Coira scolded as she turned and held out her hands. Pherson, obviously confused, opened his palms, and she dropped one nut into his left hand, and two into his right.
“Close yer eyes,” she commanded, and waited for him to comply. “Now, ask yer daughter how many nuts ye have.”
Pherson peeked open one eye, frowning at Coira. “Milady?”
But Wynda nodded eagerly. “Do it, Pherson,” she encouraged.
He hesitated, then complied. “Little bird…” He cleared his throat. “I have one nut in this hand and two nuts in this hand. How many nuts do I have?”
This time, Wren didn’t hesitate. “Three nuts, Da.”
Pherson’s eyes flew open, his shock evident, just as Robena murmured, “Most men only have two,” and Coira burst into cackles.
Wynda would have laughed as well, had she not been struck by the beautiful way Pherson’s lips curled into a smile. It was the first time she’d seen aught more than a wry half-curve of his lips, and by St. Tiffani’s uvula, he was attractive, was he not?
Mayhap indeed ye ought to rewrite that treatise on how to measure a man’s attractiveness, and mention the way his smile can make yer heart clench and yer stomach flip.
He’d abandoned all attempts at formality and jumped forward, planting his palms on the table and leaning toward his daughter. Under his leather wrist guards, his muscles jumped and strained, and Wynda couldn’t help staring.
“Little bird, that was amazing.” He was grinning. “Ye can do maths! Out loud!”
“Join us, falconer,” Robena invited grandly. “Ye can sit beside me.”
“Like hell,” muttered Wynda. He’d sit beside her.
When Pherson hesitated, she smiled at him and beckoned him around the table to sit between her and Wren. How could he pass up that chance?
Sure enough, he held her gaze as he stalked around the table and she had to swallow down a moan—a moan? What was wrong with her?—as he slid in beside her on the bench, his thigh touching hers.
“Are ye well, Lady Wynda?’ he murmured.
She was having trouble, but that was naught new around him. “Aye,” she managed. “I was just considering Wren’s boot. I need…some help.”
His stormy gaze was intense as he dipped his chin. “I will do aught ye need, milady.”
“Call me Wynda,” she whispered.
He swallowed.
And Robena called out, “Wren, show yer da how ye can spell my name!”
Pherson’s gaze jerked away from hers as, on his other side, Wren began to furiously rearrange the nuts to form letters. “R says arrr!,” she declared matter-of-factly.
“Does it?” he asked.
And, knowing exactly what she was doing, his daughter blinked innocently up at him. “No shite, Da.”
The gathered family burst into laughter at his expression as the meal was served.