And Wynda found herself unable to stop smiling.
Finally—finally!—Nichola deemed him as healthy as she could make him. She left with stern instructions on how to care for his wounds—she’d stitched the deep cut above his eye, and told him ‘twould leave a scar—and his splinted arm.
Wren had been gorging herself on the donated food, and while an exhausted Pherson fed himself, Wynda took over the responsibility of getting the lassie ready for bed. Because Pherson was still covered in dirt and blood—the areas Nichola hadn’t cleaned, at least—she heated a large cauldron of water in the hearth.
“Ye dinnae need—“ he protested around a mouthful of bread.
“Hush,” she scolded, levering the cauldron into a better position. “I’m being useful. And next, I’m going to design ye a new hook system in here. This is completely inefficient. I’m thinking an arm which swings in and out of the hearth… What?”
His lips were curled wryly as he watched her. Slowly, he shrugged one shoulder. “Ye’re already thinking of ways to improve my home?”
Her heartbeat seemed suddenly loud. “Our home, I hope.”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at her for a long while, before he dropped his chin—in acknowledgement? Agreement?—and picked up another piece of bread.
‘Twas a lively time, bathing Wren. The lassie insisted on doing for herself, and their argument was the most words Wynda had heard her speak. Judging from her father’s occasional chuckles, he agreed.
With the little girl dressed in a clean chemise, Wynda tucked her into the big bed, up against the wall. “Ye can only sleep in yer spot if ye promise no’ to roll atop yer da in the middle of night,” she scolded. “Otherwise I’ll make ye a pallet. He’s wounded.”
The little girl yawned and then nodded. “‘Tis his left arm,” she pointed out in that succinct way of hers, and Wynda knew ‘twas her way of saying his broken arm would be on the opposite side of his body.
“Aye, but we must still be gentle. Now close yer eyes.”
“Are ye going to sing?”
It was the revulsion in the lassie’s tone which caused Wynda to hide her smile as she tapped her finger against her lower lip. “No’ unless ye’re verra naughty. I’m going to tell ye a story.”
Wren’s eyes were already shut. “No’ one about fairies.”
“I’ll tell ye of the Bruce’s victory at Bannockburn.” History was an important study.
The lassie was asleep before Seton’s defection and the really interesting bits.
Ah, well. She could pick up again tomorrow.
After Wynda bent to place a kiss on the girl’s crown, she scooted off the bed and turned to find Pherson watching her, a soft look in his eyes.
She raised a brow in question and one corner of his lips curled ruefully as he shook his head.
“Just thinking ye’d make a fine mother.”
She glanced back at the sleeping girl. “Just to Wren. For now. I’m no’ in a hurry to have bairns.”
“Because ye dinnae want to be the next Lady Oliphant?”
Och, he would remember that. “Aye, ‘tis part of it.” She tried to think of how to explain as she wet a clean rag and rubbed soap on it. “But…a bairn is a miracle, aye, but a time-consuming one.”
He chuckled under his breath as he caught her free hand when she turned back to him. “Ye dinnae need to tell me. But I would like another one, someday.”
She stood staring down at him, unable to miss the hopeful glint in his gray eyes. Her stomach clenched at the thought of his bairn, and she could absolutely imagine him crooning to his son, teaching him the same way he’d taught Wren. Mayhap they’d name him Hawk.
The thought made her smile and she squeezed his hand. “Well, I am done with my manuscript. I have a bit of time.”
Chuckling again, he pulled her toward him. This kiss was light and tasted of medicine and relief and fatigue, but it was sweet.
“Now,” she commanded as she straightened, “let us get ye clean.”
There was teasing and groaning and complaints as she stripped his Oliphant kilt from his shoulders and waist, and the reminder of its hasty donning hours before—and the circumstances—sobered them both.