Chapter 2
Pherson Ross knewhe should likely be training the hawk he trapped last month. Or cleaning the mews. Or a dozen other small projects around the cottage which needed attending to.
But when wee Wren had taken his hand that morning, looked up at him and whispered, “Fly?” with that small smile, how in the world was he supposed to say no?
So he’d unmasked Geraldine—using the excuse they were hunting, although, as usual, the falcon was on her own—and took his daughter flying. It was a game they’d created a few years ago, here in the north meadow where sometimes the cattle grazed. It allowed her to feel free when he ran for her, and he dreaded the day she’d grow too large to sit on his shoulders.
Nay, ye’ll just have to get stronger.
Because there was no way in hell he’d lose the opportunity to hear his daughter’s laughter.
And now he was playing this hiding game with her. He loved her, but damnation, this could be tedious. However, it was one of her favorite games, since it didn’t require her to run, and the other bairns would let her play it with them.
This hedge was a shite hiding spot, but that was the point.
He sank to his haunches, his back to the old stone of the castle, and allowed his head to tip backward, his eyes closed. Why couldn’t he coax more words out of Wren? She could speak when she chose to, although ‘twas often only a whispered word here or there. A game like this one, where she needed to count to give the hider fair warning, would be ideal for her to try….
She can count, aye?
Aye, for certes; she was counting now, only silently. So why, when he tried to coax her to say the numbers aloud, did she just stare up at him with that angelic half-smile?
She’s no’ simple; just stubborn.
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Aye, she was stubborn, but sweet as well, and each month brought new things to love about this surprising daughter of his.
He could hear her checking hiding places—of course she’d never called out to warn him she was coming the way the other bairns did—so he opened his eyes.
And found himself staring upward into a pair of equally surprised green eyes.
Of course, he couldn’t tell they were green, not from this distance, but he knew the color as well as he knew the sweep of Geraldine’s wing or the interior of his cottage.
He dreamed of them.
Just not…like this.
The realization that Lady Wynda Oliphant was peering over the battlements at him took less than a heartbeat, and thank fook for that. Because in that moment, the stone she was leaning against—over?—shifted, and she tumbled forward.
He didn’t consider diving out of the way, but lifted a forearm to protect his head from the small falling stones, and instead threw himself forward. Under her.
“Shiiiiiii—“
Her curse was cut off as she slammed into him, and Pherson did his best to break her fall. They ended up tangled in the hedge, her closed eyes terrifying him. Was she hurt? Was she dead? His fingers wrapped around her shoulder, hoping to rouse her as he rolled toward safety.
“Lass?” he grunted, trying to extricate them both. “Lady Wynda, can ye hear me?”
Her moan was one of the sweetest sounds he’d thought he’d ever heard.
With a final grunt, he heaved the pair of them onto the hard-packed dirt. The sheaths of his daggers dug into the small of his back, but he couldn’t take the time to readjust them, not with her looking so pale.
She was splayed on her back, her head and shoulders in his lap as he frantically patted her down, looking for injuries. There was a scrape above her eye and he tried to remember if she’d hit her head on the way down.
“Lass?” he murmured again, using the edge of his kilt to wipe away the blood from her face. “Wynda, open yer eyes. Open yer eyes, lass.”
Miracle of miracles, she did.
And he realized he was having trouble breathing.
Because lying in his arms, looking up at him as if he were her savior, was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.