Pherson watched Wynda’s expression fade into thoughtfulness as she considered his daughter, and he felt the need to defend her.
“Wren can speak,” he explained. “She just doesnae often have aught to say.”
Wren nodded.
And, interestingly, Wynda’s lips curved into a slow smile.
God help him.
She’d been beautiful, stretched out in his lap.
She’d been intriguing, her eyes lit with excitement as she’d taught his daughter.
But now…
He swallowed thickly and glanced away.
She’s the laird’s daughter, ye arse. And ye dinnae even possess a true name.
High above them, Geraldine screeched, a sound he recognized as the falcon’s delivery warning. He was already turning away when he heard Wynda suck in a startled gasp.
A small, bloody heap of guts and feathers landed in her lap, and she made a small squeak which might’ve been a scream, might’ve been a laugh.
With a disgusted shake of his head, Pherson leaned forward and scooped it from her gown before it ruined the silk. “ ‘Tis no’ a dove. Am I losing my vision already?” He held it up by one wing and showed it to his daughter. “A swallow, eh? Too small for our dinner. Better reward Gerry.”
With an eager nod, Wren bounded to her feet, already reaching for the small corpse. She’d never minded the reality of working with the birds, and as she hobbled away, he felt a burst of pride that she was learning his work so well.
Ye cannae teach her to read, but ye’ve taught her to respect the hunters, and that’s something.
Wynda was struggling to stand, her legs tangled in her skirts. He jumped to his feet to help her upright, liking the way she was craning her neck to keep his daughter in sight.
“What is she—“
She took a step forward and stumbled, biting off her question with a small yelp. He grabbed her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her steady.
This close, he could see a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. He could see her pulse, fluttering like a caged fledgling at the base of her throat. He could smell her, and he could hear the way her breath hitched as she met his eyes.
And that gaze hooked all the way down his throat and into his stomach and wrapped around his cock and pulled.
He resisted the urge to curse.
For years, he’d watched this woman—this lady—and known she was the most intriguing person he would ever know. But now, to be holding her, speaking with her, hearing her, holding her…his brain was slowly shutting down.
That was the only explanation. Soon, he’d likely topple sideways, a twitching mound of flesh for carrion birds. Because God knew he was fooking useless right now.
She was still staring up at him.
“What is she doing?” she whispered.
Pherson continued to silently gawk, irritated at himself.
“Ye gave Wren that sparrow,” she prompted.
And he forced himself to look away. She was curious about his work, that was all. She’d already judged him and found him lacking for his inability to read; there was no way she’d be thinking thoughts similar to his, not with the way her mind worked.
“She’s…” He cleared his throat and looked away, searching for his daughter even as he made his arms loosen their hold on Wynda. “She’s waiting for Geraldine to notice her.”
Wren stood in the meadow, waving the bloody prey over her head. The falcon was too high, however, to care. And his daughter wouldn’t call.