Wynda’s throat tightened. ‘Twas humbling.
And damned galling. She loved him, by St. Tiffani’s beard! Wren loved him! He’d planned on doing the right thing, despite knowing he could have a future with the pair of them…!
Well...she’d said all along he was a good man, and this just proved it. She loved him all the more for it. Even if she did want to smack him on the back of his head.
“I didnae come for ye,” Evander repeated, his chin jerking toward Wren. “Whatever sins ye’ve committed, I think ye’ve atoned.”
“Wren wasnae an atonement,” Pherson growled. “‘Tis been an honor to call her mine.”
Her brother nodded. “Besides, my sister likes ye.”
“Yer sister loves him,” Wynda corrected, squeezing closer.
“Aye, I thought as much,” Evander drawled. “And how do ye feel about my sister, falconer?”
Pherson pretended to consider it. “Which one? The healer’s nice enough—ow! I’m a wounded man!” he protested when Wynda poked him.
She gasped, remembering his arm. “Och, I’m sorry! We need to get ye to Nichola!”
“I sent her to yer cottage,” Evander was quick to explain, “on my way through the great hall. Ye’d best get him there.” He grinned. “I’d offer ye my hand, but ‘tis clear yers are full.”
She was surprised when Pherson sighed and pulled his hand from his daughter’s, then held it out. “I owe ye my life.”
“Och, nay,” Evander quipped with a grin as he clasped forearms with her love. “I merely helped things along.”
“Then I owe ye my thanks.”
“That ye do.” Her brother grinned. “Now go bask a bit in these lasses’ care, eh? I’ll take care of this scum. For what ‘tis worth, ye have the gratitude of the Hunters and His Majesty.”
That likely would’ve meant more had Pherson not been swaying on his feet.
It took both her and Wren to walk Pherson to his cottage. Although they didn’t have to pass through the village, they still saw a few clan members who expressed appropriate shock and pity at Pherson’s state, and Wynda had her hands full putting off their offers of help.
“They care for ye,” she pointed out unnecessarily.
At her side, Pherson grunted, his voice tight with pain when he agreed. “For a long time I thought I was hiding here.”
“Nay, ye have a place.”
He seemed surprised as he glanced around. “I guess we do.”
Nichola was waiting for them, and she exclaimed in surprise over his injuries as she pushed him into the cottage’s only chair.
“Wait,” he growled. “The birds…”
Wynda glanced toward the back wall of the cottage, behind which she could hear the rustle of pinions. She had no idea what caring for them would entail…but luckily, she didn’t have to.
Her limp not as pronounced as before, wee Wren stepped up and took her father’s cheeks in her hands. He allowed her to pull his forehead down to press against hers, and she was smiling when she straightened.
“I’ll feed them, Da,” she whispered, and then scampered off.
He looked a little bemused as he watched her go. Wynda squeezed his hand.
“She’s a good lassie.”
There was an exhausted edge to his grin. “She is.”
The afternoon wore on as Nichola fussed and treated and dosed. Fen sent supper down from the castle kitchens, but there was little space on the small table, what with the treats Pherson’s neighbors dropped off. They had all stopped by to check on him and to ask how they could help, and although Pherson seemed reluctant to explain what had happened—who could blame him?—he thanked them all gruffly.