He knew his daughter could speak when she wanted, but he could rarely coax her into it. She’d always done things on her own, and in her own way. As she’d grown, she’d been excluded from the games the other bairns played, and he often wondered if that was the reason she’d so stubbornly insisted on not speaking; as a way to set herself apart.
Or mayhap ye’re just wrapped around her wee finger and she kens she doesnae have to speak to ye, because ye understand her so well.
Aye, that, too.
With her palm pressed to her temple, Wynda looked unsteady. Although she was no longer lying across his lap, Pherson kept his hand on her back, concerned she might topple sideways.
It had naught at all to do with how damnably good it felt to touch her. Not at all.
Ye’re a terrible liar.
The accusation caused his lips to curve wryly. He was a fooking brilliant liar. ‘Tis what had kept him and Wren safe all these years.
“Wynda is spelled with a Y, and ‘wind’ with an I,” she was explaining to his daughter. “Both start with a W, as does ‘Wren’, although of course in yer case, the W is silent—why are ye looking at me like that?”
Wren was, in fact, staring up at Wynda as if she were some sort of goddess. Or an angel, fallen from the heavens.
Although mayhap to a stranger, it looked a bit…dazed?
“She…” He cleared his throat. “Wren doesnae ken her letters.”
With a gasp, the laird’s daughter twisted. “Ye havenae taught her to read?” She glared accusatorially. “She’s auld enough to ken her letters, at least!”
He shrugged, not bothering to apologize. “I dinnae ken how to read.” He’d gone his whole life without needing to know his letters. “How would I teach her?”
As he watched, her expression faded from shock to pity, and her fingertips rested against her lower lip. “I…I’m sorry.” Her gaze fell to his chest. “I shouldnae have judged.”
He shrugged again, brushing off her apology. “I’ve never felt a lack.”
“But…” One of her fingers, callused from holding a quill, tapped against her lips as she turned back to his daughter. “Would ye like to learn? I—I dinnae like to think of anyone being unable to enjoy histories and stories.”
Wee Wren eagerly nodded, her pale eyes still wide, and a bolt of shame pierced him. How had he never considered the fact his daughter might want to learn more than he could teach her?
It wasn’t the first time in the last few years he’d wondered if he hadn’t done the right thing by claiming her as his own. Mayhap if he’d left her in that field, she would’ve been collected by a better person—
She was starved, too weak to cry. She’d no’ have lasted another day.
And now…now, it seemed as if she were smarter than him.
Wynda had leaned forward, tracing in the dirt with her finger. “This is the letter W, which starts both of our names. Can ye draw it as well? Good!” she praised, when Wren drew a matching squiggle. “Can ye say ‘double-you’?”
His daughter shook her head without looking up, her gaze intent on making another W in the dirt.
But Wynda clicked her tongue. “Come now, ‘tisnae so hard to say. Granted, since we’re all technically speaking Auld Gaelic right now, the letter ‘double-you” doesnae exist, and even if it did, we wouldnae be pronouncing it that way. Now, if we were still using Oggham—“
He was having trouble following her. “Auld Gaelic?”
“Och, it doesnae matter.” She waved dismissively. “I’m just pointing out, spelling things in English is silly. But ‘tisnae so hard to pronounce the letter. Which technically doesnae exist yet.”
His lips pulled up on one side in wry amusement. “Wren willnae say the letter—real or imaginary. She doesnae speak.”
Instead of pity, Wynda’s expression turned shrewd as she turned back to the lassie. “Is this true?”
Ignoring her accusatory tone, Wren just shrugged, her attention on her letter in the dirt. Wynda made a slight huffing noise, but he couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a scoff.
“Ye spoke before. Ye said my name.”
Solemnly, Wren met her eyes, and tapped a finger against the W. “Wind,” she repeated in a whisper.