Ye Give Love A Plaid Name (Bad in Plaid 3)
Wynda was peering curiously at the girl. She stepped out of the protective circle of his arms, and Pherson tried not to feel lost.
Because, as she moved toward Wren, her hand caught his.
Caught his, and pulled him along with her.
And he knew he’d follow her wherever she wanted, because holy fook, it felt good—right—to be holding her hand like this!
Christ, man, ye’re acting like a fool. If she kenned who ye were, ye’d be royally fooked. Dinnae lose yer head over a lass—especially one ye cannae afford to love.
He didn’t want to love her. He just…
His cock hung long and hard under his kilt, a reminder of what he couldn’t have. Mayhap tonight or tomorrow he’d make a visit to one of the village whores, and try to get this flame-haired scholar out of his mind.
It took him two tries to wet his lips and make the piercing whistle which called Geraldine. Beside him, Wynda gasped as the big bird made a swooping dive, showing off her impressive wingspan.
Ahead of them, Wren hobbled forward, holding the dead sparrow aloft, and Pherson pursed his lips to whistle again. It was a call to eat, if she wanted.
She did. The huge bird swept down and snatched the prey from Wren’s hand, eliciting a gasp from Wynda.
He tried not to like the way her fingers tightened around his.
“She’s…huge,” the woman whispered. “Almost as big as Wren.”
“She’s safe. She’s kenned Wren since she was a bairn.” The falcon had been with him the day he’d found the wee bundle near death in that field. “And watches over her.”
Wynda’s eyes were on his daughter, who was hobbling after the bird, her arms outstretched and her head thrown back, in a crude parody of the falcon’s flight. It was the way she rode his shoulders, her laughter effortless as the wind caught her hair.
“She cannae run,” Wynda whispered thoughtfully.
“Nay.” His answer was curt, used to having to defend her. “She doesnae walk straight. Her foot is twisted.”
Instead of shying away from the bad luck, or making a sign of the cross, or wrinkling her nose as the rest of the clan often did, Wynda merely hummed, the first finger of her free hand rising to tap against her lower lip as she considered.
“Did she injure herself in an accident?” she finally asked. “Or was she born like that?”
He hesitated. “She’s…always been like that.” She’d been so young when he found her, he’d always assumed she’d been abandoned because of the deformity. “From birth.”
I think.
He hadn’t known about her twisted foot when he’d lifted the small bairn in his arms; all he’d known was he couldn’t leave her where he’d found her. And that had meant facing evil, overcoming it…and running.
Six years ago he’d made a place for himself here on Oliphant land, and if Roger Campbell ever found out where he was hiding… Well, ‘twas best not to think of it.
Wynda was still tapping at her lower lip. “I’m nae healer, but even if Wren were born with the twisted foot…’tis possible it could be corrected.
He sucked in a breath, remembering a conversation he’d had with his daughter a fortnight ago, soon after the MacBains had arrived, about the McClure warrior. And his lips curled wryly in acknowledgement that mayhap the saints did work in mysterious ways.
“I dinnae ken,” he admitted, “but…”
When he bit off his words with a wince, watching Wren stumble among the wildflowers, Wynda turned to face him.
“What?” she asked softly.
He couldn’t look at her. Not while he was touching her.
His daughter dropped to her knees, her little face pinched with disappointment, and he stifled a sigh, knowing he couldn’t pass up this opportunity, no matter how awkward it made him feel.
“In my world, being able to walk straight and tall is worth more than kenning yer letters.” He finally risked a glance. “I mean nae offence, milady—“