Ye Give Love A Plaid Name (Bad in Plaid 3)

“If ye had a home like this, milady, ‘twould be much grander.”

Instead of agreeing, she shrugged and turned back to her study of the cottage. “Mayhap. I have nae real need for grandeur. Just my books. And my designs. And my tools.”

Wren demanded their attention when she pounded on the table with her palm. The adults turned to her, and she rolled her eyes and heaved a great sigh. Pherson had to bite back his smile.

“Ye’re ready to start, little one?”

In response, his daughter scurried up the tall stool she used for dining and then onto the table itself. She hiked up her gown to her knees and stuck out her lower legs.

Chuckling, Wynda deposited her things on the table beside the scrolls he’d already left there. “Ye’re excited, eh?” When the lassie nodded eagerly, Wynda settled herself onto the stool, waving away Pherson’s offer of the single chair. “Well then, let us see what we can do to make ye fly, little one.”

It was fascinating to watch her work.

Pherson knew the hawks needed exercise, but how could he leave when this woman sucked all of his attention? The tender way she examined his daughter’s foot, turning it this way and that, and her excitement as she searched through her scrolls for specific information.

“See? This is the way the bones in the human foot are supposed to look, Wren,” she was saying, jabbing her finger at an illustration. “That’s what allows me to place all my weight on both of my feet. Yer left foot, however…”

She gently manipulated the twisted little limb. “Yers is turned in, aye? Ye’ve become used to placing yer weight here and here, but ye’ll never be able to walk as well as others do, unless we can train ye—and yer foot—to lie flat, so the bottom takes yer weight, the same as the other one.”

As Wren watched eagerly, Pherson crossed his arms in front of his chest and propped one shoulder against the mantel. She really was remarkable, was she not? So full of knowledge, and energy. He’d never seen such a willingness to share knowledge, either, not even his own father, who’d hoped his son would one day follow him as a Campbell falconer.

He died too soon. I had to figure it all out on my own. And then the gang found me.

“Look here, this was my design for the brace I made Brodie—he’s the McClure warrior whose knee was destroyed by the bandit’s arrow, remember? Nichola, my sister, the healer, saved his life. But I was the one to make him walk again.”

Wren was staring up at the beautiful woman as if she were an angel. Mayhap she was. She’d fallen into their lives and now seemed determined to give the wee lassie everything she’d dreamed of.

“I dinnae think this design will work for ye after all—nay, dinnae be disappointed, little one.” Wynda offered a bright smile as she reached for her stylus to begin sketching. “I think, instead, I need to consider a sort of boot. Ye wear shoes in the winter, aye…?”

She trailed off, her attention on her drawing, and Wren sent him a grin over her shoulder. Aye, she did wear shoes in the winter, but with her twisted foot, it had been impossible to purchase real boots. Instead, she made do with a leather wrap he’d fashioned. After years of working with the hawks, he knew how to work leather as well as anyone.

Did Wynda really think she could build something to help his daughter?

Wren tapped something on the piece of vellum, and Wynda beamed up at the lassie.

“Aye! Good memory. That is a W. Are ye going to say the letter for me today?”

His daughter held the woman’s gaze as she slowly shook her head, her pale eyes sparkling, as if this were a game.

Wynda pretended to scowl. “Pick up that slate, aye? It was my auld one—they’re verra rare!—but I’m giving it to ye. Have ye used one afore?”

When Wren shook her head, she showed the lassie how to mark on it with chalk and how to erase it. “Draw a W, as ye did yesterday in the dirt.”

And so the pair of them worked; Wynda showed Wren how to write the letters of her name and had the lassie copy them again and again as she measured and scribbled herself. She clearly had some sort of plan or design in mind, and even Wren became distracted from her letters as she watched the scholar flip between pieces of vellum.

Finally, the lassie propped her slate in her lap and tapped one small finger against a design.

Wynda started, then glanced back and forth between his daughter’s face and the scroll. “That’s how long yer foot is.” The lassie didn’t move her finger, her face set in a question. “ ’Tis a measurement in inches,” Wynda offered, although it was clear she didn’t know what his daughter wanted.

He could guess. Shifting forward, he made his presence known. “She wants to ken what it says,” he rumbled.

With wide eyes, Wynda glanced back at him, then at his daughter once more, who nodded.

“Oh.” She opened her mouth, then closed it again, studying the lassie with a thoughtful expression. Finally, she offered, “Ye want to learn yer numbers as well as yer letters?”

Wren nodded eagerly.

In response, the woman tapped the slate. “Then tell me what this letter is.”