She’d left him knowing he was the one for her, and the Gray Lady had preened when Wynda had told her she’d been right. It had been galling.
Of course, this was right before the ghost had made her big announcement; she’d determined what her final addition to A Harlot’s Guide would be.
‘Twas a fairly simple coital position, involving only one man and one woman and not a single accoutrement or vagined bedpost or even phallic-shaped vegetable. A little anticlimactic, to be honest.
But it was intriguing, nonetheless, and Wynda couldn’t wait to share it with Pherson.
She sighed happily, watching him stroll toward them.
“Hello, ladies,” he said with a formal bow as he drew near.
His daughter giggled and affected a lop-sided curtsey, and Wynda vowed this was one more skill she could teach the lassie—after her boot was fitted well enough for her foot to support her.
No’ that ye’re verra good at curtseying. But at least ye remember the lessons Mother tried to drill into ye.
Pherson was eyeing her warily now, as if not sure of his reception. Well, he didn’t have to ever worry about her turning him away, did he? So she smiled and pulled the satchel around to the front of her hips.
“We came to find ye,” she explained simply. “We wanted ye to be here.”
“My boot, Da!”
His gray eyes lit in excitement, although she wasn’t certain if it was because of his daughter’s speech, or the knowledge the brace was prepared.
“Well then, lasses, let’s see it.”
And with that, he plopped himself down right there in the heather and gorse and, laughing, his daughter threw herself onto his lap.
Wynda liked to think her own seating was a little more elegant, but after a few moments, it hardly mattered.
It took both adults to work the stiff leather of the boot onto Wren’s foot, and they were all three of them laughing by the end. Then Pherson and Wynda took turns explaining each part of the brace—from the stitching to the padded metal to the laces—to wee Wren, who was practically vibrating with anticipation.
“Now, Da? Wind?”
Smiling, Wynda finished one last adjustment. “I think…that should do it.”
With a grunt, Pherson levered himself to one knee and hoisted Wren under her arms. “Oof. There ye go, little bird.”
Almost reverently, he removed his hands…and Wren balanced on her own two feet.
Then, grinning, she took a step. And another. She glanced over her shoulder to smile at her father, then practiced a few more steps. It wasn’t a smooth gait, but it wasn’t nearly as halting as her previous steps.
Beside him, Wynda could tell Pherson was holding his breath.
“Fly, Da!” Wren called.
She extended her arms from her sides, tucked her chin to her chest, and broke into a stumbling run.
And Pherson uttered a sound which sounded suspiciously like a sob and collapsed back on his heels.
When Wynda reached him, he had tears in his eyes, and the most beautiful expression of wonder on his face. His gaze was locked on his daughter, who was running for the first time in her life.
His hand groped for hers, and when she took it, he tugged abruptly. She lost her balance and slammed into him, but he didn’t fall; he crushed her to his chest, one strong hand on the back of her head, the other spread wide across her back.
He smelled of leather and oil and wool and sweat, and Wynda smiled to feel his heart thundering wildly against her cheek. She snaked her arms around his back and squeezed him in return.
“Thank ye,” he murmured hoarsely over her head, his gaze still fiercely on his daughter. “Thank ye. Ye’ll—Saints above, Wynda.” He swallowed. “Ye’ll never ken what this means…”
Still smiling, she squirmed until he loosened his hold and she was able to peer up at him. “I think I do, Pherson.”