The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,26

I have a favorite log I sit on, but it is a rather rocky climb.”

She hiked up her skirts. “I like a rocky climb.” She smiled at him and stalked into the woods, climbing over the first of the rotting tree stumps and jumping down past the great mound of wild mushrooms. “This is lovely,” she said, taking care not to smash any of the purple wildflowers blooming between fallen branches.

He pulled himself up on top of the big tree that lay across the small clearing, making room on the log for her. She threw one leg over the trunk and then another, settling her skirts over the smooth bark. “I love it here,” she said, drawing a great breath. “Why didn’t you show me before?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You might have even liked my mountain.” She turned to look at him, wispy blonde hair falling across his forehead. “Ben Nevis,” she said it as if it were sacred. “No one but us lived on it.”

“Your mountain? But surely you didn’t own it.”

She wished he hadn’t said that. It made her feel bad, feel small. Of course they didn’t own it. People didn’t own mountains. They couldn’t own nature or fairy faith. It was all just part of things. “No one lived on it but us.” Her chest hurt when she answered, as if suddenly reminded of all that she had lost.

He leaned on his arm, rubbing his cheek against his jupon. “Sometimes I feel sorry for you,” he said softly. “You don’t like it here much, do you?”

“No.” She didn’t even like him very much at that moment. He didn’t understand anything.

“And yet the others envy you. Can you believe that?”

“Envy me? Who?”

“Elisabeth. You must know that she is terribly jealous. She wants to be terribly rich and Grandfather Macleod left you everything—his estate, the lands, the income.”

“Absolutely everything?” she repeated, feeling rather dense. They had never talked about her inheritance before.

“Well, almost everything. But you weren’t supposed to inherit. My Uncle Dunbar was first, and then his sons. But they all died at Angus the same day. And so you, who were only supposed to have enough for a small dowry, inherited all.”

“But what about you? And Elisabeth and Eddie?”

He shrugged. “We were given fifty thousand sterling each. It isn’t a significant amount, not when compared to your four or five hundred thousand. I don’t know. It may be more, particularly if the port in Aberdeen is developed.”

“I had no idea.” She sighed. “No wonder Elisabeth hates me.” She ran her fingers along her skirts until they reached the hem, her stockings soft and warm. She had never worn stockings until she came here. But then, she had never worn underskirts and chemises, or shoes with silver buckles. “No one has ever hated me before,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t like it. It hurts.”

“I know how it feels. I think my father hates me.”

“He can’t hate you.” She squinted, trying to see him in the glare of late afternoon sun. “He is your father.”

“Fathers don’t have to love their children. They don’t even have to like them. I have heard of fathers—mothers, too—who never see their children. Especially in families like ours. Many fathers and mothers live somewhere else.”

Her brow wrinkled, black eyebrows rising curiously. “Then who raises the children?”

“Wet nurses.” He could tell she didn’t understand. “Nurses like Mrs. Penny.” His voice took on a practical tone. “Then later come tutors and lessons and apprenticeship.”

“Will you be apprenticed?”

“Eddie will. I’ll be assigned as a page to a knight or squire. Eventually I’ll earn my knighthood and so forth.”

“I think I’d rather be a knight than an apprentice.”

“But it’s not so easy, Cordy.” Philip swung one leg from the tree trunk. “I don’t get to choose. My father will decide everything. He’ll even decide when I must leave Peveril and when—if ever—I can return. I hope to inherit, but nothing is certain.”

“You must be rich.”

His laughter was low, almost mocking. “Rich? Of course. The Etons are new nobility…all we have is money. And that’s Father’s only ambition. If we were a different family, if we were an old family like the Percys or Beauforts, we would have many estates and hundreds of acres of land. There would be places at court for both Eddie and me.

Instead we’ve only our name and our purse, and I can tell you, from what I’ve heard Mr. Pole say, that it’s the Eton purse the King wants, not the