The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,37
girl belonged to her guardian. She supposed she was lucky she had a guardian.
He leaned over to pick up a twig, twirling it absently between his fingers. “How are you a relation to Eton? He isn’t from across the border, is he?”
“No. His first wife, Charlotte, and my mother were from Aberdeen. Daughters of the late Duke Macleod.”
“John Macleod?”
“Yes. There were three daughters. Charlotte was the eldest. My mother was the middle sister. Mary was the youngest. I think of them, those three sisters, and I think of my grandfather and my uncle, the one they called Dunbar the Red.” She hesitated before continuing, “and then I think of my father. And they’re all gone.” She lifted her face to the wind, the cold stinging her cheeks. “But I can’t let them go. Not yet. Not until things are right.”
“Then you might find the world a very hard place.”
“But of course I will. I am a Scot.”
“Yes, and not so different from the Irish.” He broke the branch between his fingers, the dry wood snapping.
She looked up high, past the treetops to the sliver of moon. “Do you know what the strangest part about living here is? It is being a girl. In the mountains I never thought about being a girl. I didn’t even know I was one. I was just me, Cordaella. But here I am something different…like a different breed of animal. And it’s not just me. I see Lady Mary treated the same way, although she is older and a real woman. But Elisabeth! She, I think, has it even worse than me. She doesn’t seem to matter, at least not to anyone here. It is almost as if she didn’t exist.” Cordaella shivered. “And because Elisabeth matters so little, she blames me. I wish she had inherited the Macleod estates. Perhaps she would be the one guarded, protected.”
“Is that why you weren’t at the banquet this afternoon?”
“My uncle—” and she laughed, sounding lonelier than she would ever know, “—thinks I might draw an attack, provocation for jealousy. He seems to think everyone covets the inheritance. That I would have false suitors.” She shook her head, her teeth now chattering. “Perhaps we should go back. It is late. Supper can’t be long now.”
He took her arm, assisting her over a stump and through the tangle of undergrowth. Color fanned her cheeks and she kept her head down, trying it ignore the warmth of his hand on her arm, of his upper hand at the small of her back as they hurried through the dark musk fragrance of the woods to the distant lights of Peveril. She heard the wind pick up, the trees singing. This is where magic happened. And she would somehow help her father, avenge his death. Like the trees and the night, she was strong.
*
A HANDMAID KNOCKED on the bedchamber door as Cordaella tugged her muddy shoes off. “You’re late, miss,” Maggie rebuked as she bustled in, stirring up the fire and setting a kettle on to boil water before unlacing the stays on Cordaella’s dirty houppelande.
Cordaella held her trembling hands out to the fire, grateful for the warmth. “I feel frozen through,” she said, but she was thinking of the Irishman and she hugged the half hour in the woods.
Maggie stripped the chemise over the girl’s head. “Look at that back,” the maid clucked. “He’s been at it again, has he?” Carefully she blotted the welts on Cordaella’s back with a damp cloth. “One of these days he’ll leave scars.”
“Only twelve this time.” Cordaella pressed her arms to her bare breasts, her legs trembling with cold. She remembered the parting look the knight had given her, a small smile on his lips, and yet his eyes—they were so blue!—had stared down at her with as serious an expression as she had ever seen. “And he didn’t even make me count.”
Cordaella’s head felt light, her legs almost too weak to hold her. She couldn’t wait to see him again. She must hurry, must hurry back downstairs.
“I suppose he only wants the best for you,” Maggie said matter of factly, lowering a clean chemise over her head. “No bath for you although heaven knows you need it. Your cousin went down a half hour ago.” She opened the trunk at the foot of Cordaella’s bed, drawing out a dark green velvet surcoat, this one with black-striped sleeves. She gave it a hard shake to soften the wrinkles.
Cordaella stepped into it, settling the waist and