The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,49
her pillow, eager and yet ashamed. Would he hurt her? What would he even do?
“Cordaella!” Elisabeth sat up, propping herself with one elbow. “You are tossing so much that I cannot sleep. What is the matter with you?”
“No,” Cordaella whispered, forcing her legs out flat, her knees stiff. “I am sorry. Go back to sleep. I promise to be quieter.” She listened while Elisabeth lay back down, watching her cousin’s shoulder shrug back beneath the bed covers. Cordaella closed her eyes again, willing herself to relax, but it was impossible to not think of him, and so she reminded herself of her uncle instead. Yes, her revenge.
*
THE SUN BROKE through the clouds for the first time in days. From Peveril’s windows, the pasture stretched below, acres of gold and green. “Soon they will be sowing wheat and rye,” Cordaella said, leaning against the window sill. “And then in spring again, oats, beans, and barley.” She reached out to tap the leaded glass with her fingernail. “The seasons come one after another, more work, another harvest.” She glanced over her shoulder at Philip. “From here the villages look small and clean.”
“What are you thinking now, Cordaella?” She didn’t answer him, watching a fly land on the window and walk in the smallest of steps across the glass.
“Green and lush,” she said, looking out on the farmland. “The village plants and we eat. They work for the castle and then the castle redistributes the food.”
“Whatever is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” She left the window and sat down on a bench near his feet. She wrapped her arms around her knees, sitting back to look up at him. “Perhaps I might ask you the same question. What is the matter with you? You never laugh with me anymore. You are always so serious, Philip. You don’t want distraction.” Cordaella smiled slightly. “Perhaps it is the books you are reading.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m only just finishing Boccaccio. Did you read it before you lent it to me?”
Philip walked to the hearth and kicked the log, rolling it over in a shower of red sparks. “No. I thought it vulgar. Too florid.” He leaned against the mantle. Her chin jutted in mute protest. “Don’t be angry, Cordy.” He gentled his voice. “I don’t mind you reading it, only Father wouldn’t be happy. He would think it improper.”
Her jaw tensed, her fine arched eyebrows lifting. “I don’t care what he thinks.”
“I only want what is best for you. And although I know my father has wronged you—”
“—I thought we weren’t to discuss it,” she said, interrupting him.
“But I am partly responsible. I am his son, the heir to the earldom, to Derbyshire and the Peveril estate. I can’t help him for what he is, but I can try to make amends—”
“Don’t go on like this.” She fidgeted with the ragged edge of her red and black sleeve. “It won’t help to discuss it. And of course it isn’t your fault. How could it be? Now, please, Philip, stop.”
“I know what he has planned for you, or an idea of it. I can’t bear to think of you married for my father’s gain. Please…” he said, moving to intercept her as she got up and walked towards the door. “Won’t you hear me out?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say!”
She placed a hand on his arm that was barring the door. “Let me pass. And say no more.”
“And where will you go now? Back to your Boccaccio?”
“Don’t be unkind.”
“Do you know how I feel?” He grabbed her hand, his fingers tight about hers. “Do you have any idea of my feelings?”
She wrenched her hand free. “Your father’s shame is not your own. I do not blame you. I would not hold you responsible. Let me do what I must—”
“And why must you marry Fernando?
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“So let me act before the betrothal is announced. I will marry you myself, Cordaella—”
“Stop.” She was frightened, unnerved by his passion and his insistence. His father would kill him. And maybe her too. Then poor Elisabeth would inherit. Cordaella shivered. Philip had never been practical. Now she saw how little Eton there was in him. She could almost imagine her mother pleading with the falconer this way, Marry me, marry me and let us leave here. But Cordaella knew what had happened to her mother and her father later. It hadn’t been a happy story. Nor a happy ending.
“I care for you,” he said so quietly