The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,5

Would she have what she needed?

He lay down his whittling as she teetered out of the darkness and closer to the fire, her small legs crouching as she struggled to pick up a stone from the ring of rocks around the center hearth. “Aahh,” she gasped, dropping the stone quickly. He watched from the other side of the fire. Should he warn her of the danger yet again? She never listened.

“Cory.” He said her name brusquely.

The child straightened slowly, swaying on legs just learning to walk. At fourteen months she was still thin, but her small legs were strong. The toddler pushed back the curls that hung long in her eyes. “’Ot!”

Startled, Kirk said nothing, staring in silence at his daughter. Finally, “Yes, the fire is hot.”

Balancing precariously on one foot she took a step away from the circle of stones surrounding the cottage fire. Her head tilted back as she tried to get a better look at him. Her eyes found his and as she stood there swaying, her small mouth puckered and smiled. “’Ot,” she repeated before turning away with one triumphant last smile in her father’s direction.

*

THE CHILLY SPRING nights gradually warmed; each morning the slopes of the mountain seemed a deeper green, pockets of wildflowers splashing yellow, pink, and purple color across the verdant green. In the mornings, Kirk was at his most cheerful, tramping through the tall grasses, the child perched on his shoulder. He would hike up the mountain towards Nevis, naming the plants and birds, pointing out hidden foxholes, the timid rabbits, the nests in the granite crags.

Walking, he found his voice, his anger dissolving in the freshness of the crisp air and the exercise. He felt closer to freedom than he ever did; this was how it should have always been, instead of his years in Grampian and Aberdeen, the ignorant peasant struggling to placate his lord.

But Anne. It was she who had come to him, who revealed her world to him, the comparisons between the classes making him sick, his stomach a knot of bitterness and pain. He wanted her because she was beautiful but also because she was better than he…

He lost his head. He made the wrong decisions.

Kirk would never tell her, this daughter perched on his shoulder, of the shame he had left behind. Instead, he told her of legends and the great clans. The stories were always the same, as if to make up for silence and the loneliness, the misfortune of not having mother or nurse. He would make sure she’d grow up knowing something of her mother’s family.

“To understand the strange Macleod ways,” he said, his feet trampling the tender grass and scattering of miniature blue flowers, “you must first understand the strange Macleod clan.”

“Macowd—” She repeated the clan name, struggling with the consonants.

He told her that Leod was originally of Norway, although others said Leod was Celtic. “Your grandfather claimed that Leod was one of Olave the Black’s sons. Olave—remember—was the king of Man and the Isles. Leod lived some three hundred years ago, and after growing up, he married a daughter of the Macrailt clan. They had children and their children had more children, some becoming Island chieftains, all men eventually holding posts of honor in the Island of Skye’s army.”

Cordaella clasped his neck with one arm, the other hand grabbing at his rough jupon. She listened patiently, if not closely, content to let his voice wash over her, the words slipping in and out of her ear, and she’d hold onto one and then another, not particular about which word she’d cling to.

“One of the Macleods broke from the family, leaving Skye permanently, settling eventually in Aberdeen, the first of the Aberdeen Macleod chieftains. From this Rory Macleod came your grandfather, John, your mother, Anne, and yourself.”

“Me.” She patted his cheek with her hand. “You and me.”

“You, not me.” He swallowed painfully. “I am just a Buchanan. But you, Cordaella, you mustn’t forget you are half-Macleod.”

*

IN SUMMER, KIRK left the window unshuttered, the sweet air still mild late at night. After he put the child to bed, he’d sit outside the open door, pull out his whittling again, and work with whatever light the moon provided. As he leaned against the croft, the uneven stones gouged his back but he ignored the uncomfortable sensation, focusing on the pipe he was crafting.

He loved the girl. God knew he did.

But he wasn’t happy. Time passed slowly, too slowly, and he did miss Anne, he