The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,53

the great Macleod’s favorite daughter.”

“She wasn’t his favorite.”

“She was,” Philip said. “And that’s not the point.”

She sat silent for a moment, listening to the sudden howl of the wind in the trees. Like a wolf’s howl, like her Culross. She pictured the huge animal leaning against her skinny legs, her feet bare. She turned her head quickly to shake the picture, and the strands of pearls roped through her hair snapped together. “I wish we had known them,” she said, trying to picture them instead.

“Who?” He watched her as she talked. She didn’t know that he thought her unbearably pretty, and that every time he looked at her, she seemed different, her face changing before his eyes, the bones pressing higher against her skin, new planes and angles.

“Our mothers.” She shrugged. “Our grandfather Macleod. We have this family we know nothing about.”

“What don’t you know?”

“Don’t be obstinate.”

“I don’t mean to be.” He grimaced at the rebuke.

“But doesn’t it ever seem strange to you that we never knew the Macleods? That we know nothing of our mothers, only our fathers? And how different the Buchanan is from the Eton.” She smiled almost wistfully. “Perhaps it is our mothers bringing us together like this. Angels.”

“I think you are more Macleod than any of us,” he said, leaning forward to tentatively touch a tendril of black hair that had come loose from her chignon.

“I don’t look like a Macleod.”

“But then, neither do we.” He pulled a funny face and she smiled, just as he intended to make her do. He stood up reluctantly. “I should see about the horses. Do you want to come?”

“No, it’s too windy.” But she also stood up.

“If the wind dies down, you ought to go riding with me. You haven’t been out in a while, not since the boar incident.”

She shrugged. “I haven’t felt like riding. It scared me, what happened. I had thought I knew the woods, but—” and she broke off, glancing around the chamber, seeing the burgundy and gold tapestry, the pewter jug, the dark leather chairs and small polished table. “Nothing is,” she said, her voice low, sounding lonely like the wind outside, “as you ever think.”

*

FOOTSTEPS SOUNDED DOWN the hallway, stopping just outside Cordaella and Elisabeth’s bedchamber door. There was a knock. Cordaella continued combing her hair as Elisabeth glanced from the bath. Maggie went to the door, opening it “Your ladyship,” she said with a curtsy and opening the door to allow Lady Eton to enter.

Mary Eton stood inside the doorway, her hands folded neatly against her skirts. She rarely visited the girls’ chambers and looked uncomfortable now. “Good evening,” she said a little stiffly.

“Good evening,” the girls answered.

“I have come to speak with you, Cordaella,” she said without preamble. “His lordship believes it is in your best interest if we—you and I—talk now.” She glanced at the beds and the small wooden bench against one wall. “We can speak here or go elsewhere.”

“I am undressed,” Cordaella said, having already prepared for bed.

“Then we can talk here.” She lifted the wooden bench and carried it to the bed. “Come, sit. I shall say what I must.” Cordaella could feel Elisabeth’s eyes on her as she walked to the bed, her legs wobbly, her knees loose as if all strength had left her. She sat down, her long hair spilling over her shoulders to her waist. “It is November,” Lady Eton began, “and nearly winter.” She cleared her throat. “You will be sixteen after Epiphany. Your lady’s maid has said that you’ve begun your monthlies, and—” she wavered for only a moment, “you are of an age to bear children.” Cordaella lowered her head, embarrassed. “Your uncle believed it would have been in your best interest to have had you married by your fifteenth birthday. He is looking for a suitable husband, one that will bring honor and strength to the Eton name.”

Cordaella’s hands felt damp and she wiped them on her nightdress. “Has he made a decision?”

Lady Eton didn’t immediately reply. She stared at the girl, her expression pained, her brow furrowed. “Do you understand a wife’s responsibility? That she must be quiet and diligent, gentle, honest, and always,” she said, stressing the last word, “obedient.”

“Even when he is wrong?” Cordaella asked, thinking of Eton’s arrogance and manipulations.

Lady Eton held up a finger. “One’s husband is never wrong. He cannot be contradicted.”

Cordaella looked away, looking to Elisabeth who was silently drying herself by the fire. Maggie was emptying the tub’s water into