The Falconer's Daughter - Liz Lyles Page 0,6

missed her more than he would ever admit. It had been horrifying to lose her. They had never thought of that—the two of them in those early days. No, he would not have been able to imagine a world without her as she had been everything, as close to the sun and stars as he ever thought to reach. When she came to him two and a half years ago, when she begged him to take her away from Aberdeen, he had only felt hunger, a yearning for warmth, for peace, for her.

For Anne.

The night she died. That had been the worst. And he had to suffer it alone, had to hold her hand while she died, bury her the next day, hike with the sick infant to the town thirteen miles down the mountain to have word sent to her father, the Duke.

The babe had been born in November. Anne died in March. It had been ten months now since he lost his Anne.

Why couldn’t he forget? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about that last night?

Was it because of the unusual chill? The cold front that swept in from the western sea with wind that howled endlessly? She died shortly after midnight, and dawn took forever to arrive. At the first light, he went to the window, pushed open the shutter, and drank in the biting morning air. Wind still galloped across the meadow, the ragged mountain above him cast a vast purple shadow across the valley’s floor. Anne.

But that was then, and this was now, and July was kinder than March. Tonight the air was sweet, fragrant with summer. There was no wind, either, to rustle the tall sunburned grasses.

Kirk lowered his whittling, his head turning towards the door to listen for Cordaella. There was only silence inside the dark croft, the fire banked for the night, and he sighed. The baby. Perhaps she was more like her mother than he thought. Cordaella was into everything and listened only when she was so inclined.

He drew the knife tip along the edge of the pipe bowl, pale slivers peeling as the tip wound its way around the small circle. Cordaella Anne Buchanan. Someday the girl would learn the significance—and shame—of her poor clan name. But until then, let her sleep, let her dream the dream of babes.

*

KIRK WOKE EARLY and rose, dressing soundlessly by the cold ring of fire stones. He woke with an uneasy feeling, as if he had spent too much time thinking, his thoughts as heavy as the tattered jupon he pulled over his old undershirt.

Maybe it was time for a trip to the village in Glen Nevis. He could take the skins he had prepared to the village and trade for some woven cloth. The girl would need more than a shift come winter, and the autumn months never lasted long in the high mountains.

*

WHERE HAD THE summer gone? By his calculations it must be late August—or was it September already?—and still the girl had met no one, seen nothing. She ought to meet people, just to know she wasn’t alone, and if he didn’t do it now, it’d be another eight months before he had the chance again.

Kirk opened the door and stepped outside with a yawn and lengthy stretch. He had put some weight on since the winter, food always more plentiful in the warmer seasons. And the goat, which he bought last spring, helped. It was she who provided the milk for Cordaella. This reminded him, as he turned to look back in the croft, the girl ought to be up now.

“Cordaella—” He called to her, then peeked in to make sure she heard him. Although not up, she was awake, lying silently on the blanket-wrapped straw, one fist in her mouth, her eyes on him as she twisted her legs in and around her coverlet.

“Good morrow,” he said gruffly.

She blinked but said nothing as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees. He took a step back into the cottage, ducking his head to get through the doorway.

“Are you dirty?” Cordaella shook her head and clambered to her feet. She took longer than he did to wake in the morning and, after a moment’s hesitation, she touched the swaddling on her bottom. Her baby hand patted her behind as she looked up at him.

“Do you have to go?” he asked and she nodded, the fist still in her mouth. Kirk crossed to her, unknotting the cloth from her legs. “Then go