Page 52 of The Forest Bride

He knew his faults and strengths, what he did well, where he went astray in most things. For years, he had known that he loved Margaret Keith, loved what he knew of her, loved the memory of her and what might have been. And he knew he had erred.

But he was not the most spontaneous fellow, changing on a quick urge. He took his time in things, serious and aloof, cautious and careful. Margaret was his near opposite—impulsive and quick, leaping before thinking, following her heart over herhead. He thought before he leaped. But when he acted, it was decisive and certain.

But he wanted this spitfire lass with every part of his being and body, with a craving unlike he had ever felt.

“Well?” she said, turning in the green gown. “It does fit. Thank you.”

He merely nodded. “I thought it might. Good. Now take up your cloak.” He went to the door, gripping the latch a little too hard.

“We are going outside? Where?” She fetched her cloak, green with a plaid lining, a good cloak, he noticed. As she tied the cord that strung through the base of the hood, he noticed a gash in the wool.

“You tore your cloak. Is that how you lost your cloak pin?”

“They tore my cloak in the ambush. Menteith had my brooch and I want it back. And I would love some fresh air just now,” she said as he held the door open for her.

The thought of her being manhandled in an ambush sent a stab of fiery anger through him. He was even more convinced that something must be done. But if he said so now, this lass would expect immediate action. When he moved, it would be deliberate and effective.

“I thought you might like to go out through a door instead of a window.”

She twisted her mouth in silent reply and descended the steps ahead of him. The light scent of lavender wafted with her. He recalled that scent in her hair when they had kissed, the same scent of the soap when she had bathed. That sight came back to him unbidden, and he felt a tug of yearning.

Stop, he told himself. He was a justiciar, not a heartsick lover.

Lifting her faceto the morning light, Margaret breathed in the bracing springtime air as she followed Duncan Campbell. He led her to a structure with wattle walls and a thatched roof, two stories tall with latticed windows. She looked at him in surprise.

“A mews? You keep birds here?”

“A few.” He opened the door and she stepped inside.

As she entered, she heard the rustle of wings and the chime of tiny bells. Sunlight cast the shadows of the wooden lattice on tall windows. A raftered ceiling soared high overhead, giving the small building a spacious feeling.

A few birds sat on various perches, six or eight birds of various sizes, some hooded, some sleeping with heads tucked. Duncan touched her elbow. “Over here.”

In a far corner, a large white bird perched on a stand made of slender tree limbs. A falcon, she saw; it stepped back and forth a little, bells chiming on jesses. Dark eyes beneath arrowed brows flashed the visitors a searing look.

Caught for a moment by that piercing avian gaze, she gasped. “A gyrfalcon?”

“Aye.” Duncan had an expectant smile.

“Is she—oh, the same—”

“She is. This is Lady Greta.”

“You kept her!” Margaret smiled up at him, feeling truly joyful in that moment.

“All this time.”

“How old is she now?”

“Eleven, is my guess. They live thirteen or fourteen years in the wild, but in a mews with all their needs met, they easily live twenty years. She was a juvenile when we found her.”

“Oh, Greta, you beauty,” Margaret said, speaking softly. Greta fluttered her wings, her leather jesses looped to the perch.

Duncan reached into his belt pouch to pull out a bit of flesh meat from a wrapped packet. He offered it, and the bird scooped it quickly but casually, as if in dismissal and irritation with him.

“Greta is a little unhappy with me. I have been away.”

“She missed you.”