Page 27 of Laird of Steel
The sudden movement startled Balachmòr. But Gellir managed to keep the gyrfalcon from biting off her fingers. He pulled the bird out of range and clasped the lady’s solid hand in his.
“M’lady?”
She nodded, withdrawing her hand. Then she scanned Dougal’s company. “Where’s Feiyan? Are ye hidin’ your bonnie bride, Dougal?”
His reply was halting. “N-nay. She’s…indisposed.”
Gellir furrowed his brows. Indisposed? He’d seen Feiyan not an hour ago, fighting a Darragh warrior on the practice field. But perhaps, being with child, she tired easily.
“Indisposed?” Lady Margaret’s face fell. “That’s a shame. I was hopin’ to show her my new glove.” She pensively fingered the finely tooled leather beneath her peregrine’s talons. “Perhaps later…when we return?”
Laird Dougal looked pained. “Maybe…next time?”
Her eyes dimmed, but she managed a nod. “Please tell her I hope she’s feelin’ better soon.”
“I will.”
When she lifted her chin again to face Gellir, she was beaming. But her broad smile couldn’t hide the disappointment lingering in her eyes. “Shall we?”
She didn’t wait for permission.
“Lead on,” Laird Dougal said.
They proceeded out of the keep and toward the cliff of the firth, where seabirds were plentiful. Raso the mewskeeper had told him gyrfalcons like Balachmòr liked to hunt for crabs, and peregrines like Margaret’s could take down gulls.
“I must confess,” Gellir confided to Margaret as they crossed the sward, “I know little about falconry.”
She narrowed her eyes at his gyrfalcon. “I know your bird. ’Tis one o’ Feiyan’s favorites. Balachmòr is a sweet old man. He’ll be a good fit.”
Gellir wished he could say as much for Lady Margaret. But if what Merraid had hinted at and what he was beginning to suspect was true, no husband would ever be a good fit for her. Though she dared not reveal her secret, he guessed her preference was for more feminine company.
Gellir wouldn’t breathe a word about it, of course. He was a man of chivalry. He would grant her the same courtesy and kindness he would any prospective bride. Even if he knew he could never be the kind of lover she desired.
She tried. She made a noble effort when they were alone at the cliff’s edge.
“Ye do resemble your cousin a bit,” she told him with a wistful smile, as if attempting to talk herself into caring for him.
“Ach, the Rivenloch curse,” he jested.
“She’s lovely, your cousin,” she protested. “And ye have the same dark hair…” She turned to study his face. “The same wry mouth. And your eyes…” Heartache flashed like lightning through her gaze, gone as quickly as it had come. When she spoke again, her voice was thick with emotion. “Molten silver, like hers.”
Gellir clasped her arm with his free hand. He could see she was trying to convince herself she might grow to like him. He also knew that wouldn’t happen.
“But I’ll never be Feiyan, aye?” he said in soft understanding.
Startled, she stiffened and looked away, her jaw tight. “I don’t know what ye mean.”
“I fear you wear your heart on your sleeve, m’lady,” he chided.
She glanced up briefly and swiftly changed the subject. “Shall we release them now?”
Before he could answer, she loosened the peregrine’s jesses and took off its hood.
He mimicked her actions, freeing his gyrfalcon.
The breeze rising up the cliff’s edge ruffled Balachmòr’s feathers. Then both birds lifted off together to sail into the updraft. In the space of a breath, they had dwindled into tiny specks high above the shore.
“’Tis amazin’, isn’t it…” Margaret said, gazing pensively at her falcon, hovering over the firth, “…the way they soar into the heavens like angels?”
