whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.
Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.
“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”
“May I keep him?”
“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”
“May I hold him?”
“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”
The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.
“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.
Liat followed suit.
Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”
“So you did.” Her cheeks were flushed from the effort. Her eyes crinkled with laughter.
Just then her eyes widened as Quenton shifted and the hound beside him gave a deep growl of warning. “Oh, Lord Stamford. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss St. John.” The breeze caught a strand of her hair and he found himself staring at it Not brown, as he’d first suspected, but a rich chestnut, with glints of honey and russet. The need to touch it, to allow those silken strands to sift through his fingers, had him clenching his hands at his sides.
“I see you found the boy the proper clothing.” He turned his gaze to Liat, noting the sturdy boots, the warm breeches and snug sweater. “How are you enjoying your walk, boy?”
“Fine, sir.” His eyes, which only moments ago were dancing with unconcealed pleasure, now lowered, avoiding contact.
“I overheard you discussing a baby bird. Would you care to show it to me?”
The boy shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Quenton began to follow the boy, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that the nursemaid had no choice but to go along. She lengthened her steps to keep up with his.
“Miss St. John said I couldn’t keep it.”
“She was quite right. Babies need their mothers.”
As they approached the spot, the mother bird once again took flight, squawking and scolding. The baby lay in the grass, its little wings fluttering. At a word from Quenton, the hound remained several paces behind them, standing as still as a statue.
“What happens to baby birds that lose their mothers?” Liat asked.
“Someone else is obliged to take them home and care for them.” Quenton knelt in the grass beside the boy. “But no matter how much care they are given, it is never the same as they would have received from their mother.”
“I would know how to care for them.”
“You would?”
Liat’s tone, his manner, were hushed and solemn. “I would take the baby with me everywhere. And I would talk to it, and love it. And when the bird cried for its mother, I would sing to it just the way the mother bird sang.”
Quenton sat back on his heels a moment, studying the boy with great interest. He had the feeling the boy was no longer just talking about the bird.
He got to his feet and glanced at the mother bird, hovering nearby. “We’d best move away, or this baby’s mother won’t be singing, but attacking with that sharp beak.”
As they made their way across the moor Quenton asked, “Have you learned the names of any plants or animals, boy?”
Liat nodded. “Miss St. John pointed out Agri...Agri...”
“Agrimonia eupatoria,” she prompted.
“Ah, yes.” Quenton nodded. “Agrimony. The Greeks called it philanthropos, because the seeds would cling to the clothes of passersby.”
Olivia was surprised at Quenton’s store of knowledge.
Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.
“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”
“May I keep him?”
“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”
“May I hold him?”
“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”
The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.
“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.
Liat followed suit.
Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”
“So you did.” Her cheeks were flushed from the effort. Her eyes crinkled with laughter.
Just then her eyes widened as Quenton shifted and the hound beside him gave a deep growl of warning. “Oh, Lord Stamford. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss St. John.” The breeze caught a strand of her hair and he found himself staring at it Not brown, as he’d first suspected, but a rich chestnut, with glints of honey and russet. The need to touch it, to allow those silken strands to sift through his fingers, had him clenching his hands at his sides.
“I see you found the boy the proper clothing.” He turned his gaze to Liat, noting the sturdy boots, the warm breeches and snug sweater. “How are you enjoying your walk, boy?”
“Fine, sir.” His eyes, which only moments ago were dancing with unconcealed pleasure, now lowered, avoiding contact.
“I overheard you discussing a baby bird. Would you care to show it to me?”
The boy shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Quenton began to follow the boy, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that the nursemaid had no choice but to go along. She lengthened her steps to keep up with his.
“Miss St. John said I couldn’t keep it.”
“She was quite right. Babies need their mothers.”
As they approached the spot, the mother bird once again took flight, squawking and scolding. The baby lay in the grass, its little wings fluttering. At a word from Quenton, the hound remained several paces behind them, standing as still as a statue.
“What happens to baby birds that lose their mothers?” Liat asked.
“Someone else is obliged to take them home and care for them.” Quenton knelt in the grass beside the boy. “But no matter how much care they are given, it is never the same as they would have received from their mother.”
“I would know how to care for them.”
“You would?”
Liat’s tone, his manner, were hushed and solemn. “I would take the baby with me everywhere. And I would talk to it, and love it. And when the bird cried for its mother, I would sing to it just the way the mother bird sang.”
Quenton sat back on his heels a moment, studying the boy with great interest. He had the feeling the boy was no longer just talking about the bird.
He got to his feet and glanced at the mother bird, hovering nearby. “We’d best move away, or this baby’s mother won’t be singing, but attacking with that sharp beak.”
As they made their way across the moor Quenton asked, “Have you learned the names of any plants or animals, boy?”
Liat nodded. “Miss St. John pointed out Agri...Agri...”
“Agrimonia eupatoria,” she prompted.
“Ah, yes.” Quenton nodded. “Agrimony. The Greeks called it philanthropos, because the seeds would cling to the clothes of passersby.”
Olivia was surprised at Quenton’s store of knowledge.
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