They ate in silence for a time, making quick work of the food. Seraphina’s stomach rebelled against it; her emotions were much too volatile for her to eat with any ease. But she had long learned that you ate where you could and did not pass up a meal. Too many times in those uncertain years when she and her sisters had first absconded from their father’s house they’d had to go to bed hungry, and she’d trained both them and herself to never forgo sustenance.
But eventually the time came when she could not get a morsel more of food into her roiling stomach. Sighing, sherose to her feet, bending down to retrieve a curious Phineas as he hunted insects in the grass.
“Come along, love,” she cooed. “Let’s give your wings a stretch.”
Just as she was moving off, Iain called out to her. “I dinnae suppose you could use my assistance, could you?”
Blinking in surprise, she looked back at him. He had risen as well and was brushing out his kilt. But it was his eyes that arrested her attention. They appeared uncertain, almost sheepish.
“I know I am nae that pigeon’s favorite person, of course,” he said wryly, tilting his head in Phineas’s direction. “But I am willing to hold out a figurative olive branch to him. If,” he added forcefully, “he can keep from biting any more of my appendages.”
She cocked one eyebrow at him, suppressing a smile. “If you’re certain,” she murmured. “He’s such a bloodthirsty thing, after all.”
He glowered at Phineas, but there was no malice in it. “That I know fair and well. But I refuse to be cowed by a bird.”
She nodded. “Very well. Stand over by that tree there,” she said, indicating a large oak some thirty feet away. “And hold your arm out at your side.”
He did as he was bid, lifting his arm straight out beside him, a look of grim determination on his rugged face, even as he leaned his head as far to the opposite side as he was able.
She couldn’t help her grin then. Nor could she help the way her heart pounded at the endearing sight of this large, strong man trying so valiantly not to be afraid of a small bird.
“Now say, firmly,trobhad, Phineas,” she instructed.
He blinked, his barely hidden anxiety replaced by bemusement. “You must be joking,” he said. “Just how Scottish was this friend of yours?”
“Oh, she was very Scottish,” she quipped. “I daresay she would have even put you to shame.”
But she hardly heard his feigned scoff at such an idea. For the first time since Bridget’s death, she had thought of her friend with a soft happiness instead of grief.
Iain must have sensed the change in her, even at thirty paces away. He stilled, his arm lowering slowly. “Seraphina, are you well?” he called.
Forcing a smile, she waved a hand in the air. “Of course I’m well. Now then,” she continued, adjusting her spectacles to hide her disquiet before raising the hand that held Phineas, “lift your arm and speak firmly.”
He did not look convinced by her act. But he nevertheless did what she bid, raising his arm perpendicular, a look of fierce determination on his face as he said in a booming voice, “Trobhad, Phineas.”
That bird, as well-trained as he was, first by Bridget and then by Seraphina’s own efforts, took off immediately, bright green wings flapping and tail flared as he flew toward Iain. For his part, Iain tensed as the parrot made its swift way to him, yet he kept his arm out straight, a firm perch. When the bird landed, Iain grunted slightly in surprise, then held as still as any marble statue, seemingly hardly daring to breathe.
The sight was so comical, so ridiculous, that Seraphina could not help the laugh that bubbled from her lips. He glared at her before returning his side-eyed glance at Phineas, who cocked his head and considered Iain with his bright yellow eye.
“Just what is so hilarious about this?” he demanded through gritted teeth, in a singsong voice that was completely at odds with his words.
Which, of course, sent Seraphina off into further gales of laughter. “You look as though he is ready to attack your jugular,” she sputtered.
“I wouldnae put it past him,” he grumbled as Phineas moved farther up his arm—toward said jugular. “Staaay,” he said in a low voice. “There’s a good parrot.”
Finally taking pity on Iain, Seraphina said in as firm a voice as she was able, considering how overcome with laughter she was, “Trobhad, Phineas.”
The bird lifted off in a flutter, coming to land on her hand. Extracting a seed from the pocket at her waist, she offered it to him. Voracious thing that he was, he eagerly accepted it.
“Do you wish to try again?” she called across the grassy expanse of lawn.
“Aye,” he said, his voice firm, his expression determined. “Trobhad, Phineas,” he called, with only the slightest tensing when the bird, as ever obedient, landed on his arm.
They worked with Phineas for some minutes, and with each recall of the bird Iain seemed to grow more confident, more relaxed until, watching her pass a seed to Phineas for the dozenth time, he surprised her by declaring, “I wish to reward the pigeon as well.”
She pursed her lips. “If you’re certain.”
“Aye, I am,” he declared before, stomping over to the picnic, he retrieved a strawberry. Then, taking his place once more, he called the bird to him.
