Falnaird, Loch Awe, September 1309
Craig stilled at the entrance to the great hall, his heart squeezing in response to the floral, herbal scent of fresh heather. Amy had this habit of gathering whatever flowers were blooming and putting them into vases she made out of clay. Each of the six long tables and the lord’s table had those vessels full of bouquets, making the room jollier and brighter. The weather had been warmer than usual, and heather was still in bloom, spilling violet and magenta onto the moss-green hills surrounding Falnaird, Craig’s estate.
There they were, the two great loves of his life: his wife and his daughter. Amy bounced nine-month-old Jenny on her hip while she talked to Moibeal, the nanny. Amy’s long copper hair was braided down the center and gathered behind her head in a knot. He knew it must have been practical, but most of all, it highlighted the pureness of her skin, and her big eyes with long eyelashes.