She was the young woman back in Ireland who had stood in the sun with him. She the denizen of old Dalriada, who walked with a deerhound at her side. She the Caledonian princess, unwilling to surrender control over her life, and she the Norse maiden who had battled for that self-rule.
Again and again, life after life, the two of them had met and loved, reclaiming one another in a deep devotion that refused to perish. She was her own ancestresses reborn, who had loved—and lost—him, only to find him over again.
He had tried to tell her, Finlay, who must have known the truth and needed to make her see it. He had told it to her in beautiful words. Sung it to her.
Now that she had found that truth, he was gone from her again.
And it was her fault.
She came to that last conclusion while tramping her lands to the point of exhaustion. Reliving the ancient tales Finlay had told, word for word. And reliving the dreams that had since beset her.
Twice had she forbidden him, her love, from returning to her as a warrior. Once—as he’d told—when she’d returned as Hulda from theNorse lands to stay here with him. And again when they were both aged and he went forth to defend this place they both loved. What was it she had said then?
“Quarrie, if we are to be parted now, if we do manage against the tide of time and fate to meet together in another life—will you promise me one thing?”
“What more to promise than that I will return to ye? I will find ye, Hulda.”
“And when you do, in the next life, let it not be as a warrior. Because I cannot endure this fear upon fear of losing you in battle. Even after all this time, I cannot.”
“And wha’ else should I be, than wha’ I ha’ been?”
“I do not care. A smith, a trainer of horses, a builder of boats, a carver of stone—any man who does not march out to die.”
“A harper?” He said it lightly as if in jest, but his eyes were serious, holding her gaze, holding her soul.
“Aye, that. A harper to play sweet songs for me and tell all the old tales. Give me those ancient songs and I promise to fall right back into your arms.”
When Katrin put those pieces of memory fast together in her mind, it nearly took her to her knees.
For he was a warrior, this man she loved. As Ardahl back in old Erin, he had been. And that—like his love for her—had traveled with him from life to life.
Until she had forbidden it to him. And for love of her—for love of her he had taken up the harp instead of the sword.
That had not kept him from following her into battle. It could not keep him, because the man was who he was.
The man she loved was who he was. And had he not vowed to follow her?
The thing was—the thing was, he’d abandoned his training as a warrior early on, in this life. Had he not—had she not forbidden it to him—might he have possessed the skills necessary to survive that terrible battle in the south? To fight his way free. To follow her yet again.
So deep did that question cut, Katrin could scarce endure the wound. So fierce the pain, she could only flagellate herself and flay her soul raw, until she could scarce feel at all.
Aye, for feeling nothing was better than knowing she had caused the loss of what she best loved.
It did no good to apply reason, to remind herself that Reagan—a warrior without equal—had not survived that devastating battle either, nor her da, ultimately, nor countless others. Grief and self-blame did not answer to reason.
*
“Mistress Katrin, Iimplore ye. Ye maun send a reply to Chief MacGill’s letter. His messenger has been kicking his heels here for days, and I cannot imagine what Chief MacGill will be thinking. ’Tis the height o’ discourtesy—”
It was old Duncan who beleaguered Katrin this time, but her father’s other advisors stood in a ring around her, having caught her as she came home wet and exhausted from yet another tramp. They abandoned their disapproval and now appeared desperate.
Desperate and concerned. Aye, everyone showed concern for her. “MacGill will think I am considering his offer, making up my mind, no doubt. Do women no’ tak’ an unconscionable amount of time making up their minds?”
They exchanged looks. They no longer knew how to handle her.
“Mistress, he holds a certain amount o’ power here along this coast. ’Twould no’ be wise to antagonize him.”
Katrin turned to look Duncan in the eye. “He holds a certain amount o’ power? As his ancestor did?”
