Katrin stretched out her arms as she came. And it seemed in the wind that streamed past Finlay’s ears he heard laughter and weeping and music, an ancient song. But nay, it was only her voice he heard, for she called his name as she ran to him. “Finlay!Fin-lay!”
They met just above the waves, where she crashed into his arms, a sea finding a shore, a longboat finding its harbor, two pebbles beaching high above any marauding tide.
“Finlay.”
“Alanna.”
Blindly they held to one another, heart to a heart, soul to a soul. Finlay did not know that she wept until their mouths, desperate, met and he tasted her tears. A sweet, salted remembrance of hurts past. Now all lifted away.
How long that kiss lasted, he could never tell. Forever and not long enough.
It would never be long enough, with this woman.
At length she drew from him, not far. In the last light of the day she examined his face, touched his cheek, searched his eyes. He hidnothing from her, not the gladness, the aching, or the love.
“Finlay, och, Finlay!” She still wept, the tears flowing down her face unheeded. “I remember. I remember it all. Your stories were no’ just stories—they were tales o’ us together, the two o’ us, life after life, through time.”
He nodded, his relief such that he had no words for it.
“But I thought ye were dead. Back there in the battle when ye threw yoursel’ to those Englishers to get us awa’. Ye sacrificed yoursel’—”
“No’ dead, alanna.” With one reverent hand, he brushed her hair, pushing it from her face. Here, she was. With him. “How could I possibly die, before I returned to ye?”
“I thought—I thought—we would no’ be together in this life.” She gulped. “Forgive me.”
“For what?” For the life of him, he could not imagine a reason.
“I made ye promise. Did I no’? Do ye no’ remember? I made ye gi’ me a promise—that if ye returned to me again, it would no’ be as a warrior. Aught else, I did say.” The tears slid and glittered in her eyes.
“Aught else. Even a bard.” He smiled.
“But I never should ha’ asked ye to be other than what ye are. It was wrong o’ me. And all this while I ha’ been thinking—thinking that if ye had the skills o’ a warrior, ye might ha’ survived.”
“As I did.”
That made her weep harder, his strong lass who had so seldom wept save for fear of losing him.
“Katrin, all ye ever did was love me. And as ye can see, there must ha’ been enough o’ the warrior left inside me after all. For here I am to keep the vow I made to ye so very long ago.”
They kissed again, this not so much a caress as another vow given anew, and a pledge of faith.
“I remember,” she repeated in a whisper. “I remember all o’ it now. The beautiful, ancient music ye played. Those were songs of ourlives.” She gazed into his eyes. “And I believe, Finlay. I believe that love is stronger than time itself. That what has been will be again—forever more.”
Finlay closed his eyes in a moment of pure gratitude.
“Come,” she told him softly. “Ye are coming awa’ home wi’ me.”
“Home.”
“’Tis your home now as well as mine. For I want ye to know ye can play upon yer harp all ye like, but ye will wander nay more.” She tugged him by the hand. “Ye are staying here for good, wi’ me.”
Finlay smiled to himself. He need not tell her now that he was a lost son of Clan Murtray, come home. There would be time for all that later.
They had time. Years and years of it.
“Katrin, wait.” He drew her to a halt where she stood facing him, a blaze of love in her eyes. “Before we reach the keep and all the madness that must come o’ my return, there is one more thing I owe ye.”
“A pledge o’ marriage, I hope,” she declared.
