“’Twas a gift from a chief in Ireland.”
“Aye, so? He must ha’ been gey pleased wi’ ye.”
“He was. I hunted down and brought to him the man who was lover to his wife, then executed him before the chief’s eyes.”
Katrin swore softly, and O’Hanlon’s mustache twitched in a smile. “Drink.”
She drank. Not ale, this, nor mead. It burned as it went down. She passed the flask back to him.
He’d used the time to bring down the cot from the wall and now perched on it. He drank deeply before he said, “Now ye can tell me why ye wish so very badly to be a warrior, besides just a desire to fill your brother’s place. For after that session, I can see that ye do.”
Some of her discomfort with him forgotten, she sat on the other end of the cot. “Why should I no’ want to fight? To defend mysel’?”
“Most women do not even think on it. They are content to let their men go off to that duty and defend them, as some say God intended. To remain at home and see to the equally important duty of raising the next crop o’ warriors.”
Katrin made a sound that translated topffft. “And if danger comes to her door?”
“Aye, then many a good Celtic woman will fight. Like a she-wolf, in fact.”
“Then she had best know how.”
“Mistress, forgive me for pointing out that in the current instance, the fight is not likely to come here. When your father’s laird calls, it will be an army that marches out.”
“And am I no’ permitted to desire a free Scotland? To love my country enough that I might also march out and fight for it? As ye may ha’ noticed, I ha’ nay husband and am no’ likely to ha’ any crop o’ children to raise.”
His gaze moved over her. “A wonder, that.”
“I am past the age for all o’ it.”
“Ye are not. How old may ye be? A score and five?”
“Closer to a score and seven.”
“Aye, well, me own mother was bearing me brothers and sisters past two score—”
“I am no’ interested in doing that.” She waved a hand.
“I might ask why, but I scarcely dare.” He drank once more from the flask.
“I ha’ never met a man worth having.” Or had she? There’d always been a part of her, a deeply rooted part, that yearned after a skilled warrior even as she derided the fact that such men risked themselves on a regular basis. That, wed to one, she might have to watch him march off and die.
Just as Geordie had.
O’Hanlon was the consummate warrior, the ultimate fighting man, so she might say. And that pulled at her. It pulled hard.
He eyed her in a much friendlier fashion. “I think I understand. But surely there is somewhat between wedding a man ye do not want, and marching off to war.”
She made a face. “My father wants for me to marry so he may ha’ a grandson for an heir.” She choked up again. “Now that Geordie is gone.”
“Aye, so. ’Tis a fine holding, this. I am that surprised there are not men lined up from Inverness and back to marry ye.”
“Ye expect me to accept a man who wants only the holding?”
“Nay, mistress, not in the least.” He offered her the flask again, but she shook her head and got to her feet.
“I must go. My duties begin early tomorrow morn.”
“As do mine.”
