O’Hanlon was there and had brought his two officers, the only Gallowglass to be seen. Out of his armor, the man looked larger than ever, his brawny arms crossed, legs planted like tree trunks as he spoke to his men.
Mistress Katrin was there.
Finlay focused on her at once and followed her with his eyes. She appeared discomfited, her hair in some disarray and her color high. She hurried about seeing to details. And she glanced more than once at O’Hanlon where he stood.
Nay.It could not be.
She could not be interested in O’Hanlon. She was his.His. The fierceness of that belief flared inside him, near tearing him apart even though he remained standing still and silent, giving no sign.
Anders gestured to him. “Master harper, ye will honor us by joining me at the head table.”
Och, and he’d meant to sit off on his own. But nay, how could he refuse?
Anders greeted him heartily when he walked up, almost like—well, a relation. The two advisors nodded and drifted off to other tables. A small enough gathering it was this night, but aye, that uneasy mood persisted.
“I hope,” the chief said, motioning Finlay to the place beside him at table, “ye will again play for us this night.”
“As ye wish, Chief MacMurtray. I am at your command.”
Katrin hurried up, gave her father a distracted look, and shot another at Finlay. For an instant, everything in the room seemed to pause, as their eyes met.
“Master Finlay.”
“Mistress.” He half rose.
“I hope ye mean to play for us tonight.”
“Just what I was telling him!” Anders exclaimed.
Finlay, still holding Katrin’s gaze, inclined his head. “If it will please ye.”
“It will please me very much.”
He lived for that, to please her in any way he might. To love her.
His manner, as he knew very well, was not what it should be. He ought to behave with the well-mannered courtliness folk had come to expect from a wandering bard, smile sweetly and produce some gallant words.
All he could do was continue to gaze at her, his thoughts in riot.
“Sit,” she bade him. “The food will be out soon.”
“Ye also, daughter,” MacMurtray bade her. “Ye ha’ been run off yer feet all day long. Did ye think I did no’ notice?”
She subsided onto the bench directly opposite Finlay—praise all the powers—where he could look at her. Mark the curl in that disordered tress of hair against her cheek. The scattering of freckles across her nose. The sweep of brown lashes and the way her bosomrose and fell when she breathed. This he could do, without seeming to stare.
Anders went on a bit disagreeably, no doubt picking up the prevalent mood. “Ye do too much, Katrin.”
“There is much to do.”
“Let Angus see to the rest o’ it. He is a competent seneschal.”
Katrin settled more resignedly. “Angus is a fine steward but no’ good wi’ details. If I left all to him, we would ha’ cold food and nay pudding.”
“A tragedy to miss the pudding,” Anders said a bit caustically.
“Father, if ye will assign me to woman’s work, ye maun then allow me to do it well.”
For a moment they glared at one another. Finlay could see the resemblance between them. He did not know what Geordie MacMurtray had looked like, though after spending two nights in his chamber, he did know the feel of him. But no doubt he’d had the same strength.
