All that might have happened.
What if she had stood still and let Reagan O’Hanlon kiss her?
It would, no doubt, have been a pleasant experience. More than pleasant.
She took the steep path down to the sea, returning greetings to those she passed, and headed south along the sea toward the headland. Away. She most assuredly needed some time on her own.
Only belatedly did she realize she was barely presentable, having failed to confine her hair following her sleepless night. She wore her oldest clothing and shoes so aged the sides had split. Och, and who cared? She sought none but her own company.
The wind would have wreaked havoc with her hair anyway, for it was a glorious morning with a strong breeze off the water. Long, deep blue combers edged with white foam raked the shore, and off southwestward, toward Ireland, banks of white clouds flew high. Early light trembled in the air. The world seemed almost too beautiful.
The path was an old one that she had trodden many times. Pleased now to find herself alone, she drew great breaths of air. Far too long had she been confined to the keep. This was what she wanted.
Deliberately, she let the wind blow the thoughts from her mind.Do not think of Reagan. Do not think about persuading Da to let ye go with their troops. Leave go of these feelings making a weight on yer heart.
When she reached the rise of the headland, she caught sight of a figure already there ahead of her, silhouetted against the bright morning. Annoyance flared. That was the place, the very place where she wanted to stand alone with the world spread before her. All that she loved.
She very nearly turned back, retraced her steps and returned to her life. A strong streak of rebellion kept her there.
If it were a clansman—for as she kept walking, she could recognize the figure for male—he would likely excuse himself upon her arrival. She need only be patient.
Something toward which she was poorly suited.
When she reached the place where the path petered out and the land rose, she realized who it was standing on the height. Him.The harper.
Och, and had she sought to escape her thoughts only to run smack into them? For the harper was in her head. In some indefinable way, always he was.
He turned from his contemplation of the sea and sighted her. She could do naught else but walk on then, for the sake of courtesy.
“Mistress Katrin, good morn.”
“Good morn, master harper.” The wind had been at him also, at his glorious, colorful garb, and had put its fingers in his hair, making it stream out.
Because it somehow hurt to look at him, she took the place at his shoulder and gazed out to sea.
“I gather,” he said, raising that beautiful voice of his above the wind, “I am no’ the only one seeking some solitude this morning. I will go and leave ye to it.”
Aye, it would be best that he should go. She did not need him here.
Only she did.
Suddenly, that need arose and swamped her. Deep, wide, powerful. It near brought tears to her eyes.
She reached out and seized his sleeve. “Nay. Do no’ go.”
She had no explanation for her action. Fortunately, he did not ask for one. They stood so, she clutching his sleeve while the wind rocked them.
Alone. Not alone.
Katrin did not understand what was happening to her life. For a woman desiring to be in control, that was disquieting.
Without her own permission she said, “One o’ your tunes has been occupying my head. I canna seem to prevent it.”
“Which one?”
“’Tis one o’ those ye played during the tale ye told o’ Deathan and Darlei. The one ye said was playing just before she had to go awa’ to her marriage, when they were—”
She’d almost saidmaking love.
