“It is your story—o’ your own people,” he told her, his heart beginning to bang hard and high.
She turned suddenly to smile at him, a brilliant smile. “Bradana—and Brada. Is that why ye named your harp Brada?”
“Aye, so.”
That made her blink at him, a host of thoughts tumbling in her eyes.
“I could teach ye to play,” he said, “if ye like.” His arms around her, guiding her fingers on the strings. The music enwrapping the both of them.
“I would like that,” she said.
He had to work hard then to disguise the extent of his joy. He smiled. “Mayhap no’ in the middle of the night.”
“I do no’ mind your playing here in your chamber. I can hear ye sometimes through the wall. It helps me to sleep.” She hesitated. “If I go back now, will ye play?”
He did not want her to leave. He wanted to keep her here with him, to pour his love into her ears, his kisses to her lips. But he could give only what she would accept.
“Ye might play a while,” she suggested, “since ye canna sleep.”
“I will be happy to play for ye.”
She nodded and went to the door, where she paused and lookedback at him. He was on his feet by then, straining after her. Not moving.
“Thank ye, master harper. Good night.”
“I hope ye find yer peace.”Alanna. Whether it was with him, or otherwise.
She went out so softly that he did not hear the door close. He brought his harp to the bench by the fire, sat down, and played. The old songs, he gave to her. The ones that had accompanied the tales he had told.
Mayhap they would help her remember.
He imagined her hearing his music, there in her bed. Imagined her dreaming.
Of him.
Chapter Seventeen
What began forKatrin then was the strangest of times, when she seemed to live her life on two divergent paths, both of which beckoned her to follow. The paths possessed their similarities. On both did she oversee her father’s house, work with his seneschal, look after his guests, and fulfill ordinary duties. But in the afternoons, when it grew quiet, she took lessons on the harp from Finlay. And evenings after supper, she continued to work with the Gallowglass commander.
It felt almost as if she were two women. One who dealt in beauty and dreams woven across the strings of a harp. One who perfected the most effective way to remove a man’s head.
Which was she, in truth?
She’d always been aware on some level that Da was disappointed in her—and Ma too, while she was alive—for not fulfilling her expected role in life, marrying early, and producing a herd of children. It would have taken care of Da’s current difficulties. She’d heard him call her stubborn when he thought she could not hear. But she’d never found the man to whom she could give herself entirely.
Now there were two of them. Both so different it made her head spin. Both of whom she admired and sincerely liked in vastly different ways.
Reagan brought out something inside her, a fierceness she’d always known was there and that she sought almost instinctively to cultivate. An ability to look after herself and sobe her own woman. An assurance that no one would ever have to go off to die on her behalf.
But it was more than that. She liked Reagan’s sense of humor and his great and boundless energy, and the fact that he respected her. It came to be that she enjoyed the work itself.
The trouble was, ever since he’d attempted to kiss her, she’d looked at him differently. Now, although he said nothing of it and never attempted to press himself upon her again, she saw more than approval in his tawny eyes.
There was desire.
She dealt with it by telling herself she could have him, if she chose. Why not? She was a spinster and the head of the household, promised to no one. She could have the Gallowglass commander, which would unquestionably be an experience like no other. He would then go away. Naught permanent and naught lost.
He would go away perhaps to die.
