That was the trouble with warriors. They lived life on the edge of a blade, and that terrified her.
Still, she did not think of loving him, of giving him her heart. She thought on physical gratification.
Then there was Finlay. Och, Finlay. They met in the hall when it was deserted or sometimes, when the weather favored it, out on the hillside for the lessons he provided on his harp. A privilege it was to hold the beautiful Brada in her hands. And Katrin proved to have an aptitude, the same fingers that could grip a sword—Reagan said she was particularly skillful with a long knife—agile enough to coax delicate notes from the strings.
Ye might ha’ been a harper,Finlay told her.Just like Bradana.
She remembered it then. Had Adair not given his Bradana seven kisses—two in the palms of her hands, two at the corners of her mouth, on her cheeks, and one upon her brow? Had, in fact, Ardahl not also done so for his Liadan? All the times the two lovers from Finlay’s tales had met through the ages, it had been so. Over and over again.
Was that why Finlay had treated her to those seven kisses, what she’d called a blessing? Had he been trying to suggest something?
Nay, and nay, that was far too fanciful. For what might he have been trying to suggest? And why did she crave that he might so bless her again?
Despite her confusion, she enjoyed the lessons she shared with him, aye, as much as the instruction at arms, if not more. The true joy of it, though, was spending time with Finlay. Being in his company. Merely absorbing the feel of him.
There was an ease in that, and a fierce temptation. Whereas she spent her time with Reagan hoping he would not try to kiss her, she spent that with Finlay praying he might.
He did not. He conducted their time together with perfect propriety as if anyone might walk in upon them. Sometimes, folks did.
Yet during that time she became intensely aware of him. The depth of patience he possessed and the quicksilver ability of his mind that could retain a host of stories and tunes to the smallest detail, yet could leap also to laughter.
The music of his voice so often in her ear when he instructed her. The grace with which he moved. The light that came and went in his eyes.
She could not possibly be falling in love with the harper.
Why not?
Because it was a thing she did not do, and anyway, growing feelings for Finlay would be just as inappropriate as for Reagan. For Finlay, too, would move on eventually, leaving her.
Leaving her.
To be sure, he gave no signs of it yet. Every time she brought up the subject, and she surely brought it up more often than she should, he said only that he had accepted Da’s invitation, and hers, to stay as long as he wished.
The question then became, how long would he wish?
She had a feeling when the word came from Earl Randolph to muster, Finlay would take up his harp and move on. Sail to Ireland, mayhap, where there was less war and strife. Free as the wind, he could go anywhere he chose.
Meanwhile, she learned his songs. The ones he had made, like the Gallowglass march, and some far older. She did not play them with any skill approaching his, to be sure. But it satisfied a need inside her, almost as bright as that to take up a sword.
While they worked, she spoke to him. She became so comfortable doing so, it felt like speaking to herself rather than another person. He took in her words the way the sea accepted raindrops, without fuss or exception, and said little enough in return.
He did not have to. She could so often see his thoughts in his eyes.
Wondrous eyes, the harper had. Deep and yet bright, caught like living gems between dark-brown lashes, intelligent and often full of laughter and—well, she did not possess sufficient words to describe them. Sometimes when he looked at her, she saw the whole world there.
Mayhap, after all, she was falling in love with the harper. Which made a good enough reason to stop with the lessons.
Only she could not.
Occasionally she asked him direct questions just to hear him speak, most often the question she had asked before without receiving what she considered a satisfactory explanation.How and why did ye learn those stories o’ us?Because that question haunted her, so it did.
Mistress, a bard learns many stories.
Aye, but why us, and no’ some other clan? Some other family. Are ye certain what ye told us of our ancestors is true?
Every word.
How could he know? Not the general history of her ancestors, nay—that he might well have picked up somewhere in their world. But how could he tell in such detail how Liadan had felt standing inthe sun, watching her Ardahl strip down to wash himself? How did he understand the fear in Bradana’s heart when she crouched in the bottom of a tiny boat with her hound, knowing they returned to Alba only to fight? How to so well describe the agony of Darlei, the Caledonian princess, traded away from the man she adored, or the fierce resolve of Hulda, the Norse maiden, set upon fighting her own battles?
