“Ye might stay here?”
“Who can tell what the future holds? The past is easier to know, as we can sometimes remember it.”
“And sometimes no’.”
He had to acknowledge it. “And sometimes no’.” He wondered again at the meaning behind his remembering all they had been to one another, and her failing to. After all the trials they had endured in the past in order to be together, was not this—the recapturing of her heart—the most challenging?
“Now let us begin with the queen’s lament.” That was full of grace notes.
“Let us not. Let us play again the march ye made for the Gallowglass.”
The Gallowglass. That very nearly made him wince. He remembered having seen the two of them slipping off together through the dark, her and Reagan O’Hanlon. Was there something between them? Was it the Gallowglass she truly desired?
If so, then what had been the meaning behind that kiss she’d bestowed on him?
He said a bit sternly, “There is nary a grace note in that march.”
And she tossed her head. “Why d’ye think I asked?”
He would love to know the true meaning behind the request.
They worked together there in the quiet yard, amid sunlight dappled by the rowan branches overhead. She already knew the fundamentals of O’Hanlon’s march and learned to embellish it before she put up the harp.
“I am that clumsy today,” she said in disgust.
“Give it time.” It was all about time.
“There should be words.”
“I beg yer pardon?”
“To the march. Brave and valiant ones to be sung along.” She looked at him, her gaze lingering at his lips before finding his eyes. “I love to hear ye sing.”
He stopped breathing.Love.
“There is magic in it,” said this most practical of women earnestly. “It seems to flow up, does that magic, out o’ the past when I hear ye, and—and overtake me.” She asked impulsively, “Why d’ye no’ mak’ words for the march? To—to immortalize the Gallowglass. Reagan would be ever so pleased.”
Reagan.
“Why d’ye no’ mak’ the words,” he suggested with lightness he did not feel, “since the idea came into yer head?”
“Och, I ha’ no skill wi’ any o’ that.”
“Try, and we will work together on it.”
“Aye, so. Come walking.” Her gaze grew rueful. “No’ now—I will have to go and see to supper full soon. But tomorrow. Ye will come walking wi’ me tomorrow?”
His heart bounded again, painfully. “I will.”
“Good, then. I—” She handed Brada back to him carefully and sprang to her feet. Stood for a moment looking at him as if she would say more. Leaned a bit closer.
Would she kiss him again? He ached for her lips on his. As they had been in the sun outside the roundhouse. As they had been while in flight through Alba. Up the trail on the headland. Down the path to the Norse encampment.
But she said only, “I will see ye at supper. Ye will play for me after?” Mischief kindled in her eyes. “Somewhat wi’ grace notes, since ye manage them so well.”
He would play for her life long.
She had only to choose.
