“I ha’ much to do,” she said, still to herself more than him. “If I do no’ pack up my belongings now in readiness, I will no’ be able to jointhe company when they meet wi’ Earl Randolph’s men on their way south. And I maun mak’ certain the household will continue to run wi’out me. I will speak wi’ my father’s seneschal. He it is who should take over.”
“Would it no’ be better for ye to continue on wi’ that duty? In case war comes to Murtray.” She could hear the desperation in his voice. Just like the other men, he wanted her to stay back.
“Here? ’Twill no’. We are too far north. We march a great distance south to England.” She spun to face him. “I thought better o’ ye, Finlay. I thought ye would understand.”
He did not speak.
“Ye understand the impulses that moved Liadan’s heart when she took up a sword, do ye no’? Bradana’s agony when she had to stand and watch her man risk himself against their enemies. The impulses that moved the Caledonian princess, Darlei, to seize responsibility for her own life. And Hulda—Hulda, a warrior in her own stead. Am I any different?”
“Nay, ye are no’ different.” Emotions now burned in his eyes.
“I ha’ a right. To stand up for myself. More, to stand up for those I love. Can ye imagine—aye, ye must, because ye described it so well—the agony of watching those ye love go off wi’out ye, to die?”
“I can imagine it.”
“’Tis like ye told in yer tales. Life is a wheel. Mine turns now, for me.”
“’Tis a braw and a brave declaration, Katrin. And aye, ’tis yer right to choose. Still and all, I would beg ye—do no’ go.”
He did not wait for an answer. Instead he stepped up and took her in his arms, his grasp hard and compelling, then harder. Before she could draw a breath, his mouth came down upon hers.
Everything went still. For an instant it did, before all that was inside Katrin came to life. Leaping. Glorying. Triumphant.
Was this the gentle harper? The same man she had kissed in thewee boat? Nay, for this time he kissed her, and with passion. She could feel every part of him, body, heart, spirit. He burned. He burned only for her.
That kiss said what words could not. It shook her, claimed her, enlightened her. By the end of it, she clung to him, her one mooring in a sea of time.
His lips traveled from her lips across her cheek to her jaw, shedding fervent kisses.
“Tell me—tell me I did no’ convince ye to do this mad thing wi’ my stories.”
“Mad thing?”’
“It is madness for ye to risk yoursel’. I do understand wha’ drives ye to it, but och, Katrin, ’twill pull the very heart fro’ me.”
“That is how a woman feels. D’ye no’ ken? Every single time.” She reached up and captured his face between her hands. Looked into his eyes. “I canna do that again.”
“Aye, but Katrin, lass, whom d’ye hope to protect by spending yer precious life?”
“My da, mayhap. Mine might be the sword to save him, wi’ Geordie gone.” To her dismay, she felt tears flood her eyes. “This place I love more than my life. You.”
“Me?”
“Your way o’ life. Mayhap your life itself.”
Now she kissed him. Telling, telling him how she cherished all he was. How she would defend it. Bonny, beautiful man.
Her beautiful man.
Impulses came, images flickering behind her eyes. A man, a man who felt like him, in firelight, more than half naked somewhere in the wilds of Alba. Him, wetted down by the rain. Her, opening herself to him completely and him filling her.
Claiming and holding the place she’d kept always for him.
“Ye should leave Murtray,” she told him when she could againspeak. “Go now while yet ye can travel, before all this begins. For I ken—aye, I do understand—the cost o’ watching someone off, someone for whom ye care.”
“Care?” He croaked out the word, all he seemed able to say. In truth, he did not need to say more. She could see it all in his eyes. Feel it in his kiss.
Something grave and wonderful connected her and the harper. But…
