She longed totell him to remain in her sight. But he had not offered that reassurance. He refused to give her the assurance that if and when she came back from the long march south, she would find him here.
He wanted something from her too.
Katrin could not be sure what, or why her heart knew that. It just did.
A man in ten thousand, was the harper. And she maun leave him.
The following day—that before they were to leave shortly after dawn—flew by. Katrin wanted a thousand times to seize hold of it, make the spinning of life’s wheel halt for just a few moments so she might catch her breath. But there were Da’s things to pack up, Angusbeing far too busy with other matters to tend to it. There were last-minute arrangements to make. And people wanting her attention on every hand. With each passing moment, her grief and her desperation grew.
She did see Finlay throughout that day. He stopped in the hall when she was there at midday to take a meal, standing within her sight while he ate, though she had not the time to talk with him. She saw him also out in the bailey while she ran errands. He did not approach her, and she determined—tried to determine—that neither would she approach him this night, much as she wanted their last night together. Desperately, achingly wanted it.
A glimmer of red hair, a flash from the hem of the green cloak—they had lain together upon the softness of that—and little more did she catch of him. When night began to close in, she retreated to her own chamber to make sure all she would need was packed up for morning. Very little time would there be to spare, then.
She did not admit to herself that she was waiting. But her ear strained for his step in the chamber next door, a whisper of his movement in the passageway. The sound of notes loosed from his harp if he were there, and had unwrapped Brada for one last session.
She tried to imagine it—the morning with its rush and clamor. His leaving in one direction, and her taking another. What could she say to him? Would there be an opportunity for a leave taking? Would it be better without one?
When she’d packed up everything that she thought she would need, had Geordie’s leather armor ready along with the sword he had given her, all in a pack she should be able to carry on her own, she curled up tight in her bed.
He was not going to come. He would not approach her. She would be cursed if she would go out searching and pull him back with her again. Even if it did half kill her to go without the hours she’d thought to have with him.
There were hundreds of men in the world, besides Finlay. Many and many of them would accompany her away tomorrow, including Reagan O’Hanlon—one of the finest she’d ever known. Why should she lie and ache for Finlay?
She closed her eyes as weariness took her, drowsing.
She dreamed she sailed aboard a long, narrow vessel, a craft built with a high prow in the shape of a dragon’s head that, like a living beast, crested the waves. She could smell the sea, the salt in her hair, and could feel her own strength as she clung to the dragon’s neck, gazing hard in the direction they sailed.
She returned to her lover, a man named Quarrie MacMurtray. She went with a sword in her hand. And if she had to fight battles for his sake, to win a place beside him, then this thing she would do. For she belonged but one place in the world, and that was at his side.
She awoke to find her chamber dark, and a fire burning within her. She had been caught up in another of Finlay’s stories, the last one he had told. But she’d fallen from the story too soon, before she’d been able to reach the man she loved…
The man she would love eternally.
A creaking told her that the door of her chamber had edged open. She raised her head from the bolster and peered through the gloom, not at all sure whom she would see. Ardahl, the Irish warrior? Adair, the prodigal son? Deathan, who had loved a princess? Quarrie, who’d possessed the strength to love a warrior? Why should she think it might be any of them?
A figure stood dimly silhouetted in the open doorway. Graceful, with long hair streaming over his shoulders, his body edged in green.
It was none of those men from the glorious stories Finlay had told, but the man himself.
She rose and welcomed him with eager gladness, all her pride forgotten. Closed the door firmly and undressed him with her own hands. Tasted him.Tasted him.
If that night had lasted forever, it would not have been longenough, and it did not last forever. She awoke in the cold dawn to find Finlay already stirring beside her, ready to rise and leave.
But which of them left the other?
“Nay,” she said. “No’ yet.”
She would be late going down to join the company. Already she could hear them out in the bailey, making a clatter. She did not care.
They made love quickly and desperately, just as Deathan and Darlei once had in the tiny alcove behind the great hall. She wanted to remember this, the taste of him on her tongue. All she could think of was his belongings all packed up in the chamber next door, and her heart bled.
She lay upon his chest, for in this, their last lovemaking, she had taken the upper hand. Peering into his beautiful face, she said, “I maun go. I can tarry nae longer.”
“Aye, so.” He raised his head from the bolster. “I will go gather my things.”
Her heart fell like a stone. “Ye mean to leave Murtray at once?”
Emotions flickered through his eyes. A rueful smile touched his lips. Those lips she’d kissed, that had been everywhere on her body.
