She worked her way through several tasks before heading to her brother’s chamber, which lay only steps from Da’s and her own. Outside the door she came to a dead stop, unable to lift the latch.
She had not entered here more than five times since their men had arrived home from their assignment with Earl John Randolph, bringing Geordie’s body. She had dashed in here then to find clothing in which he could go to his grave—the finest he owned. She’d helped to wash and dress him too, though she could do nothing but weep all the while.
So powerful was the memory that standing here, with one hand on the latch and the other splayed against the oak panel, she almost expected to find him inside. There stretched out upon his bed, perhaps, or sitting at the window with his nose in a book, for he had a fine mind as well as prowess at arms. If she opened this door he would turn, smile the way he always did when he saw her, make some quip, and unleash that big laugh of his that always made her feel safe and loved.
How could that be gone? All his energy, all his warmth?
She used to talk to Geordie the way she did to no one else, just go on at him so much that she was surprised, looking back, he had not grown tired of her prattling. He’d always listened patiently. She’d complained to him about how she could not see whyshecouldn’t be trained at arms. Was she not strong? Quick? Able to withstand any hurts she might acquire? Just because she was a woman, should she be denied the right to defend herself?
He’d given her training. Even stood up to Da, when their father learned about it.
It came to Katrin now that had she been his brother rather than his sister, and at his side in training as she wished, she might haveprevented the terrible accident that resulted in his death. She might have kept him with her still.
She opened the door.
The room lay empty except for Geordie’s belongings. Bright daylight came in through the single window, and the air from the door set dust motes dancing. The bed lay in shadow, almost as if someone did lie there. Items were scattered. Some of those garments she had flung about on that terrible day. But nay, Geordie had never been a tidy man.
It looked, despite the dust, as if he’d only just walked out.
With a sigh and an enormous effort of will, Katrin went in.
Chapter Four
Not till lateafternoon did Mistress Katrin come to Finlay once more, finding him standing in the open air watching some of Murtray’s men drilling.
“I am sorry it has taken me so long to prepare your quarters,” she told him politely enough, yet still with that edge of impatience that seemed to characterize her. “There was much to do.”
“That is well,” he replied easily, using it as an excuse to let his gaze rest on her. She appeared frazzled, her hair—which surely she had not touched since morning—in disarray, her clothing smudged with dust. Her cheeks appeared similarly smudged. Had she shed tears amid her duties? Despite all that, she was the bonniest thing he had ever seen.
Ashen hair she had, not blonde nor brown, thick and heavy, agleam in the afternoon light. A strong frame that somehow managed to appear utterly feminine. A stubborn chin and a proud nose. Eyes that defied the world to pity her.
Ah, he would not pity her. Love? Love was another thing. Had he not been born to love this woman?
“I am in nay hurry,” he added. “Let me collect my things from the hut. ’Twill take no time at all.”
She followed him hence, the two of them skirting the activity in the yard. When they ducked into the hut she gazed around. Likely she believed this was what he deserved, a clean, comfortable, yet plain accommodation. Not a favored chamber in the master’s house.
He reached for his pack and she forestalled him. “I will tak’ that. Ye carry yer harp.”
“Mistress, I am used to toting my belongings all about Scotland and beyond.”
“No matter. I can help.”
He let her do so and, carrying Brada, followed her back through the busy yard into the house. It grew quieter as they ascended the stairs and headed along a stone corridor.
She paused outside a door, and he saw her shoulders set before she led him in.
“I ha’ changed the linen and we ha’ given the place a good sweep. Put my brother’s things in storage. Ye will let me know if there is aught else ye need.”
“I canna imagine there will be.” Finlay let his gaze explore the room. He could understand why she did not want him here—a stranger taking up a place at the very heart of her home. “I shall be quite comfortable. Thank ye.”
“Aye.” The word sounded bleak.
“And I regret if I ha’ caused ye extra trouble.”
She looked at him then, the wide eyes—pale gray with a dark rim of blue around the irises—finding his. Holding.
“’Tis no fault o’ yours,” she allowed.
