Chapter Sixteen
Finlay paced his bedchamber that night and once more spoke to the spirit that inhabited it, albeit in a distracted fashion.
“Wha’ does it mean? Wha’ for me? For her. For the turning o’ the wheel.”
He had not meant to follow Katrin when she left the hall at the end of the night.
Indeed, he’d come up to his chamber and put away the harp, then decided on impulse to take the air before attempting to sleep.
For all he’d known, Katrin was in her own chamber by then.
But descending the stairs, he’d glimpsed her clad in her long cloak, leaving the hall and proceeding out into the dark.
He had seen who it was waited for her there, inside the gate.
The two of them had come together, naught more than shadows. Katrin had touched O’Hanlon on the arm. They had walked off together quickly and silently.
The emotions that struck Finaly at that moment could not be described. A patient man, and one not often prey to anger, he usually proved able to master unwieldy emotions.
Not this time.
Jealousy, hot and raw and entirely violent, assailed him without mercy. The two of them looked like a pair headed for an assignation.
Was she lying with him? With O’Hanlon? A warrior.
He’d noticed her attraction to the man. He could scarcely miss it. He’d striven to understand. O’Hanlon was the kind of man to whom any woman might feel drawn. Not just a warrior, but the consummate warrior. Confident. Handsome.
Finlay had not imagined that could come before what lay between him and Katrin. And given their encounter on the heights this morning…
It felt like a punch to the gut. Like a thrashing.
He might have followed them, he supposed. They would not have been able to see him in the dark. But he would not so lower himself. Was this not about Katrin’s choice?
Perhaps she had chosen. A warrior. Something she knew. Something she trusted.
Something she had forbidden him to be.
If so, he did not want to know. He certainly did not want to see her in the Gallowglass’s arms.
Instead of following them, he returned to his chamber and raged at his unseen companion. Terrible thoughts beset him. A storm of loss and longing.
He did not attempt to sleep, fearing his dreams. Instead he paced the floor until all but one candle snuffed out.
Only then did he hear a knock at his door. Who could it be, in the midst of the night?
He swung the panel open and his heart leaped painfully. Katrin it was who stood there. Katrin, in her nightclothes, a look of concern on her face.
“Master harper? Is all well?”
She did not wait for an answer but slipped past him into the dim chamber. She glanced around as if she too expected to see her brother, before she turned to face Finlay.
“Are ye ill?”
He shut the door very carefully, scarcely believing she was here with him.
“Nay, mistress. Why should ye think so?”
“I could hear ye. Walking and walking about.” She jerked her head. “I am right next door.”
“Och, by heaven. I am that sorry.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to plumb the depths of his feelings. She wore a gown of white with her feet bare, and her hair hung loose in a glorious fall of ashen blonde over her back and shoulders that made Finlay ache to touch.
He fisted his hands. She may have just come from O’Hanlon. From lying with him.
Hoarsely, he said, “I did no’ mean to disturb ye.”
She sat on the bench that faced the fire, which, neglected, had nearly gone out. With visible irritation, she took the poker and assaulted the embers.
“Ye are usually such a quiet guest, I scarcely ken ye are here. That was why I thought—” She caught herself and returned her gaze to his. “I could feel somewhat amiss.”
Finlay spread his fisted hands, forcing himself to ease. “I am but restless, mistress.”
“Ah. I suspect we shall soon lose ye after all.”
“Lose me?”
“Men such as yoursel’ do no’ stay in one place long. Ye will ha’ the itch, no doubt.”
“I do no’ ha’ the itch.” Except to take her in his arms, kiss her until she begged him to carry her to the bed—ghost or no. To make her one with him and be damned to the world.
But she might already have made her choice.
“Come.” She patted the bench beside her. “Sit and tell me wha’ it would take to persuade ye to stay a while longer.”
He perched on the bench. “I ha’ told yer father—and ye—I will stay.” Could he bear to, though? If she and O’Hanlon began a courtship—
“Aye, yet I feared ye had changed yer mind. I am glad. We are in need of peace, and ye can provide it.” In defiance of her words, she sprang to her feet as if she were now the one beset by restlessness. She prowled the room, picking up and setting down the possessions that had been her brother’s.
Finlay watched her, helplessly admiring the strength and beauty of her movements in the thin white gown.
She paused at his harp, which he had set beside the wall, and reached to touch the strings reverently. A shimmer of sound came to life in the air.
“I ha’ always wanted to play,” she confessed, “like Bradana, in your story.”
“It is your story—o’ your own people,” he told her, his heart beginning to bang hard and high.
She turned suddenly to smile at him, a brilliant smile. “Bradana—and Brada. Is that why ye named your harp Brada?”
“Aye, so.”
That made her blink at him, a host of thoughts tumbling in her eyes.
“I could teach ye to play,” he said, “if ye like.” His arms around her, guiding her fingers on the strings. The music enwrapping the both of them.
“I would like that,” she said.
He had to work hard then to disguise the extent of his joy. He smiled. “Mayhap no’ in the middle of the night.”
“I do no’ mind your playing here in your chamber. I can hear ye sometimes through the wall. It helps me to sleep.” She hesitated. “If I go back now, will ye play?”
He did not want her to leave. He wanted to keep her here with him, to pour his love into her ears, his kisses to her lips. But he could give only what she would accept.
“Ye might play a while,” she suggested, “since ye canna sleep.”
“I will be happy to play for ye.”
She nodded and went to the door, where she paused and looked back at him. He was on his feet by then, straining after her. Not moving.
“Thank ye, master harper. Good night.”
“I hope ye find yer peace.” Alanna. Whether it was with him, or otherwise.
She went out so softly that he did not hear the door close. He brought his harp to the bench by the fire, sat down, and played. The old songs, he gave to her. The ones that had accompanied the tales he had told.
Mayhap they would help her remember.
He imagined her hearing his music, there in her bed. Imagined her dreaming.
Of him.