Chapter Twenty-Five
One night, one glorious night, and then two.
Would they have more together before the Murtray troops were formed up and ready to depart?
Katrin could not say, and had little time for it with a hundred thousand details to which she must attend.
People looking for her, aye, and seeking her advice, her direction on every hand.
Yet, following her second night with Finlay, she could barely focus on any of it.
Finlay.
Had it been a kind of waking dream that she’d experienced when he made love to her?
Had she been half asleep, or had she merely imagined she’d been back in one of his stories?
Had it been his voice, whispering and crooning to her that had taken her into the tale he had told of Adair and Bradana? Was she merely losing her mind?
She must be, since she remained intent upon spending the last two nights with the harper, as she had the first two.
To be truthful, though, the time in his arms remained all she could think about.
Even as the clan’s folk, troubled and worried, came to her.
As she worked with Angus to verify the details that would keep the homestead running well while she was away.
For she still did mean to go away. To be sure, she did. She could not let the harper’s sweet kisses, or the places to which they took her, alter her plans. Was she not a woman determined to make her own decisions?
And Finlay—Finlay did not question or badger her about it. He did not once ask her again to stay, to hold back, even though what Reagan had said haunted her. Finlay did not want her to go off to fight.
Seldom in this world could a person, man or woman, have what he or she wanted.
But when they were not alone and losing themselves in one another, Finlay seemed intent upon avoiding her.
During the days so full to bursting, she barely caught sight of him.
He did not show himself in the bailey and did not come to the hall for his meals.
Heaven alone knew what he did with himself.
And since there were no suppers at eventide for entertainment, she did not get to hear him play. Except in her head. In her heart.
He haunted her, did the harper, and it was with her own mind that she argued.
If she did not go off with her da, if she did what Finlay, Reagan, and likely every other man in existence wanted her to and stayed home, she could prevent him from leaving and would therefore have more time with him.
Nights uncounted to lie in his arms. To feel the magnificent, depthless sense of belonging that came to her, unexplained, when she was with him.
The emptiness inside her that she had not even realized existed, filled.
But if she did go off to fight… Well, she feared, she feared he would not be here when she returned. If she returned.
Why go off, then? one half of her head—or perhaps it was her heart—argued. Why take a chance on losing him, and never seeing him again? Why not claim this strong, wondrous, and yet somehow fragile thing that existed between them, while she could?
Duty, or perhaps sheer female stubbornness, argued back. She could not betray herself or her loyalty to her da, not even for the sake of… Was it love she felt for Finlay? Nay, and nay, she still did not believe it could go by so ordinary a name.
As evening fell on the third day, she panicked.
She had not seen hide nor hair of Finlay since they had parted at dawn that morning, he arising from her bed and slipping off to his own chamber, and the need inside her, that great and undeniable need, began to nudge her harder and harder.
She paused in the act of helping the women clean up from the rough-and-ready meal that had been laid out—for the benefit of clansmen and Gallowglass soldiers alike, for the latter had already mostly packed up their camp—on a sudden flash of fear.
What if he had changed his mind and gone? What if, knowing the parting between them would be hard, he had already slipped away and up the track, over the brae?
He had said he would not. He had promised it. Would he break a promise to her?
Her heart said nay. Her fear… Well, it spoke differently.
Leaving the women to finish the task, she went up to his chamber, but he was not there. His belongings were piled neatly against one wall, the pack he wore on his back and Brada, already in her wrappings. Ready for travel.
He had not gone, not yet. But he did intend to go.
She flew on feet made clumsy by haste. Ran down to search the hall again, praying for sight of a dark-red head, a tall, graceful figure. Seeing none. The bailey next, still crowded with people. Fear rose up inside her more fiercely than before.
The garden, the kale yard, the stable, the armory, now very nearly empty of weapons. Sweat beaded on her brow. She must find him.
It was Reagan who found her instead. He stepped in front of her when she left the armory, a deep scowl on his face.
“Katrin? What is wrong with ye? Are ye ill?”
“Me? Nay.”
“Well, ye do not look—”
“Ha’ ye seen Finlay?”
Reagan’s eyes narrowed. “The harper?”
“To be sure, the harper.”
“What would he be doing out here in this tangle?”
Katrin pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I do no’ ken.”
Reagan took hold of her by the shoulders and backed her up to a stone bench that stood outside the armory. “Sit. When is the last time ye took anything to eat?”
“No’ long since. I just came fro’ the great hall.”
“When is the last time ye took a rest?”
Lying in Finlay’s arms. But she could not share that. She shook her head.
“Then go up to your chamber and lie down for a wee while.”
“I cannot. Too much yet to be done.” She searched Reagan’s tawny eyes. “Do ye know for certain when we leave?”
“Day after tomorrow, at dawn.”
Only two more nights, then.
His frown deepened. “Katrin, do ye still mean to accompany your father away?”
“Of course I do.” Would he start with his persuading all over again?
“Then ye must take better care o’ yourself. By God, woman, look at ye! A headless chicken would appear more sensible.”
“Insult me as ye will. It means naught.”
“I do not insult ye. Katrin. Katrin”—he snagged her gaze, which once more wandered across the yard—“I am concerned for ye. Can ye not see that?”
“Aye, so.” She puffed out a breath. “Ye ha’ been a good friend to me.”
“Friend. Aye.” He raised one eyebrow. “Even if I might have wished to be something more? It is for the harper ye search like a lost child.”
“I am no’ lost. I ha’ never been lost. I can make my own—”
“Choices and decisions, aye. And so it seems ye have done.”
Sudden, foolish, and quite unacceptable tears came to Katrin’s eyes. “There are but two more days.”
“Ye think he will not be here, when ye get back.”
“I know he will not.”
“Have ye asked him to stay?”
“I ha’, even though I ha’ no right to do so. No more than he has the right to ask me no’ to go south with the army.”
“Ye be a mad lass, do ye not know that? Any man would hurry to make ye promises, I do not doubt.”
“Stop wi’ yer foolishness.”
He heaved a sigh. “Get to your bed. ’Tis the best place for ye.”
Katrin could only agree.
*
Finlay paused on the rise of land above the keep and let his eyes wander, taking in all the details of this place he loved.
Evening fell swiftly, already gathered across the graveyard at his back and in the forest high above.
He had tramped long this day, unable to linger in the settlement, to watch Katrin make her preparations to—as she thought—leave him.
He knew he could ride her no further on the matter.
He above all men understood her heart, knew that ever since she’d been a Caledonian princess, if not before, the best way to make her stubborn was to keep berating her about anything.
A man could only use reason, or cajole, or apply kisses.
He had tried that last course of action, for the past two nights he had. He’d not changed her mind, only lost himself to her more surely. Surpassing even their past four lives together.
He could not come out and tell her what they had been to one another. She would never believe it. She had to remember for herself.
There had been moments during their time together when he believed she had come close. Yet still she carried on with her plans as if naught had changed. As if he, and what lay between them, did not matter. It stung.
He let his eyes roam over the keep below him, the clusters of stone huts all around, and the sea beyond.
Emotions that felt very like homesickness stirred inside him.
She knew if she went away from him—she might well not return.
Aye, and a fitting enough answer to him might that be.
How many times had he gone from her with a sword in his hand, and she not knowing if he would return to her? Once right here, at this very setting.
It was the reason she had asked him to be what he now was, not what he had always been. But did the ancient warrior not still linger inside him, like the remnants of a song? Did he still possess a warrior’s heart?
Mayhap, after all, they were not meant to be together in this lifetime.
A figure stirred on the path below him, the one that led up to the graveyard.
She wore a dusty blue dress and her hair trailed over her shoulders, having fallen from the careless bun she had no doubt tied up this morning.
His longing stirred, the way the music so often did in him. He felt the wheel of life turn.
She came to him. Weariness rode her shoulders, but when she caught sight of him standing there motionless on the path above her, that fled. Her step quickened and she skipped over the stones. Fleet of foot, if not light of heart.
“I ha’ been looking for ye all day!” she cried, breathless, when she reached him. “Where ha’ ye been?”
“Walking. Thinking.” He took both her hands in his and felt something—some terrible fear or restlessness in her—ease.
“I thought ye had gone. Off on the road wi’ your harp on your back. Then I looked in your chamber and saw Brada still there.” Her gaze searched his. “But wrapped. For traveling.”
“Aye.”
She drew in a great gulp of air. “So if I hold to my truth and accompany my da, ye will go also?”
“Aye.”
With an edge of desperation in her voice, she said, “But ye promised to stay.”
“While ye were here, aye.”
“That is no’ fair. I ha’ told ye, Da loves your music. He would gladly gi’ ye a place here for good. Ye might stay, wait—”
“Nay, Katrin.” He need not tell her he had no such intention, that even if he did, he could never go. He must hold firm. She it was who had to choose. To love him because she remembered, or just to love him.
“Reagan says we leave the day after tomorrow, at sunrise. That gives us two more nights together. Come.”
She tugged at his hand. He did not move.
“Finlay?”
Two nights. Only two more, possibly, in all the world. In all his life.
When she spoke again, she sounded impatient, but he caught the glint of tears in her eyes. “Will ye no’ come to my chamber wi’ me? Nay? Then let us lie out here beneath the stars. In the forest.”
“Katrin—”
“I maun ha’ ye.”
She must.