Kendrick, with a quick glance at Bradana, cleared his throat. “I scarcely think that appropriate talk, Mican. Our agreement concerns the young folks. My daughter—”
“Aye, aye, the agreement stands. Can an old man no’ admire a bonny woman?”
“Well, so.” Kendrick did not look happy. But the rules of hospitality forbade him offering a guest—even one who commented in such a frank manner—anything but welcome.
Bradana bent close to Earrach in order to pour his drink. He too looked at her boldly, an openly assessing stare. “A bit more ale, woman,” he said. “Fill it up.”
Ah, well, it was to be that way, was it? He thought he would give the orders and she would meekly obey. He would soon discover she was not the woman to be treated thus.
Bad enough to lose her home—to lose Adair. She would be cursed if she lost herself also.
Yet as the meeting continued, her distress only grew. She remained silent, refilled the ale cups, and helped Genna distribute food and other comforts. She sat and listened to the things the men discussed—the state of their holdings and the situation with the Caledonian tribes in the north. Fighting there. How firm a grip Dalriada had here in Alba.
Once, she had believed—aye, if in a distant sort of way—that she could do this. Wed this man, make the sacrifice for the sake of home and family, and live with Kendrick’s agreement. She would have preferred not to marry at all. But she had been raised to accept that it was what a woman did.
All that, though, had been before Adair MacMurtray.
How could she marry Earrach when she loved someone else?
Sitting there with folded hands, playing at obedience, following the conversation that expanded to include her two stepbrothers when they came in, she acknowledged it in full for the first time.
She was in love with Adair.
The truth of it made her go hot and cold in turns. She became a mere shadow of herself, rushing to serve food and drink, responding when someone spoke directly to her, all with her heart somewhere else.
In Adair’s keeping.
How could she do this thing? How could she go away to live somewhere without her heart?
“Our Bradana is quite talented,” she heard Mother say suddenly.
“Aye, so,” Kendrick agreed. “She rides a pony as well as a lad.”
“She knows this land better than we do,” Toren put in.
“She will put a knife in your back if ye are no’ careful,” Kerr told Earrach.
Mother glared at him. “She plays the harp most beautifully. Bradana, go and get your harp, and play for our guests.”
Bradana froze. She played, aye, often at gatherings. Of late, it had become an intimate thing, one she did only for Adair.
She recalled the expression on his face, one of almost pained bliss, as he listened to her play, eyes closed, captured in spirit as her fingers wove magic upon the strings.
“Go,” Mother told her gently, with desperation in her eyes.
Bradana left the hall for her own quarters, where she’d left her harp. In the corridor she leaned against the wall, feeling every bit of her strength drain away. She could hear the rain crashing down outside, could hear voices from beyond. She could feel Adair in his own quarters. How was it she couldfeelhim?
She fetched the harp, brought it back to the hall, and sat with it on her knee. At least this gave her leave to sit a little apart, as a harper tended to do. But her fingers felt wooden, too stiff to play. Indeed, the first few notes came clumsy. And her heart… When the music came, it filled to bursting.
She might be here in this chamber with strangers, but she played for Adair still. Every note destined for him.
No one paid her much heed. She became part of the background, like the ale and the rain. Kerr began to bait Earrach about something—how many ponies his father owned or some such. The conversation heated.
“Come, come,” Kendrick said at last, with a reproving look at his son. “We are allies, are we no’?”
“We should fight it out,” Kerr suggested to Earrach, “if only for fun.”
“Fun, is it?” Mam questioned.
