“There is no chance for that. The feast is set to begin—”
“Curse the feast. Walk with me up the shore.”
“There are eyes everywhere.”
“List to me. During the feast, everyone will be occupied.” She ached to touch his hand but refrained. “If I get up during the feast and leave—when I get up, follow me out.”
“But—”
“Folk absent themselves from the hall all the time. No one will think aught of it. I have to be with you.”
“Madness,” he breathed.
It might well be just the wildness in a woman’s heart.
“You will follow me?”
He nodded and veered away, saying no more.
After that, it was all waiting. Waiting while Father engaged her in conversation, seeking to determine whether she was going to make a fuss here at the end of their prolonged stay at Murtray. If she would continue to battle against her fate. While Orleprepared her for the farewell feast, all their possessions piled ready for leaving.
While they took their places in the hall, the clan’s folk filing in, the tables loaded with food, Rohr was there looking sullen—though what reason did he have?—and refusing to so much as look at her.
Deathan was there sitting at the other end of the head table where she could barely see him.
She tried to choke down some of the food presented to her and found she could not. The honey wine went down better and managed to calm her a mite by the time Chief MacMurtray’s harper came in. A final show of entertainment for the guests.
The man began with a long and winding tale, telling of Murtray’s ancestors, in particular a warrior called Ardahl, of Ireland. Beyond compare, this warrior was said to be. With scattered notes upon the harp, the shanachie related his attributes.
Darlei could wait no longer.
With a murmured word for her father beside her, she rose and, moving discreetly around the perimeter of the place, left the hall. She did not look back to see if Deathan noticed. If he followed.
He could not follow too soon.
She lingered just outside the hall. Dark had fallen—the season moved into autumn, and it came earlier now. She waited like a shadow, her back against the wall of the building, still listening to the old Coll’s voice rising and falling within, a beautiful cadence marked with notes that sparkled through the dark air.
A shadow moved beside her and her whole being breathed for the first time all day.
“Deathan—”
“We canna stay here. Come.”
He led her not away but around the side of the hall and through a small doorway in the rear. The music immediately grew louder.
“What is this place?”
“Hush. ’Tis my father’s meeting chamber, and the hall is just there.” He nodded to a curtained doorway, through which the exquisite music flowed. Deathan drew Darlei into his arms, hard up against him, proving his need matched her own. He buried his face in her neck and breathed in, trembling.
For several moments there was no more than this. Only their heartbeats falling into time and the music beyond—for the bard had concluded his tale and now played an intricate tune, glorious music that sparkled and danced and filled the hall. An occasional rustle and cough from the assembly reminded Darlei that the entire clan—and her own people—sat just beyond. For yes, this tiny, dark chamber separated them by no more than the width of the wall.
“Darlei.” Her name was but a breath on his tongue. When his mouth claimed hers, she melted so swiftly that she had to clutch at him to remain upright.
That kiss told her everything she needed to know. That he ached even as she did. That he wanted her the way she wanted him. That he loved her.
“Darlei, I canna see ye go from me,” he gasped when it ended.
“Then please. Deathan, please. Make love to me.”
