Page 71 of The Falcon Laird

She watched him for a long moment. “If you tell me what troubles you. For I sense it in you.”

He did not answer, tilting his head so she could finish the shave. She drew the blade along, then decided.

“Henry came one day to tell me about my brothers. He was pleased about the rout at Methven and Bruce’s retreat. He taunted me, told me my brothers were gone and my cousin would come to a quick end.” She drew a shaky breath.

“There were many living near Kilglassie who supported Bruce. When Henry and his garrison rode out to fight a skirmish on some orders, I sent for the rebels. I let them take Kilglassie in his absence.”

His eyelids flew open. “You took this castle?”

“The rebels did, but I joined them. I sent Michaelmas with Fergus and Moira and stayed to help. When Henry and his men returned, we fought. And won. I do not know how.” She shut her eyes against turbulent images. “Many died that day. Henry among them. He had a Scottish arrow in his heart.”

Gavin sat up, wiping a cloth over his clean-shaven face. He was silent, frowning.

“So, Sassenach,” she said, “you cannot trust your Scottish wife. And she cannot love the English.”

He dropped the linen and took her wrist, though she still gripped the dagger. He touched the blade tip to his own throat. “There. You hold the weapon, lady,” he said low. “If you cannot love an English knight, cut my throat now and be done with it.”

She stared, breath heaving. Then she uttered a Gaelic oath and threw the dagger down to clatter away on the hearthstone.

Chapter Seventeen

“Iknew Icould trust you.” He gazed at her evenly.

Christian drew a long breath. “I cannot hurt you. And I did not kill Henry, though Hastings says I did.” She laughed bitterly. “I cannot shoot a bow.”

“But apparently you can start a small rebellion.” He waited. She shrugged. “But you are innocent. I understand the impulse. I know your lightning temper, your strong will. Your heart. I see what you did.”

“What did I do?”

“You did what you thought was best.” Even more, he saw himself in her. But he knew crossed lightning could do the most damage.

He reached out a hand, touched the idle harp, traced a finger along the carving. “It is beautiful. Oak and pine?”

“Willow,” she said. “But there is oak in the forepillar, which is called the male part of the harp.”

“Why both?”

“Willow wood is flexible and light, and has a feminine sort of power. So it is used for the female part of the harp, the belly—where the sound swells.” She touched box of the harp. Clearly, she loved the instrument, loved talking of it. Gavin wanted to know more of whatever she cherished.

“And the top piece?” He touched the elaborate interlacing. “The birds carved here?”

“Birds represent spirit, so they are there. Here on the forepillar, this is an eel. So water, air, earth are all present in the harp. Each part has a purpose and a power.”

“Water, air, earth. Where is the fire?” he asked.

“The fire is in the music,” she said softly.

The fire is in your fine-tuned soul, he thought, watching her bowed head, her strong, graceful hands as she touched the wires and wood. “That harp is a friend to you.”

“A harp is a living thing to its harper, not just for music. It must be respected and treated kindly. My father had this harp made for me when I was twelve. She is—a kind of a sister to my soul.”

“Twelve? Not so long, then.”

“She is fourteen now. A harp lasts less than its harper’s lifetime. They can burst, you see,” she said. “The wood splits, the strings pull too tightly. It is almost as if their hearts break with the music in them. All that sadness, all that joy.”

His hand, on the pillar, met and covered hers. Now he was beginning, truly and finally, to understand her—at that sadness, all that joy. All that strength. His thumb traced over her hand. “We could both use some of that healing music.”

“Gavin—what happened to your wife?”