Page 69 of The Falcon Laird
Christian looked up at Hastings, her eyes wide and very green in the thin light. Gavin saw a flicker of fear for an instant. He set a protective hand at her elbow.
“See that you properly attend to the matters we have discussed,” Hastings told him.
“I will. And I will look forward to one Edward’s entertaining letters telling me what he has heard from you. Farewell, Sir Oliver.” Turning, he pulled Christian with him across the muddy yard.
“Ormesby! Macdouell! Hurry up,” Hastings muttered. “Get this damn gate fixed, Faulkener!”
Gavin did not turn as he walked away with his wife. Soon he heard the riders gather and exit over the drawbridge.
Entering her bedchamberthat evening, Christian stepped into the gloom of a rainy night relieved slightly by the light of a peat fire in the hearth. All was quiet but for the steady beat of rain against the shutters. That rhythm reminded her of music, and on a whim, she went to the stool near her harp and sat, pulling the harp against her left shoulder and sweeping the strings with her fingernails, now long enough to produce a rich sound.
That soothing sound was what she needed—Hastings’s visit had brought back memories that left her shaken and unsettled. She plucked the melody’s pattern, head lowered as she listened, letting her fingers find the notes. Ringing off, she heard silence—then a splash.
“Go on,” Gavin said. “That was lovely.” Gasping, she spun to peer through the darkness. Silhouetted by the dim light of the burning peats, she saw the outline of the barrel tub brought up to the room earlier. It sat in a shadowed corner by the hearth’s warmth. She had not noticed Gavin there until that moment.
“Unless,” he continued, lifting a dripping cloth, “you would like to join me in the bath.” He leaned back against the linen-draped side of the tub. His hair and beard were dark and sleek with moisture and steam rose in thin whorls around him. When he shifted, water spilled softly over the edge. Her breath quickened oddly.
“I had a bath after supper,” she said stiffly. “Dominy and I filled buckets in the well shaft—thank you for that convenience, and then we all had baths by turns, including Michaelmas and then William. We left the water for you, but I thought you were outside with John and might take the watch tonight.”
“John took the watch. I came up and found a kettle of hot water on the fire, which warmed the bath nicely. So I must thank you for that. I am glad you find the well shaft convenient.”
She blushed, thinking how very useful she and Fergus found the well shaft. Plucking a string, she heard a sour note and took the hollow brass harp key to twist it into harmony. “And I am glad that the upper level is nearly done. Dominy put her pallet in with Will and Michaelmas too, across the landing on the turning stair. Though Will wanted to share with John. He thinks himself a knight, that lad.”
“John has a room in the gatehouse tower now that floor is repaired there. He plans to keep an apartment in the gatehouse and take on the duties of castle seneschal.”
“I like that.” Christian twisted the harp key over the knotted ends of other strings, testing the notes.
“How do you know when the sound is right?” Gavin asked curiously.
She plucked two center strings, which rang alike and true. “These two notes match the drone of a beehive,” she said. “The strings on the longer side go deeper, like male voices, and the shorter strings go higher, like female voices. I can hear the perfect notes in my mind so I match the strings to sound true to me.” She plucked, twisted, plucked again, tilting her head.
“Will you play now?”
She glanced up. Firelight and shadow delineated his wide, muscular shoulders and powerful arms, and turned his wet hair to a color like gilded oak. She glanced away, toward the safe familiarity of her harp. A subtle tension was in the air—Gavinwanted to be her husband in truth. Her heart quickened when she realized she wanted that, too. But still, she would delay. Henry had never made that deed pleasant.
But Gavin’s touch was exciting, compelling, creating a feeling of safety, building curiosity and appetite in her. Shivers cascaded through her at the thought, but as rain sluiced against the shutters and walls, she did not pursue what she might feel for him. She only leaned into the harp and began to play a song she had learned years ago. Her fingers remembered the patterns, safe, reliable, beautiful sounds.
As the gusting rain grew louder, she played with greater fervor, right hand flashing over the strings to create the melody, left hand forming the song’s beating heart. The music was nuanced and haunting, a shimmering web. She let go of all but the music.
When the last note faded, she looked up as if she had awoken from a dream. Gavin watched her, gleaming arms resting on the tub’s rim. “Was that one of your sleeping songs?” he asked.
“It is one of the old songs of weeping, they call them. But not sadness. Weeping songs can heal.”
“I would like to hear more,” he murmured.
That gave her a little relief, a further delay. Perhaps she was not ready. Perhaps he was patient. She began a soft air that evoked a peace, serenity, a touch of sadness, music woven like an enchantment. While cold rain pattered the window and winter began to howl through the wind, she realized she felt content here, unthreatened, free. As her fingers followed the melody, she felt peace wrap around her.
Lifting her hands away, she damped the strings with her palms. Rain filled the stillness again. She felt washed and vibrant.
“You should play for kings,” Gavin said.
“Ah, but the harper is at the king’s mercy if the music displeases.”
“Your music could not displease.”
She smiled, tracing her fingers to release a shimmer of sound like a rainbow.
Hearing splashes, she glanced up. Gavin stood, wrapping a linen towel around his waist, then grabbed another cloth to dry off his torso and ruffle over his hair as he stepped out of the tub. His long legs were tautly sculpted, his rippled abdomen sleek with moisture. She drew in a breath, set the harp away, and went to the clothing chest in the room.
