A Warrior's Passion. Margaret Moore

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       Chapter Three

      Reluctantly Seona led the way to the longhouse where Diarmad MacMurdoch’s guests were customarily housed. It was outside the walls of the fortress, beside the pine wood that bordered a stream that flowed down from the hills toward the sea.

      Holding the flickering torch, she tried to concentrate on the rough ground, and not to be so conscious of Griffydd DeLanyea’s proximity as they walked together in the pool of light. Nevertheless, she felt as if they were the only two people for miles around.

      The rhythmic pounding of the waves upon the nearby shore filled her ears and would have been soothing at any other time. Now it seemed the echo of her own throbbing heartbeat.

      Then she realized there was another sound. Griffydd DeLanyea, wrapped in his dark cloak like a spirit of the night, awesome and compelling and frightening all at once, was singing an iorram, a rowing song of her father’s men. The low, soft pulses of the cadences were familiar and yet different sung in his fine deep timbre. There was a melancholy to his voice, an inward sadness that seemed to tug at an answering loneliness deep within her.

      But how could he, obviously a rich and respected son of a nobleman, understand the loneliness that was her daily lot?

      Then he stopped singing and the sudden quiet moved her to speak. “You sing well.”

      His steps hesitated a moment, as if he had not been aware of what he was doing. “Thank you.”

      “I have heard that all the Welsh are fine singers.”

      “Many are,” he concurred bluntly.

      There seemed little willingness on his part to continue the conversation. She had no wish to force him to speak if he would rather not, so they continued in silence until they reached the longhouse.

      She pulled back the heavy woolen covering and slipped inside. As he followed, she put the rushlight in a sconce in the wall, illuminating the furnishings of the longhouse: the trestle table, the benches and stools, the beds against the wall and Griffydd De-Lanyea’s baggage in the corner.

      She turned and faced her father’s honored guest.

      She was not tall enough to see eye-to-eye with him; instead, the first thing to meet her gaze was his full, sensual lips, which were not smiling. She forced herself to look at his dully shining chain mail, the gray metallic glitter reminiscent of its owner’s eyes.

      “This seems rather a large edifice for one man to inhabit, even temporarily,” he observed.

      “Yes, well,” she stammered, “most of my father’s guests bring some men with them.”

      “An entourage?”

      She flicked a glance at his enigmatic face. “Yes.”

      He wrapped his arms about his body in a way that seemed almost…protective.

      Could he be feeling as she did? Could he sense the current of tension that ran between them, the strange excitement?

      That notion sent a thrill through her, and she found it easier to draw breath and to look at his face.

      “I am very tired. If you will excuse me, my lady,” he said, bowing his head.

      She was curiously reluctant to make a hasty retreat, so she decided to correct his mistake.

      “You are wrong, sir,” she said softly.

      “What’s that?” he asked, clearly taken aback.

      “I am not a lady.”

      “You are Diarmad MacMurdoch’s daughter, are you not?” he queried, strolling away as if to familiarize himself with his new quarters.

      With his attention elsewhere, she relaxed a little more.

      “Oh, yes,” she replied, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Although he would rather I was not. However, he is not a lord, so I am not a lady. Still, I thank you for the compliment.”

      When he did not respond, she said, “I would have expected a man of your rank to have quite a large party with him.”

      “I hope you are not implying I would need their protection? Or do you fear I might be lonely?”

      “Oh, no,” she hastened to assure him. “You are too valuable to be at risk, at least physically.” She paused as he examined an unlit oil lamp hanging from a beam. “And I think you are used to being alone.”

      He chuckled so softly СКАЧАТЬ