Page 53 of The Warrior
Moira stood there, too stunned to move, as Rhona brushed past her. Then she watched Rhona’s figure, swaying under the burden of the heavy bag, as it disappeared down the hill. After a while, she felt eyes on her and turned to find Duncan standing in front of the door of his cottage.
“Don’t mind her,” he said.
Moira waited for Duncan to give her an explanation, but the man said nothing. This was one of those times when she found his dark silence far more annoying than intriguing.
“So ye missed me every day, did ye?” she snapped. “I see your suffering did not include sleeping alone.”
Duncan shrugged. “Rhona and I met each other’s needs for a time, that’s all.”
“Is that all ye have to say about it?” Moira put her hands on her hips. “Judging from how upset Rhona was—and that heavy bag slung over her shoulder—you’ve been meeting each other’s needs for some time.”
Ach, she sounded like a harpy. Did she expect Duncan to have lived like a monk these past seven years? But knowing she had no cause to feel aggrieved did not make her feel less so. Moira turned her head and fixed her gaze on the sheep grazing across the hillside.
“Are ye coming in?” Duncan asked.
Well, she had come all the way here, and she was curious about where he lived. Besides, she was not done with this conversation.
Duncan stepped to the side to let her in and then shut the door behind them. Sàr, who must have come into the cottage during the confusion, was lying in front of the hearth and taking up half the room. He raised his scraggly brows at her and wagged his tail.
“Outside,” Duncan said, and the wolfhound slunk past her with a guilty look.
Moira perched on the edge of one of the two chairs and took in the room, which was small but clean and pleasant. She drummed her fingertips on her knee and waited to speak again until Duncan sat as well.
“Why Rhona?” Moira asked.
“I’m sorry if she upset ye,” Duncan said, which was no answer.
“She’s an angry woman,” Moira said. “And she was wrong. I would have stayed with ye forever if ye hadn’t left for France.”
She was not speaking to Rhona’s accusation that she would not stay with him now. If Moira had any sense, she would be running down the hill.
“Ye weren’t here,” Duncan said.
“What?” Moira asked.
“That is the reason I was with Rhona,” Duncan said, meeting her eyes with his direct gaze. “You are the only woman who ever mattered to me. Rhona knows it. Everyone does.”
“O shluagh.” Just when she was ready to storm off, he said something like that to her. Worse, Duncan thought he believed it.
And for the next few hours, Moira was going to let herself believe it, too.
She picked up the harp from where it rested beside her chair and handed it to him. “Play that song for me,” she said. “The one about the black-haired lass.”
Duncan strummed the strings a few times as he tuned it. Then he looked at her with his warm hazel eyes, and his rich voice filled the small cottage with the song of love and longing.
Black is the color of my true love’s hair
Her lips are like some roses fair
She has the sweetest smile and the gentlest hands
And I love the ground whereon she stands
I love my love and well she knows
I love the ground whereon she goes
I hope the day it soon will come
