Epilogue
By the fourth song,Robena’s throat was feeling scratchy. Her voice definitely wasn’t her strongest instrument, and she regretted not grabbing her lute before she and the lassie came to her chamber.
Of course, seeing as how they’d interrupted Wynda being pawed by her new husband, any further delay might’ve been exceptionally awkward.
She peered at the mound of blankets in the bed she’d shared with Wynda for so many years, wondering how to tell if wee Wren was already asleep. The lassie—who was adorably cheeky, as far as Robena was concerned—had called her Robbie and said she sang like an angel.
Likely only in comparison to her new mother, who cannae sing her way out of an iron kettle.
Actually, now that she thought of it, an iron kettle would have interesting harmonics…
Sighing, she rested her elbows against the table behind her and stretched out her feet. When her song drifted into silence, she could no longer hear the revelry from the great hall.
Just as well. The wedding celebration had lasted long enough that most of her clansmen were drunk and would sleep for a long while, which suited her just fine. Her new niece had stayed awake for most of it, and Robena had offered her a spot to sleep so Wynda and Pherson could have some privacy.
Remembering the way he’d been holding her sister—possessively, erotically—Robena had to swallow and shift on the stool. The falconer loved Wynda, ‘twas obvious, but more than that…
Her sister had whispered about what the pair of them had been up to in the weeks prior to the wedding, and the naughtiness they’d experimented with.
Robena was beyond jealous.
She’d spent the last how many years listening to Wynda speak about the manuscript she was transcribing for the Gray Lady? Robena had looked over her sister’s shoulder and had been shocked—and delighted—by the positions described.
And now—right at this very moment, in fact—Wynda was experimenting up, down, and sideways! While Robena…
She sighed and pushed herself upright.
Well, fook that.
Kester MacBain was the man for her, but he was leaving.
He was leaving, and that damned letter from Scone was the cause of it.
The King had ordered him to travel to the Highland Games, to deliver the letters in his possession, and to…
She swallowed, remembering the order printed above the King’s seal.
Well, fook the MacBain too.
Only if ye get the opportunity.
Smirking, Robena decided the lassie was finally asleep, and pushed herself about to face the table. Here was a small looking glass she and Wynda had shared over the years, and tonight ‘twould serve her well.
Tomorrow, the MacBains were leaving for the Highland Games.
The piping competition was held at the Highland Games; the one she couldn’t participate in because she was a woman.
Tomorrow, she intended to reach for her future with both hands.
The candle was burning down, but threw enough light onto the looking glass that she was able to lean forward and peer at her reflection.
Slowly, thoughtfully, she picked up the end of one of her auburn tresses. Her hair had always been longer than she cared for, and gave her headaches from having to braid it around her head.
She brushed the tip of her hair against her palm as she frowned at her reflection. She wasn’t a great beauty, but it had never bothered her; all the Oliphants knew her talents lay, not in her looks, but in her music.
And soon, the rest of the Highlands would know as well.
Holding her breath, she lifted the end of her hair and pursed her lips. When she lay the tip along her upper lip, the effect was…