Page 14 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

Alexander pulled her up the stairs embedded in the cliffside, climbing toward the Celtic cross, a lopsided smile on his lips as their gazes connected over his shoulder.

Her legs ached and her hair was a disaster and yet, she’d never felt more energized! Her brother was going to be furious. And worried when she returned disheveled from loving and dancing and celebrating, a married woman! Seamus would want blood.

But Seamus often lost sight of the softer side of things. While kind with his wife and sisters, life had hardened his heart within a permanent coat of armor.

The bells continued to toll across the glen. She pattered up the steps when a horseman burst over the horizon onto the path.

Peigi cried out, startled off balance.

Alexander pulled her behind him as he flicked loose the scythe across his back and snapped around. Fear sliced through her as he spun it into his grip.

She’d seen this transformation time and again on Seamus when he was called to arms and the warrior in him took charge.

“Who is it?” she begged.

“Wheesht,” he hushed, squeezing her hip as her hands tightened on his arm in a death grip.

A man leapt off the back of a lathered mount, skidding to a halt.

“Reaper,” he barked, skin battle-scarred, his dark hair and beard streaked with gray. “I thought I saw ye ride this way. Make haste.”

“Reaper?” she breathed as her brow furrowed.

What did they mean by

Reaper

? As in,

the

Reaper? The master liberator of souls? Who delivered damned souls beyond the veil?

He relaxed his posture and turned to her. Cupped her cheek as if to ease her worry.

“Just a battle name, lass.”

She shook her head. Sakes, all knew the folklore about the Reaper.

The name alone was cause to run in the other direction, for reapers were the pale death, the usherer into the afterlife with their scythes…

She stared at the scythe in his hand. He hadn’t earned that nickname by living a gentle life. Was his name really Alexander?

Had she given herself to the worst sort of blackguard?

“I’m the same man.” He took up her hands as if a plea, kissing each set of knuckles. Rested his forehead to hers. “I want that life, I swear it.”

She nodded uncertainly. Of course she already knew he was a warrior worth his salt. He’d never denied it. But

Reaper

? A deadly reputation…

“The new employ?” she questioned.

He nodded eagerly. “I’ve been appointed.” He drew his scroll out of his satchel and shook it for emphasis. “Any day now I am to meet with the archbishop to declare my acceptance. I want that life with ye, I swear it.”

He walked her back down the steps they’d climbed to face the newcomer.

The rider’s obsidian eyes fixed on her. They narrowed in curiosity on her disheveled hair. The flower in her hand.

The afeared yellow of the MacLeod tartan was draped upon him. “Ye take a leman, lad? She’s no mere wench.”

Embarrassment burned. She stepped back, but Alexander pulled her into his hold and snagged up her hand. Showed off the ring.

“Watch yerself, uncle,” he rumbled menacingly, vibrating against her ear. “I take a

wife

.”

She dipped her head to hide her burning cheeks, but spied the MacLeod man’s brows shooting up to the heavens, reduced to silence.

Then he raked a hand through his hair. “Aw hell, Reaper. I nay kenned. I must drag ye away.” The man composed himself. “The laird competes in the corn cutting and has just been paired with the man who wants him dead.”

…

Shite.

Shite!

Tormund had been paired with James MacDonald? MacLeod and MacDonald were fierce enemies. They couldn’t be paired together unless the point of the competition was to see who could spill the most blood. They would murder each other on the barley field.

Alex tallied his weapons. Swords were surrendered at arrival to the festival in the name of a truce. But he carried a list of daggers and of course, his scythe.

Two dirks sheathed at each hip.

His

sgian dubh

in his boot.

His bullock dagger at his waist.

An achlais beneath each arm.

Two rib slitters up each wrist guard.

And yet, he…hesitated. Glanced to his songbird, then to Niall, then to her again.

Christ, that flinch at Niall’s arrival. Those reaves.

They’d taken a toll on her. The way her face had paled when Niall had called him Reaper, as if she was second-guessing her decision.

He encompassed her in his arms. He’d just made a promise to lay down his sword.

But he was still in service to Tormund until he resigned for Edinburgh.

He hated the uncertainty he saw brimming in her eyes.

Hated that at the first test of his promise to her, he was failing her expectation.

“What’s wrong, son? Make haste!” Niall urged, brooking no argument.

…

Son? Uncle? They must be affectionate names for there was no way by looking at these two men that they were any more related than Peigi was to the Queen of Spain.

Peigi watched Alexander. A hesitation on his lips. A quandary warring on his brow. Go with his man, or stay with her?

“Lass, I owe the MacLeods my life. I canna leave the laird in his time of need. His enemy will draw blood unless it can be dissuaded. Can ye understand, lass?”

Fretting her lip, he pulled it free of her teeth and planted a hard kiss to her lips. She pulled back and palmed his chest, warring with a choice, before forcing a smile.

“Ye must return.” She pushed him back. He need not waste time placating her if blood was to be spilled.

And yet… She glanced back at the kirk once more, disappointment and a niggle of worry worming its way into her skin.

“We

will

return, lass,” Alexander assured her, gripping her cheek and nape and giving her a resolute squeeze as if desperate for her to believe him. He dipped his eyes to hers. “I will leave ye word in our greenwood, aye?”

She tamped down her unease. He’d said he wished to lay down his sword. But a warrior’s blood always itched to fight. Is this how it would always be with him? It wasn’t what he’d just promised her.

“He’ll be back,” the other man affirmed, something resolute in his expression that put her at a moment’s ease. He winked and nodded toward her hand. “He’d nay offer ye his mither’s ring lightly.”

What? Her gaze shot up to Alexander’s. His mother’s?

He softened and rested his forehead to hers, petting back her hair. “I’m sorry. But my promise is my vow, I swear it.”

She nodded. He launched himself up onto Faunus’s back as the bells tolled and reached down for her hand.

…

And the next day, true to his word, a missive was wedged against a rock! She hurried to it and dropped to her knees, pulling it open and bringing the forget-me-not tied in green ribbon to her nose on a smile, reading that… He would be here on the morrow?

Her heart sank. Her thumb twisted her ring. Nay, he had official business. She could understand. It wasn’t as if he’d left her without word, or worse, left

her

. She wandered back to the faire and trifled with her wee niece, trying to quash her worry, when a strawberry blond beard and sharp green eyes caught her attention.

Stern, stoic, and focused, Alexander seemed as if on watch duty, fixated on a cluster of lairds in discussions.

She bounced her wee niece upon her knee, unable to take her eyes off him, when his gaze flitted to her and a brief smile creased his lips.

On the morrow, songbird,

he mouthed.

He’d known she was there all along. Her troubled conscience eased, and she smiled back.

Except when she hurried back the day after, once more, their greenwood was empty. Waiting. Fretting, she paced, twisting her ring—

Emergency bells from the castle began to toll.

“Fire!” People ran, shouting.

She hurried back to the fair, abandoning the trees to see sickly smoke rising in the distance.

“Fire! Fire!”

“The MacLeod’s crop winnings are burning! They’ll set the trees ablaze!”

Peigi crossed herself. A fire could ruin them all!

People ran to the fray. MacLeod tartan dotted through the crowd. And there, atop a proud Frisian, was Alexander at his laird’s side, thundering through the encampments toward the smoke. Children turned around or cried, disoriented.

Peigi snapped into action.

“Come, darlings, to the castle. Come now.” One by one, she gathered children, hurrying them out of the chaos, toward Lady Rose who was ushering folks inside for safety.

Atop Kilravock Castle, she and Lady Rose congregated the bairns, consoling, distracting.

As the hour grew late and the smoke from the finally-banked fire choked the air, children slept or diverted themselves with hazard dice, draughts, or toys Lady Rose brought above stairs.

Peigi moved to an embrasure and searched for her plain-kilted rogue—

“Peigi?”

She turned to see Kendrew MacGregor, soot stained, peering up the hatchway to the tower.

“Ye look as if ye’re searching for someone.”

“I’m merely worried.” Not a lie. Not at all the truth, either. “What are ye doing here?”

“I came in search of Laird Rose.”

“He is down there with the others, fighting the flame,” Lady Rose said from across the turret. “What be yer business?”

“I came to inform him that the MacLeods are riding out early. He asked me, as the brother of the advisor to the Earl of Arran, to keep sight on Tormund.”

Her stomach knotted and the flower in her hand she’d been idly twisting dropped. “The MacLeods are leaving?”

He nodded, brow furrowing. And bent to retrieve her forget-me-not. “Are ye all right? Ye’ve gone so pale. Wish me to fetch Seamus?”

She smoothed her skirts and shook her head.

He frowned. “Warmongers, the lot of them. The Earl of Arran wants to subdue the unruly highlanders. I hear he wants to create peace talks and looks to hire in their loyalty.”

He pointed to the far horizon, and from this vantage, she could just make out the sea of MacLeod yellow cantering down the distant high road into Glen Alban. And one black Frisian among the entourage.

She swallowed the bile rolling up her throat. MacGregor shook his head and looked around. “I shall find Laird Rose. Ye sure ye’re all right?”

She nodded, and he bowed his head. Made no mention of her snubbing his suit as he left. As order settled once more over the encampment, Peigi hurried back to her secluded woods in the moonlight shining through the boughs, surrounded by silence.

There, against the same rock, was another missive, tied in a green ribbon! Relief coursed through her! And yet, her heartbeat ratcheted up as shakily, she untied it.

“ I shall come for you on the morrow,

” the missive said. “

I promise. Be ready, songbird.

”

He’d come the next day, the last day of the festival. Her hand slid across her stomach. She swallowed down the worry rising in her throat.