Page 22 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

Ghosts of the past whispered as he ascended to the first floor, then the second, housing the guest chambers. They approached the winding stairs at the end of the corridor that led to the third floor beneath the gallery.

“Continue, mi laird,” Joslyn said under her breath, head bowing in deference, gesturing for him to go first. “The guest chambers are filled, but there is one other nay in use.”

“The laird’s

chamber is the other way,” he quipped, as the maids snickered behind him.

“I nay think Seamus Grant is inclined to share his bed with ye.” Joslyn winked.

They spiraled even higher, the narrow passage having seemed larger as a lad but in truth too narrow for his shoulders and the steps barely wide enough for a toe hold. The third-floor corridor was dark; only the light from Joslyn’s taper wavered a halo around them.

He stopped at a familiar door. She smiled softly as she pushed it open in homecoming.

It creaked into darkness. A waft of must met his nose. And yet, it smelled of a scent so familiar he fought the sensation of being overwrought.

How a smell could transport a soul back in time.

He stepped into the darkness. Watched the taper streak a path across the flooring, revealing flashes of cobwebs, an armoire, a toy chest, a bairn-sized bed beneath a four-posted canopy of carved wood draped in proud… Comyn

tartan.

He cleared roughness from his throat as Joslyn secured the taper in a holder, swishing away more cobwebs.

“This chamber has nay been touched. I would have thought Seamus would have ransacked the lot of it.” For some reason though, Seamus hadn’t

.

Joslyn set the maids about dragging the blankets and pillows off the bed in a plume of dust that stirred sneezes from their chests. They threw the tapestry aside and the window-shutters wide to beat them out. A cold draft rushed in.

“The rumor is that Lady Grant—Seamus and Lady Peigi’s mither—insisted that Seamus keep it as it was and leave us to our salvaging.

The strife was much, but she came to stay with us for a spell and kenned we grieved.

She gentled him… But Seamus was grieving, too, for his sire was also slain that day,” she added. “I wonder if he still is.”

What the hell did Alexander care of Seamus-bloody-Grant’s grief? It was strange to hear a conquered people refer to their conqueror with any degree of affection. And gentled him, Alex’s arse.

“Me shoulder, still

bleeding, mind ye,” he rolled it out, “begs to argue Seamus’s particular brand of gentleness.”

She hurried to the sideboard where an ewer and basin sat. Rummaged in the cabinet for more candles and lit them, securing them in the candelabra upon the mantel. The years had been kind to her. Her hair was grayer, her wrinkles well earned, but she was fed, groomed, and well in spirits.

“I’m glad to see ye hale,” he said. “Glad to see most of my faither’s folk were allowed to live.”

“For a moment, I feared I’d be witnessing yer

execution. But thanks to the Lady Peigi, there was no need to worry. Much like her mither, I sense she is: perceptive, though she’s still fresh here.” At this, her eyes flashed to his. “Ye seem familiar with her. And she, protective of ye, that scream…”

“Fresh?” He ignored Joslyn’s other remark. “When did she arrive?”

Alexander propped his satchel and scythe—begrudgingly returned to him—against the bedstand.

He opened the toy chest and rummaged within, withdrawing a…

dusty toy shield hand-painted with the crest of a scythe.

He steeled the thumping organ in his chest and felt the stick horse, once fashioned for a laddie as a Christmastide gift, the leather around its muzzle brittle and cracking from lack of oiling.

He could still imagine the feel of the handle in his grip. He felt other familiar board jeus

and trifles. The crumhorn his mother had taught him to play rested beside them, along with other instruments.

To the far wall was an armoire. He dared to move to it as the maids continued thwacking dust from the bedding.

He opened the armoire wide. Old lambskin boots. A stack of neatly-folded tunics, waiting for a gangly laddie of twelve to need them again— The boy never returned for them. A lad’s first great kilt. So proud of ye, son, for now ye wear the garment of yer forefaithers…

He quashed the memory of the deep, rattly voice of a man long dead as he fingered the wool. Red and green, a tightly woven plaid.

The Comyn’s pride—

He shoved the door shut.

“Indeed, she just arrived a fortnight ago, in the care of her brother. He announced last sennight that Freuchie is her dower property, and we are to host a tournament.”

“Her brother designed this farce?”

It made him hate Seamus more.

“She’s been tucked in the gallery ever since, planning the event and reviving many of our traditions like the Communion of the Dead, the Burning Sticks, the Soul Mass cakes…

Seems the lady was sick, and finally recovered enough to be engaged,” Joslyn said, helping the maids remake the bed. “Seamus brought her from Iona Abbey.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “What ailed her?”

Folk nay convalesced in an abbey from a mere cough. Peigi looked thinner, he had to admit, despite her damasks and velvets and natural beauty.

“Unsure. She hasna spoken of her time at the abbey. She nay speaks except to greet us all. It’s clear she’s nervous. Hearing her scream for ye was…surprising.”

“Surely she sings, though,” he harrumphed.

“Sing?” Joslyn frowned curiously. “That is the second time someone has lauded her voice. But I’ve nary heard her speak more than a few words strung together, let alone sing

. Her sister says she sings when she’s happy, so all I can assume is she is quite the opposite.”

He’d once heard her humming so dreamily, so happily.

Joslyn stood from where she’d been tucking in the blanket and balled her fists upon her hips to scrutinize him. Never good. For when she did, she saw right through the masks he wore.

“She’s the portrait of a lady, to be certain. But something does

ail her spirit. I wonder what that is.”

“Nay overthink it, woman,” he harrumphed, attempting to disarm her shrewd assessment.

She waved him off like a pesky fly. But he knew, as Jossy untied the canopy drapes to shake out the curtains, that she hadn’t for one moment abandoned this subject.

“Hmm.” Joslyn chuckled, glancing around. “I regret, mi lai—Sir Alexander, that the bed might be a touch small these days—”

“I’ll make do just fine, Jossy,” he insisted softly, taking her shoulders and slowing her hustle. “No need to fret so. I’ve survived far worse.”

“Jossy… Oh Caleb

,” the woman whispered, a trembling breath, hands wringing each other. “Where did ye go? How did ye escape? We all saw them drag ye away…” She gripped his face as if to feel that he was real.

He winced and grunted.

“Sakes, yer face.” She released him, though there was no mistaking her eyelids reddening. “I’m just…pleased to see Esther’s son has-has beaten such odds, the innocent bairn I once swaddled. Ye’ve grown so. Goodness, look at ye.”

He buried her in his embrace, his throat thickening. “Nay innocent anymore.”

“I’m sorry ye were a victim that day, my sweet laddi—”

“Wheesht,” he gruffed, his own throat aching as he bundled her bones against his chest. “It’s in the past.”

“But the past lays the path to our future.”

Indeed. Memories of that wee lassie and memories of this summer. Unfolding before his future now…

“I’m grown, and I’m here. ’Tis all that matters.”

“Yet a shadow lives in yer heart. I can feel it. Ye carry the royal insignia, and the weapons of a warrior.”

“An outlaw must assume many identities.”

“I suspect ye wield both quill and sword with equal strength.”

“A man does what he must,” he gruffed. “Life isna the rainbows and fairy glens ye wanted me to believe it was.”

“Nay—”

“But I’m also armed with more than just a sword, Jossy.” He shook a finger in the air and dashed for his satchel. “And I’m here to put it to use.”

Withdrawing parchments from his packs, he held open a portfolio and a scroll, revealing a scripted page.

She looked at it. Literate, she skimmed the Latin words. “Certificate of… law

?” Her gazed widened up at him. “King’s College? Ye studied in Aberdeen? This name…Alexander Stewart.”

He nodded once.

“Sakes, always so clever ye were.”

“I made a vow to my sire. He built this legacy and I was a fool wrapped up in the imaginations of a spoiled bairn—”

She gripped his good cheek in admonishment. “Ye were a bairn of twelve years. Just a bairn

.” She shook him with her fingers gnarled from years of grinding a pestle. “What could ye have done?”

“My da was a hero who supported his mither and sisters by the same age,” he scoffed.

“Yer sire worked hard, so his own seed would ken the joys we didna ken.”

He studied her. “Aye, so I’d inherit this and take care of ye, and a fine job I’ve done of that—”

“He also wanted ye to be happy

. Nay plagued by ghosts. And they haunt ye. I can sense that like the changing of the winds.”

Nay, he’d not dwell on that happy time. When he’d planned to settle in his wee cottage and sow bairns with the songbird who’d known his mither’s song. Yet, could he have been happy abandoning his pursuit to regain his lands?

He shook his head and hitched up a grin.

She wagged her finger at him. “Yer rosy smile might fool the lasses, but it nay fools me.”

He scowled, slouched his hands on his hips. “My sire remains a soul trapped in purgatory.”

“Ye’ve lived in that heavy shadow?” She furrowed her brow.

“How could I nay, Jossy? And Seamus tormented ye for it—”

Swishing in the corridor distracted them. She patted his cheek, quieting him.

“Is someone bringing the boiled water?” Francine diverted their attention, when a vision of pine-draped beauty rounded the corner, heaving a heavy pot, her hands white-knuckling the rag as steaming water threatened to slosh over the rim.

And then his songbird’s posture wavered like a sapling bending to the wind. Her face was sweating. She was listing sideways, her wide-eyed gaze upon him—

He bolted to the door.