Page 28 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

A roar of cheers from the local villagers and castle workers—and groans of disappointment from the other contestants—echoed.

“Come forth, Sir Alexander, and choose yer opponent for the Burning Stick!”

Alex stepped forth and took a flourishing bow.

“I demand to read the other cutlets!” Kendrew MacGregor erupted. “Someone could be showing favoritism by filling the pot with the blackguard’s name!”

“Here, here!” Laird Graham concurred, rallying other contestants to agree.

Seamus stood from where he sat with the other nobles, the bastard, thinking to waylay him and cause him to earn a loss for missing this event. “I put the names in myself. All is fair!”

MacGregor stood down like a good wee lap dog, though the other contestants continued to shout suspicions.

“How can we take yer word?” Laird Gordon called.

“Because I strive to always

be fair!” Seamus argued.

Fair?

Alex snorted. Where had that fairness been when that strap had lashed his back so long ago? As he’d been dragged like a carcass behind a horse? When Richard MacGregor and his Grant bride had tried to steal his mither’s family cottage?

The arguing continued.

Seamus strode forth and ducked beneath the bunting. He took each parchment out of the bowl and unfolded it, holding them up for all to see. “A different name on each one! He won the chance fairly!” He glared at Alex now, as if he wished he hadn’t. “No name has been repeated!”

Alex beamed to the crowd and slapped MacGregor upon the back. “No hard feelings, friend

.”

Kendrew’s reciprocated scowl wasn’t friendly.

But then Alex turned to lock eyes with her again as he strode toward Aulay to draw his opponent’s name, a winch cranking tighter, chain growing tauter as he unfastened his doublet. He’d been stunned to see it at his door this morn, smelling of rosewater and neatly stitched.

She still cares.

He arrived beneath her, inclining his head.

“My lyre,” she said. He notched up his chin. “However did ye fix it?”

He tossed down his doublet at her feet like a hunter’s offering and shrugged. “Just some odds and ends I found.”

“Ye found lyre strings and the tools to repair them in a bairn’s old chamber? Is this a truth similar to that one about a missive left for me at Lughnasadh?” she muttered disbelievingly, eyebrows rising.

He wouldn’t let the accusation sting and flashed his cocksure grin instead. “Indeed. Exactly like that.”

“I nay buy the scheme ye try to sell me.”

“A gentleman nay shares his secrets,” he replied with that waggle of his brow.

“Ye still think that waggle works.” She bit her lip, shaking her head, capitulating an inch to his charm.

“Is it finally working its magic on my songbird?”

Her barely-smile fell and her face paled as she whispered, “I’m nay yer songbird, Alex.”

“Is that a challenge?” He unpinned his brooch from his kilt and tossed it atop the doublet, the tartan snaking off his shoulder.

It rolled on its rim, around in a spiral, then bumped her slipper and clunked over.

“Because I never back down from a challenge.”

…

God, that infuriating waggle! And his songbird? The audacity to act as if he still had a right to her. She schooled her expression. She wouldn’t lose composure.

Alex’s smile fell, too. “I’m going to win.”

He would have a right if he won. She shook her head, eyes misting and darting away as the uncertainty that had been gnawing within since his arrival ached.

“But if ye win, will ye finally follow through?” She rubbed her empty ring finger.

His eyes dipped to the gesture and his jaw ticked.

“What will happen when again an ally rallies ye to fight? How many months will ye be gone then? Where will I find yer so-called missives then? Mayhap I’d be better off with a predictable, dull man—”

“Like hell I’ll see ye on another man’s arm,” he gnashed out, “or this land in the possession of—”

“Whatever happened to the man who wanted the wee cottage on the shore?”

“He stands before ye—”

“—who wanted to settle there for the rest of his days?”

He huffed with frustration. Raked a paw through his hair again. More strands ripped loose as his jaw pumped.

“If ever I could turn back the wheel of time, I would turn back to that day. I’ve lived each day paying penance.”

“Choose yer conquest, Sir Alexander!” called Laird Gordon.

“I fear I might have found my conquest already.” His gaze pinned hers at his quiet declaration.

He gripped the awning support and swung upon the dais. Plucked her posy from her bodice.

“Clover, hawthorn, forget-me-not,” he said, bringing the cuttings to his nose, his throat bobbing as he nodded to himself. “My lady’s blessing… I compete in her honor—”

“I have no honor.”

The whisper rushed out before she could stop it. She threw her hand over her mouth to stay the quiver as her eyes bounced away again, when his thumb braced her chin and turned her face back to his. Fury tightened his brow fiercely, like when he’d stared down her brother.

“ Never

say that again,” he growled. His thumb softened on her chin.

“Nay flirt with the lady!” laughed Laird Ross.

Aulay cleared his throat, again and again, as if…trying to get Alex’s attention?

Yet her eyes fluttered closed. How she itched to twist his beard around her fingertip and return to that innocent time at Lughnasadh—

“Sir Alexander,” Seamus’s cold voice cautioned, jarring her eyes open again.

“Quit trying to woo the lass!” shouted other contestants. “’Tis an unfair advantage, talking to her so…”

“Aye, Alexander

. Quit trying to woo the lass,” Aulay echoed beneath his breath, and sakes, the twist of sarcasm was informal and sounded an awful lot like a pesky lad needling his brother.

In sooth, their visages were

similar. Green eyes. Similarities in their noses, though Aulay’s hair was blonder… Coincidences

. She shook the strange sensation away.

Alex jumped down with a lazy thud and a cocksure smirk. He tucked the posy between his teeth like a buccaneer’s blade, stripped off his tunic, and tossed it atop his amassing pile of clothes at her feet.

Sakes…his chest… Carved by the artistry of blades in battle, ribbed with rungs of muscle over his belly where his ligaments narrowed over his hips. The stitches across his shoulder torqued. It looked tender, but no longer angry. The trail of blond dusting over his navel guided a lass’s eyes lower—

“Eyes of deepest Greenwood, ’twould be so swift to drown there…”

He hummed the melody of bygone times, the timbre of his voice resonating memories through her heart, as he unclasped the pouch over his pectoral with a flick of his fingers. Taking the posy from between his teeth, he tucked it beneath the flap.

A spiral of leaves frolicked across the pitch like playful children.

A shiver racked her. Strings of faces carved out of turnips bobbed, rustling the sheafs of corn dolls tied to the posts.

Joslyn looked wondrously around. Alex, too, looked around, as if he noticed.

Was this her Sight, trying to tell her something?

“Are ye going to take all day stripping naked?” taunted Laird Graham, snapping the trance. “Or shall we get on with it?”

Alex turned to face his opponents, prying loose his belt. “Since ye asked nicely, man!”

“Ye would nay!” Peigi gasped as the crowd erupted in laughter, when she saw his shoulders shaking with amusement.

He flashed that grin back at her that had once whittled down her defenses as he resecured his belt.

“Sakes, do ye ever stop?” she muttered, barely leashing her irritation.

“I’m just getting started, songbird,” Alex murmured.

He gave her his back, revealing those lashings, as Aulay held the bowl of paper cutlets out to him.