Page 29 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

Alex chose a name, handing it to Aulay.

“Laird Malcom Graham!” Aulay called through his horn, holding up the parchment. “Ye’ve been challenged!”

Oh, this was good. Graham cracked his knuckles and shook out his arms, rousing his mettle.

“Will ye be removing yer claes, Laird Graham?” Sir Aulay called.

“Preposterous! There are ladies present!” Graham replied with a gallant dip of the head, eying him

as if he were the stagnant scum upon a contaminated pond.

Alex shrugged innocently. “What? When I was a laddie, we always played the Burning Sticks in our birthday claes.”

Chuckles rumbled through the crowd.

“And got our arses fried,” Aulay muttered beneath his breath.

Alex coughed at the jest. Hard.

“Haud yer wheesht, ye bawbag,” Alex murmured, only inciting Aulay to chuckle harder.

Hell, it had been good to drink with him last night.

It was as if he’d picked up where he’d left off so long ago.

He’d missed these folk, even if the bitter years had torn a rip in the fabric of their kinship.

If only Aulay had known what had happened to his sire’s skull, but the villagers, and Jossy—nobody knew to where it had vanished.

Every year on Soul Mass, they prayed for his entrapped soul.

“Bawbags got fried, too,” Aulay quipped.

A laugh burst up Alex’s throat and he quickly cleared it with a pound to his chest. Blast it, but Aulay was going to give him away. He’d done so time and again when they’d been bairns, lined up for a tongue-lashing from the head cook for stealing pears.

He sauntered out onto the pitch.

“Good luck, eejit,” Aulay whispered at his back. “Rules! Three burning sticks must strike ye true!” he announced before Alex could retaliate. “First man to be struck three times loses! The winner draws their next opponent! At the blow of my horn!”

Graham sized him up as MacGregor patted him on the back and said something in his ear. The two men shared a silent glance, when they both finally nodded. Ah, was MacGregor conspiring something?

Alex’s mouth tipped up. Child’s play, these two.

The horn blasted.

Graham strode forth. Alex cocked his head and considered Graham, who bounced on his toes and rolled out his shoulders.

The man is nervous.

He inspected each of Graham’s tells.

Good. A nervous man erred.

Alex slipped free a rib slitter and picked his nails casually, then stalked a slow circle around Graham, putting him further on edge. Graham might have muscles as soft as pudding, no longer boasting youth, but Alex knew better than to leave himself disarmed of his wits.

Muscle fought battles, but wit always won them.

All spectators faded. All fury at Peigi’s predicament and Seamus for cornering him this morning vanished. He had reasons to win. It wasn’t just

for his reluctant songbird who’d stitched his coat like a wife would do for her man as a matter of principle

. He had a chance to set free his sire of this curse that had held his soul captive for so long. He had his people’s support to win back his birthright.

Graham dashed for the fire. Alex continued prowling around him as Graham gathered up burning sticks. Graham threw one quickly. The fire bounced off Alex’s chest, singeing him.

The crowd cried out.

Peigi gasped.

His eyes darted sidelong, her hands over her mouth and she leaned forward in her chair as exclamations resonated through the throngs, for he’d made no effort to move.

He winked at her and she sat back, composing herself, as if she didn’t care.

“Strike one!” shouted Aulay, grinning at him. “For shame, Sir Alexander!”

Alex bit his thumb at Aulay, who stifled a grin at the insult.

He kept prowling his circle. Slow, steady—

Graham threw another. Alex inched in front

of it, letting

it bounce off him. The burn welted his skin. He welcomed the sizzle.

Again, another gasp, but none so clear to him as Peigi’s.

He glanced to Peigi and this time, his lips quirked. “Careful, Lady Peigi, or I might think ye worry for me!”

She shook her head, and was that “Such a show off…” he’d just seen her say? “Of course I nay care.”

Lyre

, he mouthed, earning a lift of her eyes. But she wasn’t fooling him now. I saw ye worried, songbird.

A seed of something took flame in his chest… Hope?

“Strike two!” Aulay bellowed. The crowd roared and argued.

“Ye seem fond of the lady, Sir Alexander,” Graham said. “But ye ken what I heard?”

Alexander continued his stalking. “Nay a clue, man. I sup with gentlemen, nay gossip mongers.”

Graham’s eyes narrowed. Graham was going to tell him what he’d heard anyway.

“Word upon the highroad is that Lady Peigi needs a fast

engagement. With nary a question asked. What man wouldna legitimize her if this castle is his prize?”

“And that matters because?”

Graham lifted his next burning stick. “Because according to the whispers, a man would be getting spoiled goods—” He flung it.

Alex ducked away, his gaze training murderously upon Graham.

He ducked a fourth and fifth stick as Graham rushed to pick them up again. Sidestepped a sixth as he stalked toward the bastard who spewed judgment with the pious Luther rose about his finger. Pious, the Reaper’s outlawed arse. But Christ, her whisper that she had no honor…

Not honorable?

In a world where a Marquess’s sister could be valued at only eight stone of wool because she was no longer pure, he was beginning to understand the shame she’d carried, not just these past months, but perhaps years, without her brother knowing.

A noble lady’s reputation was her one treasure, and without it, she had little value in the eyes of the law.

There was more honor in one strand of her hair than there could ever be in him, dishonorable as he was. Always be honest with me…

He leapt over a seventh stick to rising laughter from beyond the bunting as villagers cheered and Graham tired himself out.

Graham’s confidence turned to frustration as what had seemed easy suddenly became hard. His flaming stick spun toward Alex’s face. Peigi gripped her cheeks in his side view as—

Alex snatched the burning stick from the air.

Snatched a second one, speed and agility pumping his blood.

Peigi was standing now, white-knuckling the support post and not even attempting to hide her worry, fear etched on her face.

He snagged a third from the air. Ah, foolish Laird Graham. A strong offense was usually

the best strategy. Unless offense was defensive.

Because now

the game was truly on.

…

Peigi covered her eyes. Splayed her fingers so she could see. Fury had narrowed Alex’s emeralds, heating the sparkle to a flame. What had been said between these men a moment ago?

Alex stalked toward Graham as if the very Reaper had come to collect a soul. Graham backed up a step, then another, as Alex lifted a burning stick…

Took aim…

And juggled them!

Laughter pealed through the crowd. Heart in her throat, her hands dropped, eyes widened, and a laugh puffed over her lips.

Alex trotted to the base of her dais, as if he were her personal jester, gazing up at her so boyishly, making a mockery of Graham’s hard-fought efforts.

This was the playful lad she’d fallen for with that lopsided grin that not only met his eyes, but disarmed her with their charm, as if it pleased him to have pleased her

. As if he wanted her affection. Wanted her to remember

.

And yet, that darkness that had descended upon him at whatever Graham had said wasn’t gone. It was there, lurking beneath the sparkle, as he swung one under his leg and caught it in perfect synchrony with the others.

Nay… Graham was stalking up behind him. Her smile fell.

Graham’s dirk unsheathed from his belt. His arm raised. Ready to fling. Nay! Bloodshed was forbidden! They’d all agreed to good sporting when they’d signed their contracts!

Warnings roared from the spectators. She looked to Seamus! Would he not say something? She threw her hand over her mouth and pointed, as Alex laughed and juggled and showed off, oblivious to the impending threat. A cry welled up her throat.

“Alex! Ale—”

He whirled around.

One! Two! Three!

He pelted each burning stick in such rapid succession, pummeling Graham as if throwing battle axes.

Graham’s tunic caught flame. He screamed as his dagger dropped. He batted his sleeve. Laughter, shouts, and pleas swirled as Aulay ran for a bucket of water.

Peigi hoisted up her drapery of velvets and dashed down the stairs. Except Alex dragged the tunic over Graham’s head, dropped it to the dirt, and stomped it out.

Graham’s panic eased as he realized he’d been saved. And then, he scrambled for his dropped knife—

The toe of Alex’s boot came down upon the blade, pinning it. He swiped it up and stabbed the smoking tunic upon it, holding it high for all to see.

Then he slung a fraternal arm around Graham, pulling him close as he bellowed, “And that

, good folk, is why we always stripped to our birthday skin to play Burning Sticks! And ye all thought I wished merely to impress the lady!”

Laughter guffawed. Joslyn was smiling at him. Aulay grinned as the other contestants eagerly stripped their tunics and coats.

…

Peigi shook her head, hating that she’d laughed, as Alex grinned proudly back at her, when his declaration that he’d played this as a bairn rolled curiously through her mind.

She’d picked local games when designing this tourney. Was he from this region?

A sense of intuition washed over her: he’d garnered big smiles from Joslyn, somehow had repaired her lyre with tools he couldn’t possibly have had upon him, and had somehow

gotten outside before her brother…

She couldn’t put her finger upon it. She bit her lip at the uncertainty she saw flit across his eyes. He wanted her attention, as if to remind her of how he’d once been able to make her laugh. But could she go back in time? Could she pretend the past hadn’t happened?

She was now embroiled in this tourney. She couldn’t just rescind herself, could she? Did she even want to?

Aulay lifted his horn. “Laird Graham is out!”

Alex turned to his crowd, arms wide in shameless victory, just like he had at the summer games, basking in their adoration as he dragged Graham down and up with him in a bow before tugging him close to murmur something in his ear.

Graham’s face paled as Alex released him on a jolt.

Sakes, she’d fallen so hard for him. But that fall had hurt and had left bruises that might never heal.

Now he was here, vying for these lands and castle like all the others, while proclaiming he was still the same man who wanted a simple life.

She couldn’t let memories of those sweet moments cloud her judgment: the sincerity he’d worn as he’d given her his mother’s ring, the desperate pleas for her to sing, the way every time she looked at him, he was looking at her.

Alex turned back to the crowd and rubbed his hands. “All right, will no man give me a worthy competition?”

The contestants silenced, as if suddenly remembering that he was an adversary, not an entertainer.

Alex’s smile widened. He’d said he was going to win. She was beginning to believe he might.