Page 34 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

“Sir Alex!” shouted children.

Alex trotted Faunus out of the trees as lads raced up the hill in their flaxen léines and ruddy cheeks, bare feet despite the cold. The wolfhound lumbered ahead to join the excitement.

“Hurrah for Sir Alex!” they cheered. “For winning the Burning Sticks!”

A cluster of girls spied them and also dashed up the hill, dropping their turnip carvings.

Alex passed down the basket to the gaggle of lads and swung his leg over Faunus’s neck.

“Take these to Alpin,” who Alex had learned not only survived, but was also the mayor. “They’re from the lady of Freuchie for yer communion of the dead”

The children cheered as he removed the lid, revealing the bread, a lad on each side hoisting up the handle to carry it into the hamlet.

“Is that…the Lady Peigi

?” one of the lassies said.

He looked up at Peigi, hair tangled in chestnut waves. Her cheeks and nose pink from the cold. A bonny change from the demureness of artful coifs and the paleness of too much time indoors. She’d once looked as disheveled, pillion on his horse, with a wreath of summer flowers tangled in her hair.

Now, perched on Faunus’s rump like an autumn queen draped in that tartan, his legacy like his mark upon her, she tried to tame her hair, brushing it over her ear.

He watched the path of her fingers across her cheeks that his nose had just trailblazed as they’d hid from Seamus’s soldiers, basking in the tentative tenderness he’d gleaned beneath her surface.

The girls ran off to do the telling. The lads staring awestruck at her.

Alex swung the reins over Faunus’s head and led him downhill to where smoke rose beyond the thatching. They rounded the huts, the crackling of the bonfire growing louder as arguments among the villagers increased.

Where was the music they always played on this hallowed eve? Had the religious orders like the one Sir Graham aspired to, stamped out their ancient songs?

“He’s brought the lady!” The bairns ahead continued the telling. “And she brought an entire bushel of bread!”

“’Tis more than ever we’ve gotten…” muttered many in disbelief.

“…she’s clearly trying to make us like her…”

He sensed Peigi stiffen. He couldn’t fault his people for their rebuke, but he hated that she’d been put in this position. Because it wasn’t her fault, either.

As they rounded into the village commons where the bonfire wavered orange against the dusk, snow now dusting them like sugar, he realized they commiserated over a problem.

“Ho there.” He raised a hand.

“Sir Alexander!” They shouted. “Hurrah for the champion of Freuchie!”

“Ye walloped the competition today,” Thomas crowed. “I told Gertie ye’d win.”

Alex chuckled.

“Is it true what the maids are saying, sir? That ye’re the—”

“That I did.” Alex tousled the lad’s head as he felt Peigi’s gaze burning into his back. She didn’t seem to be missing these tiny hints. “Though I’m nay certain I could have beaten ye

. Yer sister Gertie was telling yer grandmither that ye’re the reigning champion.”

Thomas looked away bashfully, when he finally seemed to recognize Peigi atop Faunus.

“ Mi lady

.” He bowed, the others falling silent. “Forgive me, I nay realized it was ye, for ye look… different

.”

Thomas grasped Alex’s tunic sleeve, pulling him down to his ear. “I hope ye win the bride prize.”

Alex’s eyes connected with his songbird’s from where he stooped, gazing up at chestnut, bay, and amber heaven swirling in her guarded eyes.

“The lady brought ye Samhain tidings,” he announced.

“Blessed Communion.” Nerves wavered Peigi’s smile.

They gawped up at her, then him, then her. He approached Alpin. “Shall ye invite the lass in?”

Alpin narrowed his eyes. “But she’s a Grant,” he whispered, to a round of shushing from the others.

The horse leathers creaked as she fidgeted. Alex glanced back at her as if making an astute evaluation, bracing his chin on his thumb.

“Aye…so she is.” Then he faced Alpin again and folded his arms resolutely.

“But after what her sire did to—”

“Sir Alexander,” Peigi said. “I’m happy to leave them to their celebration—”

“Last I checked,” he interrupted her, “’twas nay the lady who beheaded yer laird when she would have been, oh, a lassie herself.” He cocked a brow, hearing Peigi’s sharp intake of air.

Alpin swallowed. Forced a stilted smile. “Mi lady, we welcome ye to our communion.”

“Good man.” He slapped Alpin across his back, causing him to lurch, when Alpin leaned toward his ear and dropped his voice.

“Ye think to marry

her to win us back?”

The observation sat sourly in Alexander’s gut. He didn’t answer as he squatted down to a child, withdrawing a coin from his sporran and holding it up between them. “What say ye offer Comyn hospitality, lad, and fetch the lady a drink.”

Eyes lighting up at the boon, the child beamed. “Aye, sir!”

He nodded his approval and spun the child around, patting his rump to send him on his task.

Then he turned back to Peigi. He wanted to wipe away her worry behind her poised visage. Such quiet armor, but he’d seen glimpses beneath the cracks.

“This was a mistake, Alex,” she breathed. “This was indeed a job for a Comyn lady and I’ve overstepped.”

He reached up to her. Slipped his hands around her waist as he felt the villager’s eyes upon them. Christ, so slim a waist. His hands nearly spanned her in that tender space between hips and ribs. Too thin.

She braced his shoulders. “Really, I should nay— Oh

!”

He plucked her down, though he steadied her against him, her breast to his chest. Keeping her tucked close, he laced his fingers with hers and withdrew another coin from his sporran, flicking it off his thumb to Thomas and ruffling his scruffy hair. “Will Freuchie’s finest groom water my horse?”

“Aye, mi laird.” Grinning, Thomas guided Faunus away.

He turned to the villagers.

“What ails the lot of ye?”

“Old Alpin’s panpipe broke,” someone said.

Alpin held up his instrument. Somehow he was twice as silvery and wiry as he’d once been. “One of the reeds split in two.”

“Now we’ll have no communion music,” a child lamented.

So these traditions did

persist?

Alex’s smile widened. He gazed down to Peigi.

“Lady Peigi is quite the songstress, I hear,” he hedged.

She shook her head. Her eyes rounded. “No,” she breathed. “They’ll run me straight back to the woods from whence we’ve come—”

“And the lass happens to have her lyre—”

“I havena touched it in months—”

He hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her close.

“Just be yerself, songbird,” he gruffed into her ear, when her next words, a pained breath, slayed him.

“I nay ken how to do that anymore.”

Nay, songbird. Something stole yer voice.

“Then it’s time I help ye relearn,” he whispered, “and they’ll fall for ye just like I did.”

Her eyes widened, watery and filled with yearning at his declaration, but he unhooked his arm and stepped back before she could dash what he wished was trust forming between them. He gestured to a blur of strawberry waves running toward them, fresh from the castle.

“Mi lady!” Gertrude shouted. “I was so worried when ye left!”

Peigi squatted down and opened her arms. Gertrude threw herself into them. Peigi’s face split into the first brilliant, carefree smile he’d seen on her since arriving at Freuchie, gutting him that it wasn’t for him. His mouth quirked up all the same.

“I thought mayhap Sir Alexander walking beneath the oat stalks spooked ye, and Granny Jossy told me nay to fret but I did…”

The villagers’ interest turned to curiosity as the child took her hand, as the lad returned with ale and sloshed the tankard toward her.

Wary dips of the villagers’ heads and bows greeted her as Gertrude led Peigi toward the fire. She glanced at him, but he swept his arm wide, ushering her onward. The bairns once more huddled around her to get a glimpse of their conqueror’s daughter wrapped in Comyn tartan.

“…bonny…” a laddie said, as another fingered her hair like a novelty.

“…like a painting…” another child said with awe.

Again, Peigi looked back at him as whispers spun around them. Pride filled his chest as these bairns pulled her into the fold.

“Nay, a crone she is!” called Alex, cupping his hand around his mouth.

Her eyes widened amid the collective gasps. He grinned. “Did he dare insult her so… Do they share a secret jest…”

He hitched his chin in challenge, hoping for her retaliation.

And miracle of miracles… A hint of that secret smile that she’d once bestowed so liberally on him edged her lips.

“Punish me, lass, by making song!”

She struck a clashing cord on her lyre with that cool defiance she’d once regarded a rogue in a greenwood with, arching a brow at him. “Be it that I sing just as off key, Sir Alexander?”

He chuckled at her faint laugh. He’d bloody treasure it. She remembered. She’d teased him. An olive branch. Her heart still wanted him, even if her mind was wary.

“Oh, mi lady. I’d love to hear ye sing as yer sister praises,” Gertie crowed, then rounded on him

, balling her fists on her hips. “And she is nay

a crone!”

Laughter surged among the villagers now as Alex winked.

Peigi lifted a bolstered chin as Gertie fingered her lyre, pinging the strings. “My sister is an urchin.”

Alex stepped up behind her and leaned into her ear, the end of his beard skimming across her nape.

“Yer song brings people together, lass,” he said. “Let it bring ye together with my— Let ye weave yer spell upon them now.”