Page 35 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

Aulay slipped a tankard into Alex’s grip, too, and swung an arm around him, the two of them stepping into the cluster of villagers, like brothers who’d done so a hundred times, leaving her on the periphery.

But what should she play? What did they expect? Do my fingers still ken their way across the strings?

What were their traditions? Their favorites? Will my voice come out scratchy?

The children perched on their knees in anticipation, watching her, when suddenly a bone flute, that

bone flute, led into a tune.

Her eyes shot up to Alex.

He blew upon it as he stepped out of Aulay’s company, his tankard already drained, watching her. Silence descended as his battered fingers flitted over the instrument. He moved toward her through the children who leaned apart for him, necks craned to watch.

He arrived in front of her and nodded, as if offering encouragement. Refrained the lead-in. This time, her fingers strummed the lyre, the note resonating familiarity up her arms as wind whipped the flames sideways on a gust, spraying sparks, to the bairns’ shrieks of delight.

Those fickle fae

, his eyes seemed to say.

He took up her hand. Led her through the villagers to a pile of straw.

She sat, the heat of the bonfire crackling in welcome as the lasses arranged her skirts and the lads piled upon empty crates to listen.

She set her lyre upon her crisscrossed knees and sipped her tankard again, but the pungent homebrew made her stomach turn and she set it aside.

She’d been so certain her voice had atrophied at the abbey when her world had collapsed and she’d realized she no longer cared about marriage, just wanted to protect her clan’s reputation.

Alex stepped around her and sat upon a crate, thighs straddling her, as if to cage her to him, while his toe tapped the rhythm.

He refrained again and she took a deep breath.

“ Thars a lass in Inverness, sing oh sing me laddies…

” she trilled, nerves so strong and voice so rusty, it cracked.

“Chestnut hair and skin so fair, sing oh sing me laddies…”

She glanced back at him only to see his gaze trained on her lips like an archer on a target. Could feel his warmth enveloping her as the snowflakes continued to drift down and kiss her cheeks.

“Lips of gold if truth be told, sing oh sing me laddies…”

He gave her shoulders a subtle squeeze with his thighs. Her body ignited at the contact, at his lack of propriety in front of these folk as if she were his woman already, and knowing that the crux of his legs was at her nape and if she just. leaned. back

, she’d feel that

wondrous part of him that had once awakened her pleasure and banished her fear. Blush raged across her cheeks.

Hope welled in her chest as the lyrics progressed and the flute fluttered from behind. As his presence uplifted her, his harmonies blew clean and sure. Her fingers strummed the lyre while her body burned beneath his protective hold and her voice trilled more easily over the lyrics.

“Steal a kiss and twirl the miss, sing oh sing me laddies…”

There was no mistaking the smiles, either. The crofter in the back tapping his foot and the older women singing the verses, their guards lowering as smiles and nodding broke out on their faces.

And the children! They began to clap to the rhythm. She smiled at their happiness, their rosy cheeks as they bounced to the tune.

Again and again, they sang the verses, the words a flirt, as two girls broke out into dance around the fire, until the last verse—

“Till her brother doth said, I’ll take yer head! Run oh run, ye laddie!”

The entire village roared with laughter at the man in the song’s folly for flirting so shamelessly, the children laughing because the adults were laughing, and a muscled arm swung around her shoulders, pulling her tight between his legs as Alex guffawed.

“Such a rogue still

got what he deserved.” She giggled, leaning into his embrace.

“A good thing he never met yer brother, songbird,” he jested to more laughter.

She looked back at his bruised face and sewn coat, proof of how close he’d come to that.

Yet she saw nothing but affection sparkling in his eyes.

He laughed so heartily as if he had not a care, in a world that punished so unfairly.

And she wanted his kiss again. Wanted it so badly.

Wanted to believe his declaration that he’d win.

Wanted to reverse the wheel of time. She reached up. Cupped his cheek.

His breath hitched against her wrist, as if disbelieving her touch. His gaze holding hers, he turned his lips into her palm and pressed a kiss there.

Song after song, the evening progressed.

Her hair was limp from melting flakes, her slippers kicked free and her toes tucked beneath her hem, nestled into the straw.

The snow accumulated but the bonfire melted it in its inferno.

The songs grew easy. The folk grew merry and danced, ate their bread and drank their ale and chanted Samhain blessings, in preparation for going Souling on the following eve.

“More, mi lady! More!” called villagers.

“Sing the one about the fox and crow!”

“Nay, a good country reel would do!”

They volleyed their choices at her like arrows upon an adversary, as ewers of ale made rounds and splashed into tankards and the folk linked hands around the fire.

“Sing something gentle,” warbled a voice through the commotion.

Joslyn? Why was she here? Peigi looked about and spotted the woman holding a babe on her hip, rubbing its eyes. Joslyn did

live in the healer’s hut when not helping at the castle.

One lullaby popped to mind: Alex’s song. The song that had lured him to her.

She strummed a soft chord.

“Lullaby sweet bairn of mine…”

The chatter hushed.

Strummed the next chord.

“Sleeping sweetly in the pine…”

Her cheeks felt hot from the flame. The flute remained silent, and she let herself slip back to that greenwood, let herself think about that summer day when the man at her back had begged her to see him again, had lain in the grass beside her.

That wind whipped again, the bonfire roaring. Her eyes closed as the bone flute finally

joined in and fluttered in her ear. Snowflakes twirled through the air like those playful leaves.

“Bright green eyes, rest peacefully…”

She opened her eyes, could see reverence twinkling in Joslyn’s gaze.

“For the world isna what it’s meant to be…”

Alex’s flute trailed away. Only the crackling bonfire, burning low, spoke into the night.

She looked up at him—him chewing his cheek, his eyes glistening.

His thumb touched her mouth, his fingers slipping into her hair over her ears to cradle her cheek.

He studied her lips, uncaring of their audience, and in sooth, she’d become so relaxed, she’d forgotten any discomfort.

The sky dark as pitch was studded with celestial crystals, the clouds having long since moved on.

His lips descended to hers. Brushed like a breeze, always gentle, belying the exuberance with which he seemed to live his life.

And she sank. Into memories. Months of missing him and feeling unworthy crashed over her as a tear slipped down her cheek. It was only lips touching, and yet, she writhed within for more, desperate to feel wanted

as a soft growl of desperation reverberated through him, caged in his chest. A taste of what he’d been missing, poured into a simple touch as his breathing came in and out erratically, as if holding everything back…

His forehead again rested to hers, eyes pinched tight in pain. “I need ye,” he gruffed. “Like Pan needs his nymph, like a body needs air, for I’ve been suffocating—”

A whistle whirled. Laughter and clapping erupted.

She yanked back and touched her mouth. Her cheeks were hot.

Barely a brush of skin and yet, her lips stung, when her shame receded as Joslyn’s soft smile and misting eyes met hers.

Here, among these folk who seemed to accept Alex so, away from the trappings of fanfare and notions of noble honor, she felt… at home. Like this was their

wee village on the shore, like she’d once set her heart upon having.

“Games!” called the children, crowding around them and tugging on Alex’s shoulders.

He winced but chuckled as he glanced at their expectant faces, that boyish desperation in his plea moments ago replaced by his charming grin.

He bounced to his feet and tousled their hair.

“Mi laird, a spear throw!”

“Show us how ye hit the target!” Thomas said.

“Or how about…” Alex reached to the sheath always across his back. “A scythe?” He spun the weapon, arms out as he turned in a circle. “Does anyone challenge me? Ye, Thomas?”

The wee groom’s eyes widened.

“Indeed! Come hither. Ye’ll make a worthy opponent.”

Peigi laughed as the boy’s face reddened. Alex swiped up a torch and carried it toward their makeshift pitch delineated by buntings of turnips. The villagers gathered along the lines, out of harm’s way.

“Sir Alexander kissed ye.” Gertrude collapsed beside her, handing her ale as other womenfolk gathered on the straw bales to drink and gossip, no longer guarded as they flashed smiles her way. “Safe to say he fancies ye.”

Peigi took a polite sip. Again, her stomach turned at the taste, and she set it aside and wiped her lip.

“Aim…like so…” Alex was saying from afar. “Here, hold my scythe…”

She watched him noose it in his fist and place the polearm in the lad’s hand.

“There. Stand…like so.” He squared Thomas’s shoulders and planted the bairn’s foot in front. Lifted the weapon over the lad’s shoulder. “Ye’re going to step into the thrust, use yer body’s momentum to propel it forward… Aye, that’s the way of it!”

Jovially, he ruffled Thomas’s hair. Like a da teaching his son…

He’d once begged for a family with her. They’d once daydreamed about children of their own—

Nay, she couldn’t let that sadness of lost dreams assail her, wondering what might have been, when she’d barely regained her ability to hold her head up high.

“Do ye fancy him back?”

Peigi swallowed, then nodded and patted the space before her so Gertie shifted in front of her. She took to combing back the lassie’s tangles, damp and strewn about her face, weaving Gertrude’s hair into a plait. Over, under, cinch. Over, under, cinch.

“Have ye met him before?”

Peigi peered around at the girl’s face as she continued to weave, frowning. “Why such a question?”

Laughter erupted as the scythe ricocheted off the target, drawing her attention.

Alex’s manner was so easy, teasing the lads and lasses, promising them a turn.

He commanded respect without even trying, delighted in giving them coins for the slightest requests.

He’d make a fine laird of Castle Freuchie and these people who’d suffered so.

He wasn’t beholden to the trappings of nobles, but comfortable in his skin and plain claes, among these working folk, as if he belonged.

She traced how Alex’s chuckle stretched the column of his throat, when he waggled his brow back at her and Gertie.

Gertrude shrugged. “The oat stalks say ye did. But the crab apples, I am mystified.”

“Because the oat stalks were just a coincidence, Gertie.”

“Granny Jossy says coincidences are what we call fate when we nay understand what it’s trying to tell us.”

That shiver once more assailed like it did each time the wind stirred the leaves into frolicking spirals, as if those fae her mother used to whisper about were trying to speak.

Her arms erupted in goose flesh as she put the final knot in the twine, when she looked up at a shadow blocking the firelight.

Alex stood before her, an expectant gathering surrounding them again.

“Songbird, ’tis unanimous.” He winked down at her with a cheeky grin. “The lasses have asked me to dance, but I promised them aye only if my lady gives me the first honor.”

She glanced at the maids, gathered around the fire in anticipation of a dance with the warrior charmer from Court.

She’d heard the whispers of the ladies today, wishing for a chance to turn his gaze.

Remembered the flirt at Lughnasadh who’d enthralled his adoring crowd and winked at the maidens he’d no doubt planned to bed.

She looked at his hand, extended down to her

, then up at the sparkle of anticipation in his eyes.

“Ye can nay refuse, mi lady!” Gertie and the other girls crowed, oblivious to her hurt, nudging her to accept.

She laughed uncomfortably and took his hand.

But his brow grew serious. His smile fell. He wanted to dance with her, that much was clear, and yet, distress knotted in her belly that it had been months

. Three months of loneliness while he’d freely done as he’d wished no matter what sadness he’d spoken of when searching for every Margaret in Scotland, with the endless stream of maids who batted their sheep’s eyes at him.

“Lass?” he hedged.

She shook her head, forcing a smile onto her mouth again, but he squatted and lifted her chin to him, palming her jaw.

“Ye’ve always been such a charmer.” She bit her lip and glanced askance, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a garble. “So free, whilst I’ve been…”

He hoisted her up amid the happy faces that weren’t so unaccepting anymore, his brow pleating, when she swayed at the sudden shift. The teasing, lightheadedness, and anger that she couldn’t tell what was truth from tales, all churned into a potion of distress. Apparently, no

wounds had healed at the abbey after all.

She braced the wall of a bothy for leverage as dizziness blurred her vision. Lack of food and drink seemed to be catching up to her and she fought to clear her vision. She grappled with the wall for support. Blinked at the spots blotting her vision…

Her limbs felt like pudding as she collapsed.

“ Peigi

…” a bellow echoed, darkness shrouding her mind.