Page 46 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)
The sun was hovering low over the woods and painting the spindly branches in gold when out of the trees walked a man leading a proud Frisian with a feathery mane, an enormous stag draped over its back…
“They won… They won!” Peigi squealed to Aileana, Gertie, Elizabeth, and Joslyn, hands gripping hands.
She ripped out of their cheering embraces and scurried down her dais. Graham’s party had been returned for hours!
Lumbering in the lead, walking his mount with scythe and bow crisscrossing his back, Alex’s eyes found hers. Villagers swarmed out from beneath the ropes. His face split into that beautiful grin and he dropped the reins as she threw herself into his arms.
He captured her around the waist and twirled her.
“That’s two out of four! Ye made it to the wrestling!” She gripped his face and—
Bodies converged around them, villagers and spectators cheering. No one needed to weigh the two parties’ stags to see which one was bigger but
Mon Dieu, what am I doing?
She wiggled to get down, but Alex’s soft look of pride was enough to please her.
“I promised to win,” he murmured in her ear, “and ye should nay be running, lass, after last night.”
Darkness laced his affectionate scolding. And the way he dragged his knuckles softly down her cheek was haunted with tenderness. As if he didn’t feel worthy of redemption.
She wanted back his spark.
Just having told him about the babe, and the way he’d held her as if he couldn’t bear to see her in such pain, had been a balm on a festering sore.
Together, with someone to shoulder the burden with her, they could get through this loss.
The pain might always be there, but perhaps there would be new chances, new babes, to soften the hurt.
He was still here, undeterred. Their life wouldn’t be the one of solitude on a remote shore like she’d once hoped—he’d take on his rightful lairdship, if indeed her hunch was true, and she’d be destined to the life of a highborn lady protecting her castle walls against enemies—but it would be enough, wouldn’t it? They could forge a new vision. If he
was
the outlaw, he deserved to win this back, didn’t he?
He dusted a surreptitious kiss to her lobe and pulled away, when she spied MacGregor atop his horse, frowning at her.
A chill racked her frame.
“Laird Graham, that is two losses for ye and yer team! Ye’re
out
!” Aulay called. More cheers from the villagers. “Tap the cask! A blessed Soul Mass it will be!” Aulay whooped.
The excited procession buzzed up the stairs into the courtyard where tables draped in linens were set with platters to be shared, as the deer were hauled away to be processed.
“Ye should have seen it!” bragged Ross to anyone who’d listen. “’Twas a forgotten fruit grove down yonder! With
pears
!”
Pears? A treat in these northern parts!
“And damson fruits! And I dare say we ate our fill of the fallen mast whilst Laird Ross and Sir Alexander loaded the beast!” An orchard? Where had Peigi heard of that? “
Enormous
, he was! A seasoned stag! And Sir Alexander’s prowess after Sir Maxwell spotted him? Leapt clean out of nowhere and drove the herd straight toward Maxwell’s waiting arrow!”
So why didn’t Kendrew MacGregor seem pleased? He’d won alongside the others. Yet his expression was dour. She prickled, unable to place her unease.
“Maxwell pulled back his arrow and loosed it straight and true!”
“’Twas a beautiful shot if I say so myself,” boasted Maxwell, lifting his tankard.
“
Ye
won that hunt,
Sir
Alexander.” She poked his chest.
He shrugged again but
surreptitiously pulled her beside the courtyard wall out of sight . He moved in front of her to shield her from view.
She eyed his quiet look. Quiet? He was never short on words. Except he seemed to be relishing the attention Ross was lavishing on Maxwell. It was as if the hunt had worked out
exactly
to his liking. Which meant he’d been a
puppeteer
, nay a playactor, pulling the strings. He’d known about the hidden fruit grove.
Eyes twinkling, he teased, “Maxwell is a shite aim and
I
,” he slipped a protective palm upon her belly as if he didn’t want to let go, leaning into her against the stone balustrade, “couldna risk losing. I helped him out.”
Her stomach growled.
“Ye should eat,” he scolded as his beard tickled her forehead. “Ye should rest tonight, instead of making soul cakes with the kitchen maids, aye?” Concern leveled in his eyes as he tilted his head to get a better view of her face.
Peigi looked around for Seamus, avoiding his probing stare. After last night, would Seamus allow her to go souling on the morrow? Was he perchance in his solar, ever-poring over his ledgers and parchments?
“I must, Alex. I promised. I’ve made a vow to these people. How will they ever trust me if I fall short of my promises?”
His jaw hardened at that. Sakes, she hadn’t meant it as a slight, and yet, she pulled away, distress niggling more than her hunger. She
had
to find Seamus—
His hand upon her stomach caged her to him as he bit out, “Then I will escort ye.”
“Seamus might watch me closely, though. He’d object.”
“Seamus is nay even here,” he said. “Left before first light.”
So he’d left
before
breaking his fast? “Where is he?”
Alex shrugged. “He looked fit to travel overland when he rode out.”
Her face paled. “To Edinburgh…”
His brow furrowed. “So soon? I gave him a reprieve until the end of the tourney.”
“Ye did? Why?”
He chewed his cheek harder and toyed with her hair, that uncharacteristic quiet look settling in his gaze again as his brow furrowed. “So as nay to ruin yer marriage. This dowry would have been stripped from ye, right in the middle of this tourney, for he is in arrears to the Crown. He begged me.”
And he was ensuring she retained it. Even if he didn’t win. His home and his birthright.
If he truly is who I think he is.
She shook her head, the pang in her heart too achy to swallow. He would give it up for her. While Seamus was bent on riding to Edinburgh for reinforcements against him, thinking him an outlaw he’d long ago hunted
when lads played games of men, too young to understand the consequences of their anger
. Jossy’s words in the gallery rang true. Those bairns who’d suffered the brunt of fighting grew into the women who were frightened of it, and into men who fought the same games to survive because in sooth, they, too, were frightened.
God, her stubborn brother! She yanked away from Alex and marched up the courtyard stairs. She hurried across the courtyard.
“Peigi, wait…” Alex’s voice hastened behind her.
“Sir Alexander! Come drink with us!” Maxwell boomed, and as she glanced back, she saw Laird Ross waylaying Alex with an arm slung around his neck and a tankard thrust into his hand.
He eyed her with frustration as she dipped through the door and traversed the quiet great hall, stepping over the uneven paver she’d watched countless folk trip on. Her brother should have repaired
that
with all his loans.
She pattered upward, passing the tapestries and causing them to waver, idyllic country scenes, a boy reaping corn with a long scythe in the field, a rustic wedding…
She slowed.
She never paid much mind to tools, but that scythe…
She ran her thumb over the signet on her finger, the etched scythe and lyre. The tiny designs were carved into his tattoo, too.
Slower now, she moved to the next tapestry, paying closer attention to these treasures she’d inherited: a lady playing a lyre while sitting in a colorful orchard of fruits and leaves with a babe at her breast and deer surrounding her like the wood nymph Alex had once likened
her
to.
This orchard… She touched the embroidered shapes of trees and deer. Like the orchard described in the men’s boasting outside. They’d found that fattened stag in an overgrown orchard today. One she didn’t even realize had existed and yet, Alex had known it was there.
These tapestries were the family’s story. Their legacy, not hers. It belonged to the rightful heir, punished
wrongly
so long ago. Those welts across Alex’s back. God, how had he gotten them? If she was right, dare she believe Seamus capable of doing that to a mere boy?
She traced the embroidered shape of the babe in the woman’s arm as her eyes misted. So much strife, this bonny country was embroiled in.
This
was the child who’d run happily through these halls. Up and down these very steps with Joslyn’s son, Aulay.
She dashed up the remainder of the stairs, onto the first floor, and knocked hard upon the laird’s chamber. Seamus didn’t answer. She pulled forth her keys from her girdle and unlocked the door, pushing it open.
“Seamus?”
The chamber was dark. Shutters closed. Hearth banked. She took up a taper and lit it in the torch, shining it into the darkness. Was he perchance…asleep? Nay, the bed was empty, the curtains drawn open.
She exited and moved next door to the solar that Seamus was using as a temporary office. Knocked. Silence. She unlocked it.
It, too, was dark and cold. She shone the candle within, illuminating the desk and sideboard where he kept the castle ledgers for Freuchie. No sign of Seamus.
She moved to his desk and felt the last of her hope wane. His packs—normally stored beside the chair—were gone. He never left on overland journeys without them.
It was as Alex had said. Seamus kenned nay what he was doing! She twirled around to leave when a soft green ribbon caught her eye. The same green as the bit of ribbon that had been tied around a posy atop her lyre. The same ribbon that had been tied about his other missives…
It was attached to an opened note. Addressed to a damning name.
“ Songbird.
”
Her blood ran cold. A missive addressed to her…
“—I’ve been summoned to Edinburgh, to accept the post I’ve vied for and have no choice but to go. I can nay refuse a royal summons. But I’ll be the deputy comptroller to the Lord High Treasurer. I’ll be able to lay down my sword as I vowed to you—”