Page 5 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)
His gaze lifted to her again and softened as the muscles in his forearm twitched beneath her fingers.
Then he glanced over his shoulder toward the sunlight as if that were the route to heaven.
At his back. He chuckled darkly and stared toward the shadows of the woods instead, but aye, she could tell the question wasn’t one he’d been prepared for.
“Nay matters.” He shrugged. “I was orphaned young. My da”—that jaw of his ticked beneath the ears, gritted, a subtle tell—“thought he and my maw barren for years, so I was ‘the blessing they’d always prayed for.’” He tacked on that cocksure smile for good measure but this time, his jesting fell flat.
“He was the lifeblood of our people, bringing everyone together at the hearth. He indulged my every whim, forced tutors upon me,” he huffed a laugh, “with hopes of sending me to university. He came from a meager life and wanted me to be the first in my family to…”
“And did ye?” she prompted as his words trailed off into some distant thought that judging by his furrowed brow, he didn’t
want to be thinking on.
“Did I what?”
“Go to university?”
He nodded once. “Aye. To lay down my sword in favor of a pen. And I just received notice that my bid for employ to the Lord High Treasurer has been accepted.”
“That’s wonderful!” Peigi beamed. He wishes to lay down his sword?
Her ears were piqued now.
He shrugged. “A layman must work to pay his fees, unlike the sons of peers. ’Twas harder to come by the tutor fees.”
“And so ye worked?” She eyed his ink stains, on what were clearly battle-roughened hands. A dichotomy she wanted to understand.
“It took me twice as long, but it turns out I can wield a weapon with as much skill as a quill and get paid for it.”
He was a warrior still, and wariness tingled, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it, for he’d spoken of a reave with disdain, just as he had of his skill wielding weapons.
“Ye nay see yerself as that blessing?”
He laughed wryly and plucked up a seed stalk, blowing the fluffy specks onto the air to swirl about them. Then flicked the stem away, hitched up his grin, and brought his flute to his lips. He fluttered a popular reel. She’d struck a nerve, for he was changing the subject.
She brushed a tendril over her ear. Felt his gaze track her finger as he refrained the lead in, enticing her to play. She relented. Perhaps the topic of dead parents was too much for him. She understood better than anyone how music could soothe a soul.
She strummed the notes, the tinging resonating in the air. The lively music cleansed the heaviness that had descended between them. His gaze bounced back and forth between hers, dipping down to her fingers as he nodded to her rhythm.
“Thars a lass in Inverness, sing oh sing me laddies
…” she trilled. “Chestnut hair and skin so fair, sing oh sing me laddies…”
His eyes roved over her hair and skin, riveted to her, as if he’d picked this song for her. His lips pursed seductively on the flute as those ink-stained fingers pressed and released the holes, puffing the airy sound as his boot tapped the rhythm.
“Lips of gold if truth be told, sing oh sing me laddies…”
Something welled in her chest as the lyrics progressed. As his mischievous gaze trained upon her
lips. As if they played with fire.
“Steal a kiss and twirl the miss, sing oh sing me laddies…”
She sang the verses, the words a flirt, her cheeks pink, the man of the song taking a lass as his own, until the last verse… He dropped his flute, flung his arms wide, and bellowed with her:
“Till her brother doth said, I’ll take yer head! Run oh run, ye laddie!”
They burst into laughter, her cupping her stomach and throwing back her head as her mystery rogue flopped onto his back, deep guffaws puffing from him in rich, delicious waves.
“Such a rogue got what he deserved,” she giggled.
He lolled his head in the grass toward her as if they always lazed together on sunny days, his braided beard flopping beside him, his happiness disarming as his laughter settled.
He dragged her knuckles to his lips and planted a carefree kiss to them.
His lips lingered there. As if he had a right to.
He deposited her hand upon his chest and took up her other—
Energy zapped! Burned her skin! Whispers swirled around her as he froze, as if he could feel it, too. His heart thumped a riotous cadence, belying his smolder that spoke of a smooth lover as his fingers caressed her calluses, as he eyed them curiously.
“Christ, there’s something about ye,” he gruffed. “Are ye, my chestnut-haired songbird, going to set a brother upon me to take me head?”
The handhold felt good, even if a strange darkness niggled at the way he’d referenced taking a head.
As if it were nothing, when once she’d lived beneath her brother’s lust for such vengeance.
She’d oft seen Seamus brooding when he thought no one watched, staring at that horrid depiction of a skull, and knew he was remembering the day their father had died.
She plucked up the man’s beard, twined it about her finger contemplatively as his warm breath caressed her skin. Her hand burned to ashes in his tender touch. The faint scent of his patchouli soap drifted, so close—
“Where did yer smile go?” he asked, his brow riveted.
She dropped his beard and cupped her cheek. Looked away in embarrassment. What on earth was she doing, touching him so?
She made to stand and fumbled her lyre—
“ Stay
,” he blurted out, bolting to his feet and capturing her hand again—
A yelp burst from her lips as she snapped her wrist away and fell to her rear, scrambling back.