Page 8 of Outlaw Ever After (Highland Handfasts #3)

A knot of tension uncoiled in Alex’s chest. She came

. Like a fairy queen with her floral crown and slippers dangling from her fingers.

At her approach he fluttered the music and hopped a teasing circle around her.

She giggled at his foolishness. He could swear her posture relaxed upon seeing him.

“Are ye pleased to see me?” he murmured between notes.

“Of course nay,” she teased back, lifting her chin.

He lifted her instrument on her hip, waggling his brows. “ Lyre

.”

“ Mon Dieu

!” She laughed a genuine laugh, belying her typical quietness, then pushed his arm playfully as he dodged her and ducked around her. “Such a da’s jest.”

His grin hitched higher. He…liked the sound of that.

She twirled and tracked him in her deep sapphire gown, slants of light blinking through the trees setting her chestnut locks aglow.

“Ye came.” Relief lilted her remark. “I worried that ye’d be cured of yer interest in me.”

His brow furrowed and he dropped his flute as pink stained her cheeks and she bit her lip.

Something had flustered her.

“What ails ye?” He took up her hand and pressed those knuckles to his lips.

He noticed those fingers didn’t have just callused fingertips, but also tiny cuts and nicks that spoke of a woman unafraid to work.

Cured of his interest in her? Did this lass ken that all eve in the tavern tent, as the bonny wench who’d made sheep’s eyes at him at the spear throw had tried her best to seduce him, he’d only been able to think of her

? Nay wanting to touch the wench for fear it would ruin the draw he felt toward his songbird? A lass who inspired him, a lass whom he had no business consorting with?

She swallowed. “My brother tries to secure a marriage for me this morn.”

What in Christ’s name? “So soon? To whom?” he twisted out in disgust.

She exhaled, revealing a crack in her manicured demeanor. “A man of money and prestige and, oh.” She flitted her hand dismissively. Interesting. She didn’t approve of her brother’s matches? Aye, and she has a brother to take my head if I steal a kiss after all

. “The first contender yesterday has already been twice widowed, once by a woman who bore him eight bairns and the second who bore him five. A religious sort. Carries much clout and yet, smells of stale ale and garlic and I’m certain nay washes his hair frequently,” she said.

He snorted. “Sounds like a boon to sweep ye off yer feet. Ye want the match?”

“Goodness, nay!” She laughed—thank God. He unclenched his hand still holding hers. His fingers traced her ring finger, hers mingling back, lacing in and out of his as if a mindless idle. “I care no’ of riches and lands. Though, if he were reliable and trustworthy, I suppose I could overlook it.”

“How romantic,” he said flatly, gesturing toward the path for her to walk. “He shall sweep ye off yer feet with his predictable dullness.”

She glared at him teasingly as he revolved around her again, trilling a melody on his flute.

“Tell me, what do ye

want,” he added, notching his chin.

He was playing with fire as he walked backward on the path, luring her to him with his song, but she stopped to think.

“A cottage. On a distant shore. Away from prying eyes, from power plays.”

His eyes widened in genuine surprise. His flute drifted down. Because he actually did have something to offer… Why am I thinking of her as if I have a chance with her?

“A village of happy bairns and smiling folk,” she continued. “People who work together, reap their bounties and hardships together.”

“And what of a husband?” His throat sounded rough. He cleared it and took up her hand again, their fingers tracing each other’s.

“Someone… reliable

.” Hmm. He’d expected her to mention titles, or status. But apparently, she wasn’t a vain lass, despite her poise and fine claes.

“Like yer suitor with an army of bairns and two dead wives,” he teased, twisting a tendril about his finger, his voice thickening.

Her cheeks erupted in blush, as she shook her head.

“A wealthy nobleman, then?” he whispered, his fingers lacing with hers now, hers with his.

She shook her head. “All they want are heirs. But they’ll bring enemies and strife to my threshold. A nobleman’s enemies become their spouse’s. I’d give anything

to avoid that for the rest of my life.”

Ah, so she wasn’t satisfied with a boring

man. She was settling

for one.

“So ye came to play music and hide in the woods.”

“Music makes me feel joy when I’m uncertain. I came to settle my heart and make peace with my future.”

“ Yer brother’s

future for ye,” Alex corrected carefully.

She sighed, slippers still dangling and lyre slung about her. She finally acquiesced and leaned into his arm, encircling his bicep as his palm came to lie across it.

“Aye.”

“Why?” His muscle twitched beneath her touch, to be so sweetly handled.

“He’s finally regained his foothold and means to match me whilst he has the clout. But a man’s means are more fleeting than many realize. Property and money are always just one reave away from being stolen—”

Alex was well aware. It was almost as if she was saying she wanted someone with nothing to his name, like… him

. And yet, he wanted

something to his name. Wanted it so badly it tainted every taste, clouded every judgment.

“—I nay want to keep looking over my shoulder for the next attack. I’ll settle for someone predictable. And before I age beyond my prime I—”

“Yer prime

?” Amusement captured Alex’s lips for there was no question she was younger than he, and he, only six and twenty. “How many years have ye, old crone?”

A bashful smile twisted her lips as she looked away and murmured, “Almost three and twenty.”

“ Three and twenty

?”

…

The man gasped like a scandalized dowager and slapped his paw upon his chest, staggering back.

“Ye spinster

, ye.”

She lifted her eyes heavenward, unable to stop shaking her head, another smile fighting for freedom even though she tried to suppress it. Tried to sidestep him—

“Nay move a muscle whilst I fetch yer cane.” He jumped into step with her and offered his elbow. “Would hate for ye to break a hip.”

The laugh she’d been wrestling burst from her throat as she slapped his arm—

He snagged the offending hand, wedging it into the bend of his elbow as they walked.

“Ye strike me? I should see ye punished then,” he taunted.

“And what is my sentence?” He filled her senses with his towering height and herbal patchouli. Sharp and alluring. Like him.

“A lawyer worth his salt wouldst demand the harshest punishment.” He nodded with faux thoughtfulness, his eyes glittering with mischief. “A song from yer sweet lips. Though ’tis nay such a punishment for me.”

“’Twould be if I sing off-pitch and clash my strings.”

He shuddered. “A horror that would kill a man.”

“Sakes, ye’re insufferable!”

He shifted behind her, his chest brushing against her back as his hands settled on each shoulder. She chewed her lip as he leaned around to her other ear. His beard rustling against her tresses. His breath tickled the shell of her ear, raising gooseflesh up her arms.

“I’m just getting started, songbird,” he whispered like a secret, then finished his revolution around her, moving down trail again. “Come.”

“To where?”

He backed up with a cocksure swagger as he clutched his heart, as if about to deliver a soliloquy to his patrons of the arts. “Indulge me.”

At this, he captured her hand and dashed her to the edge of the glen. They jogged along the tree line following the meandering river. Trailblazed through the trees, hopping over roots as she cleared her skirts from her feet.

The path spit them out beyond the tavern tent, where the horses were corralled, and he whistled. “Faunus!”

A leathery Friesian with a crimped mane floating around his face popped his head up.

Faunus? He was a rogue indeed to name his mount after a god of fertility who was known for adoring the nymphs.

He leapt onto the stallion bareback. Then he leaned down, offering his arm, waiting for her to come to him like he had yesterday, and sakes, she was letting him hoist her up, her skirts fanning about them.

Patchouli and Highland heather drifted to her nose as she cinched her arms about his girth, that chilling scythe transecting his back between them.

His belly tightened beneath her touch. She pressed herself against his back, against the shaft of his scythe, his heat foreign, yet comforting.

Why do I trust this ruffian with a blackguard’s twinkle in his eyes?

What was it about the way he’d basked in her song and admitted what it meant to him that sent shivers of a knowing through her blood?

Songbird.

That’s why. The moniker resonated deeply in the heart of the lassie she’d once been.

Had that laddie, from so long ago, survived? Died? The shiver intensified.

He steered Faunus toward the countryside as she tucked her slippers against her stomach. Tapped his heels into the belly of the beast, who took off at a trot. Then a canter!

She gripped him tightly! So high from the ground as they jostled and her lyre banged her side. Goodness, was Faunus seventeen hands? Eighteen

? And she was letting him spirit her away? To where?

This was madness. But with him

, she wasn’t flinching.

…

Over the edge of the glen they went, her arms tightening around him with such trust. He glanced back at her, her tresses tangling on the wind, glossy in the sunshine, her floral wreath bouncing loose upon her head, ready to fling off.

But the brightness in those chestnut eyes, the wide smile on those plush lips, urged him onward.

Down the hill they cantered, Faunus responding to his nudges. Wind whipped the beads dangling from his beard. Faunus’s mane flapped in his face as they breezed over the pink blooms of corncockles, lavender heather, and pillowy blue daisies.

They splashed through the river, and the lass squealed in delight as spray kicked up from Faunus’s fringed hooves.

“I’m all wet, man!” she admonished, bare feet gripping his calves to hold on, like a carefree soul he’d known forever.

Faunus climbed the opposite bank toward the woods and the Kirk of St. Machan nestled into the side of the ridge

, then they dashed along a wooded path behind the kirk and down a steep incline, into a celebratory village. Markets thrived. Luhgnasadh drums throbbed. A bonfire burned.

He pulled back Faunus’s mane. Trotted to a stop

in front of a row of vendors. He dismounted and glanced up at her, the weather-blackened spire atop St. Machan’s bearing the masoned Celtic cross kissing the sky above her.

Cheeks healthy pink. Smile pure and elated. Her tangled hair and sopping skirts in disarray around bare calves. No longer the cultivated lady hiding from the world. More like a spirit, freed from its cage.

He reached up as she slipped her shoes back on. Her hands braced his shoulders as he lifted her down—energy zipped between them. Pinpricks of premonition, the likes of which kept catching him off guard.

Those fickle fae

warbled an old woman’s voice in his heart.

She slid down his front as her instrument banged. Christ, so slight. His hands spanned her waist, and he was wont to hold on a moment longer, wont to taste her bonny lips when he hadn’t kissed a lass since—

He let go and tethered Faunus, willing his racing pulse to slow when she pinged a lyre string by accident. She strummed with more purpose now. Out of tune.

She furrowed her brow. “I havena my hammer to tune it.”

The corner of his mouth hitched up as he took a hand and kissed her knuckles.

“Then I think ye’ll like where I’m taking ye.”

Past vending stalls they hurried, when he peeled back a curtain between carts, and revealed…