Page 49 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS LATER
MacColla leaned easily against the wall, studying the room around him. People clapped and stomped in time to the music. Flickering torchlight exaggerated their smiles, their movements. The smell of fresh ale and stew filled the air. It was a good night.
He looked down at his wife by his side. Haley was past fifty now, but she was as gorgeous and formidable a creature as she’d been on the day they met. He smiled at the memory of her feral leap from Campbell’s castle into the night.
“I may never have seen the full of my clan lands restored,” he told her, hugging her close, “but I’ve seen you dance with our son at his wedding, and that’s a rare privilege indeed.”
He pulled her tight to him and planted an exuberant kiss on that lovely mouth. The kiss softened. Deepened.
MacColla marveled how, with a single kiss, she was still able to make him crave her with the keenness of a lad.
He brought his hand to stroke tenderly down her neck, desperate to edge his touch just a little lower. He’d been enjoying the company of his friends just a moment before, but now all he wanted was for everyone to be gone from there so he could ravage his wife in peace.
“Hands off my mother, old man.” He felt his wife’s mouth smile under his. Felt his son clap him hard on his shoulder. “Come on now. Coll had his dance with mum and now it’s my turn.”
MacColla pulled reluctantly from his wife, trying his best to scowl at his youngest, but failing. It was those damned gray eyes. Both their sons were handsome, but Archie had inherited his mother’s eyes, and it made it impossible to argue with the boy.
“Shall we, Archibald?” Haley formally raised her hand for their son to take.
She looked back to give him a wink as Archie escorted her onto the floor.
MacColla watched them dance. He spotted Coll on the floor too, taking a turn with his bonny new bride. He knew his wife missed her family desperately, and her brothers especially. He knew it didn’t take away her pain, but he’d been happy to give her two of her own boys.
He studied them. Their sons might have their mother’s looks, but he also saw himself in them, saw what he’d taught them about honor and strength and courage, and it made MacColla’s chest swell with such joyful pride.
A father and his sons.
He may not have gotten Campbell, but MacColla’s legacy was so much greater than that.
Which isn’t to say he hadn’t relished Campbell’s demise. The man’s power vanished along with his money, and twelve years had passed since his beheading.
MacColla brought his tankard to his lips and drank deep to the memory of it.
He thought again of sons and fathers. At the end of his life, Campbell’s fear of his own son had grown so great, he’d sequestered himself in his own castle.
Until he was put in the Tower and sentenced to death by Charles II. His crime had been agitating against King Charles I. A son meting justice for his father.
Jean caught MacColla’s eye from across the room. His sister looked like an old woman now, her black hair faded white, but she still held tight to her Scrymgeour’s hand, sitting as attentively by her side as he ever did.
Though MacColla and Haley had chosen to raise their children in relative seclusion in Ireland, Jean’s daughters had spent summers playing with his sons, and it pleased him.
“They’re getting ready to play your song.” Haley had snuck up beside him, her dance through.
“Och . . .” MacColla glowered, listening to the musicians start to play one of Iain Lom’s odes to him. He took another deep pull of his ale to cleanse the taste from his throat. “I hate those.”
“You can’t fault them.” Haley paused to listen. “You put courage into the hearts of Gaels, husband.”
“You sound like one of those accursed poems.”
She only smiled brightly, swaying to the tune.
Alasdair, son of handsome Colla, Skilled hand at sundering castles, You routed the gray-skinned Lowlanders: And if they drank kale soup you knocked it out them.
She leaned up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “Maybe we can get Iain Lom to pen something about the mysterious Dark Knight. You know, something like, “A knight in dark armor is come to avenge, so that Clan MacDonald may reap their revenge.”
“You’ve had too much ale, leannan .”
She giggled as he smacked her on the behind.
Haley stared up at him a moment, her face growing serious.
In their life together, he’d seen her wear gowns and fire guns. And she’d been as beautiful to him in velvet and finery as she’d been fighting with her corset busk.
She’d bathed their babes then seen them into lads, offering scoldings and kisses both, always there with love and comfort. And now MacColla and Haley stood together, realizing how their sons had become men grown.
Though she still had much black in her hair, it was twined with gray, mirroring those bottomless gray and black eyes.
Eyes that he’d watched, countless times, grow dark with passion.
Laugh with him. Fill with tears. Brighten at the sight of him.
And MacColla thought her the most exquisite woman who’d ever lived.
“Aw, hell, MacColla,” she whispered. “Just kiss me.”