Page 28 of Outlaw Ever After

The afeared yellow of the MacLeod tartan was draped upon him. “Ye take a leman, lad? She’s no mere wench.”

Embarrassment burned. She stepped back, but Alexander pulled her into his hold and snagged up her hand. Showed off the ring.

“Watch yerself, uncle,” he rumbled menacingly, vibrating against her ear. “I take a wife .”

She dipped her head to hide her burning cheeks, but spied the MacLeod man’s brows shooting up to the heavens, reduced to silence.

Then he raked a hand through his hair. “Aw hell, Reaper. I nay kenned. I must drag ye away.” The man composed himself. “The laird competes in the corn cutting and has just been paired with the man who wants him dead.”

…

Shite. Shite!

Tormund had been paired with James MacDonald? MacLeod and MacDonald were fierce enemies. They couldn’t be paired together unless the point of the competition was to see who could spill the most blood. They would murder each other on the barley field.

Alex tallied his weapons. Swords were surrendered at arrival to the festival in the name of a truce. But he carried a list of daggers and of course, his scythe.

Two dirks sheathed at each hip.

His sgian dubh in his boot.

His bullock dagger at his waist.

An achlais beneath each arm.

Two rib slitters up each wrist guard.

And yet, he…hesitated. Glanced to his songbird, then to Niall, then to her again.

Christ, that flinch at Niall’s arrival. Those reaves. They’d taken a toll on her. The way her face had paled when Niall had called him Reaper, as if she was second-guessing her decision. He encompassed her in his arms. He’d just made a promise to lay down his sword. But he was still in service to Tormund until he resigned for Edinburgh. He hated the uncertainty he saw brimming in her eyes. Hated that at the first test of his promise to her, he was failing her expectation.

“What’s wrong, son? Make haste!” Niall urged, brooking no argument.

…

Son? Uncle? They must be affectionate names for there was no way by looking at these two men that they were any more related than Peigi was to the Queen of Spain.

Peigi watched Alexander. A hesitation on his lips. A quandary warring on his brow. Go with his man, or stay with her?

“Lass, I owe the MacLeods my life. I canna leave the laird in his time of need. His enemy will draw blood unless it can be dissuaded. Can ye understand, lass?”

Fretting her lip, he pulled it free of her teeth and planted a hard kiss to her lips. She pulled back and palmed his chest, warring with a choice, before forcing a smile.

“Ye must return.” She pushed him back. He need not waste time placating her if blood was to be spilled.

And yet… She glanced back at the kirk once more, disappointment and a niggle of worry worming its way into her skin.

“We will return, lass,” Alexander assured her, gripping her cheek and nape and giving her a resolute squeeze as if desperate for her to believe him. He dipped his eyes to hers. “I will leave ye word in our greenwood, aye?”

She tamped down her unease. He’d said he wished to lay down his sword. But a warrior’s blood always itched to fight. Is this how it would always be with him? It wasn’t what he’d just promised her.

“He’ll be back,” the other man affirmed, something resolute in his expression that put her at a moment’s ease. He winked and nodded toward her hand. “He’d nay offer ye his mither’s ring lightly.”

What? Her gaze shot up to Alexander’s. His mother’s?

He softened and rested his forehead to hers, petting back her hair. “I’m sorry. But my promise is my vow, I swear it.”

She nodded. He launched himself up onto Faunus’s back as the bells tolled and reached down for her hand.