Page 36 of Outlaw Ever After

“Winner takes all. The castle, lands, and the Lady Margaret.”

Alexander froze.

Margaret? Since when was there a Margaret Grant?

“Who is she to Seamus Grant?”

“Why, his sister. Only just arrived a fortnight ago. The castle is her dowry.”

He’d only ever seen two sisters mentioned when reviewing Seamus’s charter. A Peigi and an Aileana. And now, his birthright was on the auction block to whoever won this event?

It mattered nay. Seamus was about to be stripped of this before it could be given as anyone’s dowry, and then he, Alexander Stewart, was at the top of the list of candidates to assume lairdship—

“Margaret , ye say?” He couldn’t let it go.

Christ… Could it be her ?

The lad nodded. “Seems her kin call her Lady Peigi, though.”

Peigi, pearl …indeed such was a moniker for Margaret. Blood racing, tinged with budding anger, he needed to see her for himself. Could it be the lass who’d once promised to elope with him? Now promising herself to someone else instead?

He flicked Thomas a coin. Thomas caught it, his eyes rounding. “’Tis…gold , mi laird!”

Alexander grinned, ignoring the term laird . “Of course it’s gold.” He leaned down as he passed by the child, taking in his strawberry blond hair—a strong clan trait—and murmured, “I bet the other lairds only gave ye coppers, eh?”

The lad giggled. “Sir MacGregor didna give me anything .”

Kendrew MacGregor was here? The MacGregors and the Grants had always been attached at the hip.

“The man is cheap, make no mistake.” He winked and tousled the lad’s head.

“That way, mi laird.” The lad beamed, leading Faunus into the stables.

Alexander knew the way. It had been years, but he knew these paths like the veins on the back of his hand.

He climbed the steps to the courtyard. Would anyone recognize him? Or had all of his father’s loyal servants been slain or removed? Would they keep silent if they did?

Guards opened the doors for him. Din from the hall blared. He lumbered beneath the archway draped in corn dolls, carved turnips, and dried forget-me-nots. Harvest smells floated on the air, the glow of firelight wavering yellow in the approaching doorway, beckoning him to a fate he felt swirling around him like a divination.

“Shake the apples, my lady!” ladies squealed with delight.

Apples clunked around a pot. “Dump them out!” Their voices echoed through the hall.

Rounding beneath heraldic banners wavering above, he entered the hall. Guests filled the narrow space from wall to wall with chatter, brightly colored tunics or gowns. Goblets clinked as a man scrawled his name upon a parchment at the registration table where the devil himself stood—Seamus Grant—lining his coffers with other people’s coin.

Staff flurried to and fro in a chorus of aprons and léines, when an old woman glanced his way absentmindedly, faltered to a stop, catching the empty goblets that began to tumble from her basin on her hip. She whipped back to him…

Was that Jossy ? Joslyn! The village midwife and the castle’s headwoman!

A grin split his face wide for the first time in three months. Wanting to rush to her and sweep her around in his arms, he didn’t dare do so. Her eyes widened as recognition dawned, before he tapped a finger surreptitiously over his lips. She returned to her task, glancing his way as she tended to other guests.

He passed through the tourney contestants filling the trestle tables, imbibing endless flows of ale and eating from platters laden with roasted pig, pheasant, saffron-seasoned roots and legumes, piles of fresh blackberries ripened to juicy perfection. Men preened, grasping wrists, pretending to be comrades, when they were about to become competitors.

He pushed through the bodies to glimpse the prize on the dais.

“…can nay believe she’s bringing so much to the table…” Lairds and nobles salivated, kilts of every color.

“…A boon for me when I win—”