Page 43 of Outlaw Ever After

Peigi swirled away to order the water, aching to take refuge from their hateful stares, as the maids’ whispers followed her retreat.

“…I canna believe what Seamus Grant did…”

“…his eye. Sakes, that knife…”

“…that bastard…”

Slipping into the corridor to the kitchen, she finally exhaled and turned around. The wolfhound pattered behind her like a loyal lady’s maid and she peered from the shadows. From here, she could simply look at him, as she idly scratched the dog’s head.

Betrayed by him or not, now that she was seeing him again, there was no denying how charming he still was. He jested with the horde of maids and Mistress Joslyn as if they were all fond friends, though he looked thinner, new thought lines having tightened his brow. He looked older. Tamer, even as he waggled his eyebrows at the maids.

And that devastating grin. How seeing it ached, because it was no longer meant for her.

His eyes darted toward the darkened corridor as if he could see her. She pulled back.

“I always listen to the shadows. That’s where the danger lurks…”

What had happened for him to leave her empty-handed? Did she dare tell him what had happened to her?

Chapter Thirteen

“As I live and breathe…” warbled that voice as din consumed the hall. He turned his good eye to the old woman, and a genuine smile split his lip, breaking through the dam of his brooding thoughts. “I’d recognize those eyes anywhere. Yer sire’s green ones if there ever was. Seeing ye walk through the portico was like seeing yer da returned from the grave, for ye look the spitting image—”

“Jossy…” Never had he thought he’d see her again. He’d assumed by now, age would have claimed her. “Careful ye nay put a target on me back with yer doting. I’m already toying with fire, as ye can see.”

“Ye always were, laddie, always were. Yer name starts with C ,” Joslyn murmured. “And it seems as if our new ladyship saw a Samhain ghost tonight. Or mayhap ye just did.”

A draft rippled through the hall, flickering the torches. Joslyn had always been perceptive.

“Quite an entrance ye made, son.”

“I aim to entertain.”

“Hmph ,” she grunted at his jest. Yet her hands trembled with barely contained worry she played off with a lift of her eyes to heaven. “Listen to ye, calling me pet names as if the warrior before me was still a laddie begging for sweets.”

“Seamus can rot, and so can his sisters…” grumbled a maid, snagging his attention.

“We can nay believe it’s ye, mi laird,” breathed another, trying to be surreptitious. This one was familiar to him as they swarmed around him. Francine ? Aulay’s sister? He grinned. She’d only been five and ten years when he’d been dragged from these lands. “’Twas good of ye, Sir, eh, Alexander, to protect her so from her brother’s blade,” she added on a curtsy.

“I would nay have,” retorted another as she set a tankard upright, pouring ale and placing it into his hand. “I’d have let him finish her. One less Grant’s arse to wipe…”

He pulled back from the maid dabbing his face at her remark, glaring up at her. Seamus, in his rage, had nearly killed Marg—Peigi. And that flinch when Seamus had wrenched her from his protection a moment ago? When she’d clung to him as if she still needed him? Alex was angry, aye, but what had possessed him to snap so acerbically at her?

His eyes darted toward the corridor to the kitchen, where Peigi had disappeared. Those tears of pure hurt. The way her face had paled. Her accusations, as if she’d nay believed his missive to wait another sennight… Her terrified screams had been otherworldly.

Shame slammed him now as the maids continued shaming Marg—Peigi beneath their breaths, lamenting Seamus drawing his knife, even if MacGregor’s accusation had started the beating. That wasn’t lost on Alex, either.

But why did they hate her ?

What in Christ’s name had he just done? Entering a bride tournament to win back the very castle he was here to investigate, along with the hand of a woman who hadn’t even waited for him? A tournament that turned this sacred time of year into a cheap spectacle? A castle he could very well be granted as one of the Earl of Arran’s top contenders? But the thought of Marg—Peigi , dammit, married to another, even when it was clear she’d rejected him, still burned.

When her face had paled just now, he’d seen trepidation in her eyes.

She was doing this tournament. But she didn’t like it.

Christ’s bones.

He raked fingers through his hair, ripping more strands loose. This was a conflicting interest and as a decorated lawyer from King’s College with a specialty in contracts, he knew that whilst what he was doing wasn’t illegal, it was definitely unprincipled.