Page 46 of Outlaw Ever After

He opened the armoire wide. Old lambskin boots. A stack of neatly-folded tunics, waiting for a gangly laddie of twelve to need them again— The boy never returned for them. A lad’s first great kilt. So proud of ye, son, for now ye wear the garment of yer forefaithers…

He quashed the memory of the deep, rattly voice of a man long dead as he fingered the wool. Red and green, a tightly woven plaid.

The Comyn’s pride—

He shoved the door shut.

“Indeed, she just arrived a fortnight ago, in the care of her brother. He announced last sennight that Freuchie is her dower property, and we are to host a tournament.”

“Her brother designed this farce?”

It made him hate Seamus more.

“She’s been tucked in the gallery ever since, planning the event and reviving many of our traditions like the Communion of the Dead, the Burning Sticks, the Soul Mass cakes… Seems the lady was sick, and finally recovered enough to be engaged,” Joslyn said, helping the maids remake the bed. “Seamus brought her from Iona Abbey.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “What ailed her?”

Folk nay convalesced in an abbey from a mere cough. Peigi looked thinner, he had to admit, despite her damasks and velvets and natural beauty.

“Unsure. She hasna spoken of her time at the abbey. She nay speaks except to greet us all. It’s clear she’s nervous. Hearing her scream for ye was…surprising.”

“Surely she sings, though,” he harrumphed.

“Sing?” Joslyn frowned curiously. “That is the second time someone has lauded her voice. But I’ve nary heard her speak more than a few words strung together, let alone sing . Her sister says she sings when she’s happy, so all I can assume is she is quite the opposite.”

He’d once heard her humming so dreamily, so happily.

Joslyn stood from where she’d been tucking in the blanket and balled her fists upon her hips to scrutinize him. Never good. For when she did, she saw right through the masks he wore.

“She’s the portrait of a lady, to be certain. But something does ail her spirit. I wonder what that is.”

“Nay overthink it, woman,” he harrumphed, attempting to disarm her shrewd assessment.

She waved him off like a pesky fly. But he knew, as Jossy untied the canopy drapes to shake out the curtains, that she hadn’t for one moment abandoned this subject.

“Hmm.” Joslyn chuckled, glancing around. “I regret, mi lai—Sir Alexander, that the bed might be a touch small these days—”

“I’ll make do just fine, Jossy,” he insisted softly, taking her shoulders and slowing her hustle. “No need to fret so. I’ve survived far worse.”

“Jossy… Oh Caleb ,” the woman whispered, a trembling breath, hands wringing each other. “Where did ye go? How did ye escape? We all saw them drag ye away…” She gripped his face as if to feel that he was real.

He winced and grunted.

“Sakes, yer face.” She released him, though there was no mistaking her eyelids reddening. “I’m just…pleased to see Esther’s son has-has beaten such odds, the innocent bairn I once swaddled. Ye’ve grown so. Goodness, look at ye.”

He buried her in his embrace, his throat thickening. “Nay innocent anymore.”

“I’m sorry ye were a victim that day, my sweet laddi—”

“Wheesht,” he gruffed, his own throat aching as he bundled her bones against his chest. “It’s in the past.”

“But the past lays the path to our future.”

Indeed. Memories of that wee lassie and memories of this summer. Unfolding before his future now…

“I’m grown, and I’m here. ’Tis all that matters.”

“Yet a shadow lives in yer heart. I can feel it. Ye carry the royal insignia, and the weapons of a warrior.”