Page 72 of Outlaw Ever After

“Come see me before the sennight is through and I’ll take up the hem so ye no longer trip upon it.”

“Ye mustna fret so, mi lady. Especially if it’s only borrowing.”

Peigi waved her off. “I’m happy to do so. When I told ye it was yers, I meant for keeps.”

Amid Francine’s rambling thanks, Peigi smiled at the kitchen workers uncertain glances.

There were only two exits: one leading to the herb garden behind the castle, and one leading to the main corridor.

She slipped past the bunches of onions and carrots hanging from the rafters, past the wavering heat of the ovens glowing orange in the wall, and swept her skirts aside to descend the steps toward the side door, the weight of the basket more than she’d first anticipated. Hoisting the door open by its metal ring, she—

Smacked into a wall of muscle.

Her basket slipped, breads threatening to tumble as the lid fell off and she wobbled. Broad hands snagged her arm to steady her.

She flinched at the unexpected touch—

The hands released her as if she’d bitten them.

“Christ.” A curse gruffed onto the air as Alexander caught the basket and brought it back to her hip.

She blinked up as the dog trotted down the steps behind her.

Alex raked a hand through his tresses hanging loose over the shaved undersides, the other braced to the doorway beside her, the afternoon sunlight haloing him like a god.

How did he ken I’d come this way?

His eyes darted down to hers. Stormy oceans of green lapped with white caps of fury. Then his hand rose to cup her face, hesitated, then clenched into a fist and dropped, denying her his touch.

A growl raked up his throat. “I could kill the whoreson who taught ye to flinch.”

He’d be shedding blood for a long time. She collected herself and adjusted the basket. He braced his other hand on the other side of the frame, caging her there.

“From whom are ye running, lass? Me?”

From the past , her conscience whispered, as his eyes searched hers.

“Ye mean, to where am I going,” she said. “I’ve an errand to run.”

“Liar .”

Her gaze shot up to him at his accusation and arched brow. The basket of bread faltered at her hip.

“Ye were spooked.”

“It’s nay a lie. The ladies teased me, ’tis all. The villagers celebrate the Communion of the Dead with fresh bread and it’s tradition—”

“There are serving lads to do such labor. Nay only that, but pay them a coin to do it? Ye’ll have their undying fealty.”

“I wanted to reestablish the traditions my sire slayed—” She bit her lip, shame staining her cheeks. She finally exhaled. “I’ve inherited this responsibility out of a past forged in conquest. How else will I ever grow trust with people who’ve been so hurt by my kin?”

It felt good to let slip a taste of the past. She was so used to hiding it and letting it fester in the shadows.

“Mistress Joslyn told me it’s tradition for the lady of the castle to deliver them.”

“Aye, but for the Laird Comyn’s wife—” He cut himself off as silence hung in the kitchen, the burn of the servants’ rapt attention boring into her back and hanging heavy in the air. What he’d meant was it wasn’t a job for a Grant .

She furrowed her brow. Felt his eyes dip to the lip she nibbled. How would he know that?