Page 46

Alisdair exhaled. “Fine. Let us go.”

They went out to the large courtyard, where fiddle music drifted through the air as the sun dipped beneath the hills. The bonfires were already burning high.

Alisdair barely recognized his own courtyard. Tables had been dragged out along with benches. Wooden platters were piled high with pies and smoked fish. Cups and jugs changed hands.

The women were talking and laughing as they set the tables, while children darted between their legs, stealing pies and shrieking in glee. All the farmers from the surrounding crofts had flooded the courtyard, and the villagers had come with baskets filled with goods.

“Ah,” Duncan said, snatching a cup of ale from a passing tray. “This is good.”

What Alisdair felt was not the simple joy of a man ready to join a night of dancing and drink. It was the quieter satisfaction of a laird looking at his people. Something in him settled at the sight of them happy, content, safe, healthy, and well-fed. All the hard work he had put in was worth it.

“Come, me friend.” Duncan clapped him on the shoulder.

Alisdair shook his head and grabbed a cup of ale. His warriors saw him and called him over to toast and tease. Soon, he found himself surrounded by men he had fought alongside.

“Ah!” one of them said. “The Laird is now a married man. He wouldnae compete in the games.”

“Perhaps married life has exhausted him,” another drawled, his cheeks already flushed from the ale.

Alisdair shook his head. “Ye’re one to talk, Ian. Ye willnae be able to lift yer cup, let alone a hammer, if ye keep drinkin’ like that.”

The warriors roared with laughter, and he raised his cup, smiling.

That was when he saw Isla.

She walked into the courtyard with his aunt, wrapped in a deep blue arisaid that somehow made her eyes look even bluer than before. The falcon brooch caught the firelight, and so did the loose braids in her dark hair.

Everything would have been easier if she looked plain.

“Lady MacLeod is here, lads!” someone announced, and the whole courtyard erupted in cheers.

Isla smiled softly at everyone before she was dragged away by a group of women weaving flower wreaths in the corner. Alasdair’s eyes stayed on her the whole way.

Since their outing, they had kept up their shared dinners as agreed, but they rarely spoke of much beyond the day’s duties, letting the long silences fill the rest.

“Isla!” Ewan walked up to her. “Watch me at the run. Will ye cheer for me?”

“Of course,” she responded. She followed him to the open space where the games were being held.

The warriors eventually made their way there, and Alisdair followed. He saw her standing among the other women, cheering for his brother as he took his place at the starting line.

The race started, and Ewan took the lead easily. He was fast on his feet, the swiftest runner of the clan. Isla clapped for him, and the unmarried girls giggled behind their hands as they watched him.

“Maybe I should compete too,” Duncan said.

Then the stone put was announced, and most of the warriors moved forward to take part. Among them was the son of a blacksmith, huge and impressive, who made all the girls swoon. He took the stone and threw it farther away from everyone, and the whole crowd cheered.

Alisdair turned to find Isla clapping, looking impressed. His grip tightened on his cup. Duncan snickered beside him, but Alisdair ignored him. He set his cup aside and moved forward, the crowd parting for him.

When he joined the circle of contestants, the crowd went wild, chanting his name. He went to the heavy river stone and threw one glance at Isla.

She was looking straight at him, an enigmatic look in her eyes. Something between a challenge and surprise. The crowd followed the exchange, some laughing, some whistling.

Alisdair bent, gripped the stone, and heaved it up. Then he threw it with all his might. It sailed through the air, farther than all the others, before landing at the edge of the circle, making the crowd there move back for fear of being hit.

Chaos erupted. Men shouted, women cheered, and children whistled. His warriors surrounded him and slapped him on the back while teasing the blacksmith’s son that no one was a match for the Laird.

But none of it mattered to him, not really. Not the praise, not the cheering. He looked for Isla and found her eyes wide. Then her lips curled into a smile, and she clapped for him.