And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could break down the barriers between them.
Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.
“What happens now back at the castle?” Kendra asked.
“Adraidgie,” Niall said. “Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment.”
“More merriment?” She looked incredulous.
“To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side.”
She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.
Still, they were both surprised at Niall’s next words to Trick.
“Are you ready for a good fight?”
Forty-One
NIALL STOMPEDinto the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.
The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.
He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. “It’s a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!” And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.
Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.
Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross’s shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.
She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.
He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.
“Men,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. “I’ll never understand them.”
“You want mine?” another woman asked.
A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.
Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. “Could you believe that?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Me, neither. I’ve never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?” He paused for a satisfying breath. “I was angry. I’ve been angry since I got here. I didn’t want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—”
“But you discovered a brother.”
He rolled right over that. “It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing.”
With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth.
“Are you hurting?” she asked.
“Not enough to care.” As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then, as he opened his mouth, the warm, sweet slickness that she was learning to think of as Trick.
Her hands went around him, sliding beneath the folds of his plaid to feel the planes of his back under his fine lawn shirt. He leaned into her, and she felt the clear evidence of his arousal through her skirts and the kilt. The kilt with nothing underneath.
