“Now I must ken what ye said.”
“I might have said, ‘All I want is an ale and a willing wench’ while ma family and I were in the stables. Then I might have also said, ‘I wouldnae mind that one’ as Cerys walked by. I didna think she would hear me.”
“Ye didna?”
“Aye, Óg. She wasna too impressed with me at first. As handsome as she kenned I was, she thought me a wee bossy when I took issue with her leaving the keep at night without a guard. I understood she was helping someone, but I might have been a wee heavy-handed.”
“She must have liked ye well enough to talk to ye more than once.” Magnus waggled his eyebrows.
“That she does.” Magnus watched Blake’s gaze soften as it followed Cerys across the bailey until she was out of sight. A pang of envy surged through him. He wondered if he would ever find someone who softened his warrior heart as much as Cerys had Blake’s. He’d escaped a marriage destined to fail, so he’d known it wouldn’t have happened if he’d followed that path.
Magnus Mòr walked over to the trio. “Are ye going to stand around clishmaclavering, or are ye going to train? Blake, ye’re with me.”
“I already challenged Óg, Da.”
Mòr’s eyebrows rose as he fought to suppress his smile. His son was battle tested and skilled, but he didn’t have Óg’s years of experience. Mòr nodded and stepped back. The two men took their positions as they studied one another. They went on the attack, their swords clashing and the sound of steel ringing in their ears. Óg knew Mòr watched him as much as he did his son. While Óg trained with all the Sinclair warriors when he’d fostered there, Mòr had been his mentor. He could see the same training coming through Blake’s strategy. It soon became a battle of strength, since they could read each other’s intentions like they were their own.
Sweat poured from both men’s foreheads, and their leines soon stuck to their chests and backs, the sleeves strained over the bulging muscles. Each time the swords met, the force from Blake’s swing reverberated through Óg’s arms and down his spine. He hadn’t expected how much strength he would need to wield to hold his own against the younger man. This wasn’t the boy he remembered. It ended in a draw when both men wound up on their arses, the force of their swords pushing against their opponent sending them sailing.
“I told ye, ye would wind up on yer arse.”
“Aye, and I have a bonnie wife to tend to ma bruises. Ye have—a salve?” Blake came to his feet as Óg rose to his. Both men walked to the water barrel, each grabbing a ladle. First drinking from it, then pouring water over their heads.
“Ye still talk as much shite as ye did when ye barely came to ma chest.” Magnus bumped his shoulder against Blake’s. The sense of alienation Magnus felt the night before slipped away. He felt at home on the training field. He’d spent countless hours on the grassy expanse. He knew every dip and rut, every worn patch of dirt. There were still times when the Mackenzie keep felt more like a place to lay his head, but the Sinclair keep felt like home.
“Ye remembered everything I taught ye.” Mòr joined the pair.
“He isnae that auld that his memory fails him. He’s still younger than ye, Da.” Blake teased. Both Magnuses filled a ladle and dumped it over Blake. “It’s something aboot the name.”
The trio returned to the sparring warriors and found new partners. It still fascinated Magnus to watch the Sinclair brothers partner while Liam called out instructions. Even in their forties, the four men listened to their father’s corrections. It began with the same partners as always: Callum and Alex, and Tavish and the older Magnus. It was a choreographed battle that was never quite the same. Intuition seemed to tell the men when to switch. Callum and Mòr paired, while Tavish and Alex dueled. A few minutes later, it shifted again. Callum and Tavish, while Alex and Mòr battled. It was awe-inspiring when Liam joined the mix, rotating between the pairs as an opponent while the brothers defended together.
“It never gets auld, does it?” Blake watched while standing beside Magnus Óg.
“Nay, it doesnae. But I think ye, Torquil, Thormud, and Tate will soon be like that.”
Alex was the only one to have no sons. But he doted on his daughters Saoirse, Mirren, and Nessa. A man couldn’t be prouder of his children, and the entire clan valued women as much as they did any man. Thinking about that made Magnus wonder where Saoirse was.
Ye need to be rid of those thoughts. Naught will come of it except disappointment and trouble.
The men took their midday meal in the lists and didn’t return to the keep until the evening meal. Magnus found himself seated among the male cousins as they teased one another about the day’s training and planned a hunting party the next day.
* * *
Saoirse spent the day tending to four sick village children. They’d all eaten berries they shouldn’t have, and their bellies punished them worse than their mothers. She’d ministered to them as she gave them medicinals to flush their systems from both ends. It wasn’t a part of her job that she relished. But, the families were grateful by evening when their children appeared no worse for wear.
When she returned to the keep, she felt filthy and exhausted. Two of the four were worse than the others, and she’d feared for their lives since they were the smallest and had eaten the most. She retired to the chamber she shared with her sisters and welcomed the bath her mother ordered. She was washing her hair when her sisters entered.
“Did ye hear aboot Óg and Blake today?”
Saoirse looked over her shoulder as Nessa spoke, but she realized her sister spoke to Mirren.
“Aye. Apparently, a lot of the men stopped to watch. From what I heard, Uncle Magnus watched them like a new father, beaming at them both. At least until they knocked each other down. Tate said Uncle Magnus was grinning one moment, the next, back to being the surly warrior Da and our uncles always are.”
“They’re nae surly,” Saoirse said as she rose from the tub. She giggled as Mirren handed her a towel. “They’re foreboding.” She deepened her voice for the last word. Her sisters joined in her giggles. Nessa was four years younger than Saoirse, and Mirren was seven years younger than her. At eighteen and fifteen, Saoirse knew the girls still had a tendency toward silliness, but she also knew they noticed the lads. She waited to see if either of them commented on Magnus.
“I dinna remember Óg being so handsome,” Mirren observed. And there it was. Saoirse kept her whisky-hued eyes down while she dried herself. She knew every single woman in the clan over the age of two-and-ten noticed him last night. It embarrassed her how jealous she was, and it disappointed her when she thought he was betrothed. She wanted to know why he sounded so relieved that it fell through. She wondered if he had a sweetheart at home that he preferred. She knew he’d watched her as he answered her aunt’s questions.
“What do ye think, Saoirse?” Nessa handed her a comb to run through her tresses.
