“Mind my lasses, Robertson,” Donal said primly. Cormag turned to sweep the lasses a deep bow and toppled. His clansmen hurried to pick him up. They propped him back on the bench, and he grinned. “Roll again.”
This time Davy won and John lost.
Davy’s eyes shone and he chuckled maliciously. “Sword dance. No touching the swords. If ye do, ye lose.”
“We’ve already done that, Davy. Ye lost,” Padraig said.
“He could do it barefoot,” Davy suggested. Donal and Padraig and even Cormag winced at that.
“Pick another challenge, Davy,” Donal said.
Davy considered. “The pipes. Play us a tune on the pipes.” He banged his fist on the table. “Let’s see a Sassenach do that.”
John frowned. He looked at the MacLeod piper, who regarded him balefully and hugged his pipes like a lass for a moment.
“Come on, Alex, lad. Hand them over. No harm will come to them,” Donal said, and the piper came forward.
“Ye’ll not hurt my pipes,” he ordered John.
John looked at the chanter, which was much like his own flute, and removed it from the bag.
He held it in his hands and looked across the room at Gillian. Her hands were still in her lap as she watched him. He played the song about the shepherd and the fairy lass.
The sound was not quite as sweet as it was from his flute, but the notes rose and filled the hall. Soon, everyone was listening. He saw Gillian smile softly as she remembered the last time he’d played this melody, for her, at the farmhouse. She’d sung the words then, and he wondered if she’d rise now, lend her voice to the tune, but she remained among her sisters, silent, her eyes locked on his. He remembered the way it felt to kiss her, to lay her down and love her, how passionate, brave, and determined she was. And shy. Even now she was pink as a rose. He saw her through a haze of love, and the heat of the whisky added to the burn in his heart, the desire to have her by his side now and forever. Wherever life took them, it would be perfect with her, and he’d do whatever he had to do to make her happy, keep her safe, let her know every single day how much he loved her.
As the last notes died away at the end of the song, he caught Padraig Grant wiping away a tear, while Cormag sighed.
John handed the chanter back to the piper, who nodded his approval.
“Does that truly count?” Davy demanded, looking at the MacLeod. “He didn’t play the pipes, now did he? Not really.”
Donal glared at the MacKenzie. “If he’s the last one standing at the end of this, it won’t matter.” He glanced at John. “He did fine as far as I’m concerned.” He put the die in front of John. “Roll.”
This time Cormag lost and Davy won. Davy giggled triumphantly. “Ye’ll carry the biggest man here across the room,” he said.
Cormag folded his arms over his chest. “That’s ye, Davy.” He rose to his feet and began to roll up his sleeves. “Strip off your weapons, MacKenzie, and take off your plaid.”
Davy frowned. “No, thank ye—make it the second biggest man, then.”
But Donal shook his head. “The challenge has been set. Up with ye, MacKenzie.”
Padraig giggled, glassy-eyed, and grinned at Cormag. “He could be stark naked and ye couldn’t do it.”
Cormag grabbed Davy around the waist and heaved, but the big man didn’t budge. He bent and put his shoulder against Davy’s belly and heaved him up. Davy wheezed in surprise, and his long shirt rode up his broad white backside. Cormag grunted, red-faced, bent nearly double as he staggered forward. After half a dozen steps his knees buckled. He toppled, and Davy’s big body landed on top of him. Even when Davy rolled off of him, Cormag didn’t move. Donal rose and bent over him. “He’s alive.” Cormag let out a snore, and Donal grimaced. “He’ll have a sore head tomorrow.”
“You’re out,” Davy said unnecessarily to the unconscious Cormag as he struggled to get up, his legs kicking the air until he found his balance.
Donal frowned at him. “Cover your backside before my daughters and put your plaid back on.”
“Too late!” Padraig crowed. “Now we all know you’re not the biggest man in the room after all, Davy. Ye’re no Duncan.”
Davy launched himself at the Grant laird and knocked him to the floor. When their clansmen separated them, Padraig left the room to throw up, and Davy rose unsteadily to his feet and peered at John. “Roll again.”
But the next roll was a tie, three for each man, and Donal beckoned his clansmen to bring a pair of stools forward. “Ye’ll both stand on them on one foot, with your arms outstretched. Last one to fall wins.”
John felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine and blinked to clear his vision. He was wobbly from drink, but he couldn’t afford to lose a second contest. Davy stood on his stool and grinned at him. “I can do this all night, Sassenach. As I said, I’ve been drinking whisky since I was in nappies. What did ye drink in England? Water? Milk?”
John forced a smile. “Claret. And ale. And brandy, when I got old enough to appreciate it. Rum, too.”
