Page 22 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“Reaping corn?” she questioned, and that rare smile she’d extracted from him last night suddenly tugged at his mouth before he once more scoured it away and Niall and Reaper chuckled.

“Ye laugh at me,” she whined playfully, also chuckling.

“Aye, a wee bit,” he admitted. “More like liberating souls from their earthly flesh.”

Her eyes widened, amusing them further. Niall then stepped up. Bowed his head to her as he took up her hand. “My lady.”

“Meet Sir Niall MacLeod,” Tormund added. “My uncle.” His illegitimate uncle, to be honest, but when one’s list of surviving family members were in so short of supply, one didn’t pigeonhole them into separate niches.

Brighde smiled that friendly smile. Curtsied. “A pleasure to meet ye, sir.”

“Ye’re every bit as bonny as yer sister, lass, and twice as spirited.” And was Niall smiling like an eejit? Of course he was. He always had wanted to find a way to achieve that Peace that Owen had forfeited on his death.

“My sister?” she said, her voice filled with surprise, eyes widening like bright blue platters. “Ye knew her?”

“We all did,” Niall said. “She was much beloved, especially by her husband, who spoiled her with the sun and stars.”

Her eyes flashed to his in confusion. Tormund bristled. Aye, that didn’t fit with what the MacDonalds all thought they knew, when Nykr thrust his snout against her ear, snorting.

Her laughter broke the tension as she shied from the horse but began to stroke him. “It’s clear we’ve been remiss in introductions, my fine stallion.” She rubbed Nykr’s muzzle, his neck arching over her as if he’d claimed her. “Who might ye be, handsome man?” Tormund didn’t mistake how her eyes flashed to his. She thought him handsome? “I saw ye chasing my mare like she was the bonniest thing ye’d ever seen,” she teased on a giggle. “She’s off-limits to ye.” She tapped his muzzle. “No suitors allowed.”

A smile softened Tormund’s face once more at how playful it was. How sweet she was, and he came up behind her to stroke a palm down the other side of Nykr’s neck, over his feathery mane.

“’Tis Nykr.” Nykr continued nudging her with his snout.

“What does his name mean?”

He cleared his throat. “Water horse.”

“Fitting for the Demon of the Seas. Is it also French? I’ve never heard the word.”

Niall eyed him, but Tormund left his question unanswered. It was becoming clear to his men that he knew her somehow, that he’d shared personal things he shouldn’t have. He fixed his stare on his stallion, with Brighde a breath away between them.

“’Tis Norse. The Isles were settled by Norsemen. Ye ken where my mither hailed from, and now ye ken my sire’s roots.”

She turned toward Ghost, a gentle smile warming her lips as she continued to pet Nykr, as if they were all her old friends and nay sitting inked at the top of her brother’s shite list. “And ye are?”

But Ghost spat on the ground, folding his arms so that his leather ties about his arms scrunched up to his elbows, and puffed up his chest. Tormund stepped between them, facing his man, shielding her.

“Ye consorting with the enemy?” Ghost said. Ghost wasn’t so easily charmed and never had been. “Is this yer wench from last night?”

Tormund bristled. Heard Brighde gasp and hated that Ghost had cheapened her to her face. He’d told his men he was visiting the tavern to spy on MacDonald last night and find a skirt who’d suck him off. After months at sea, patrolling his coasts and isles, he’d needed release other than his fist. He’d never bargained for Lady Brighde.

“That’s enough.” His eyes narrowed dangerously on Ghost. “Shove off and wait for me at camp so we can ride out. That’s an order.” To go to the ambush site. “All of ye.”

Tormund’s jaw pumping and nostrils flaring, Ghost backed away, then mounted and cantered away.

“Nay let her brother find out,” Reaper added ominously before Niall motioned for him.

Tormund turned back toward Brighde, who was rubbing Nykr’s snout, starbursts of mortification hot on her cheeks. “Yer man nay likes me.”

“He likes no one, but has good reason, and is one of the most loyal men I’ve ever known.” Still, the angry spitting was unlike Ghost, who normally exacted his revenge in a calculating, quiet way. Like an ambush.

“As do ye nay like anyone,” she said with finality, warily eyeing his knife hilts. Christ. There was no future for them, but she was woefully wrong about him not liking anyone. He couldn’t help but like her. “I’d just thought, after last night, mayhap…” She shook her head, letting the sentiment go on that nervous laugh of hers as her brow knitted with disappointment. “Ye’re leaving the faire?”

“Why would I stay?”

“For me—” She caught herself and looked away. “I’m sorry. Ye owe me nothing.”