Page 44 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Reminders snaked through his mind. He’s my sire’s bastard… She always hated James for it. James MacDonald had been reared on injustices, beaten and marginalized by a spiteful stepmother, and had turned into an unyielding man, not so different from himself. Their hardships weren’t the same, but they’d still been hard. James had always had something to prove while Tormund’d always had something to hide, but they’d both learned how to protect their reasons ruthlessly.

Then here was Brighde, the wee peacemaker. As if a sack of coin and a bonny smile could solve their problems.

Niall shook his head and called, “No’ what I meant, lad. Ye ken I stand with ye, and will die fighting for ye. Owen was like a son to me, as are ye. But ye also deserve to be happy, and if she makes ye happy—”

Tormund trotted off, leaving the sheep to Niall and Reaper. With Owen and Marjorie’s killer still on the loose all this time, staining his honor, his happiness didn’t matter, and the future Niall imagined wasn’t possible.

Chapter Thirteen

Day Four – Lughnasadh. The First Corn Cutting

The bodhran beat. The fifer trilled. Brighde spun through the faire as the dancing procession cut a path toward the field of barley to be harvested. Her body, so sore from days of dancing and riding and loving, her skirts of yellow spinning among the colorful splashes of other dresses, her plait twirling about her as loops of grass wreaths swayed upon her arm.

The talon pricked her cleavage. A gift to remember her lover by. She wouldn’t cry for the coming end when they had more time and much to still savor. Wouldn’t worry to where Tormund had gone or when he’d be back, for he’d find her, even though his campsite remained empty from his departing after their excursion yesterday. He’d promised to come for her today, and she believed him.

She passed out a wreath to an excited bairn. Passed out another, as did the other ladies who had woven with her and Lady Rose yesterday evening. She twirled among the melee with her hands reached to the sky, as the chosen warriors and lairds from each clan lumbered behind their colorful fanfare. They crowded between the tight rows of vendors selling trinkets and goods. Scythes, sickles, and pitchforks in hand, shirts removed, the warriors nodded to their people and pounded their bare muscled chests to rally their mettle for the competition.

Per tradition, enemy lairds were paired in efforts to broker truces, forcing them to work together. The pair who cleared the most barley would split the cuttings and keep the winnings, and all of them hoped to be paired with a man of equal strength. All of them were willing to set aside bygones for the chance to fatten their pantries for winter.

Dark eyes passed her as she danced, flashing as she twirled. She stumbled to a stop, unsure of what she’d seen but feeling that tingling of premonition she felt every time he was near. Her gaze settled upon a dark braid. A chiseled jaw flashing a head above the crowd. He slouched over the oilstone beneath the smithy’s tent. That ache within her chest and betwixt her thighs intensified, as if reminding her of the magic he could sow when he connected his body to hers.

And while he seemed to be sharpening his knives, he was watching her, that casual stance with doublet hanging improperly open like the worst sort of rogue, as if he didn’t give one damn about his appearance. Yet hidden beyond the crowd as if embroiled in a task. An outsider looking in. A blackguard tracking his quarry, determined to ruin her.

A hint of a smile ghosted his lips as he returned his attention to the oilstone and the scraping motion he was making, softening the angles of his face, then it was gone. He inspected the edge of a knife, lifting it up to the sunlight that glinted off it. Scraped it again. But a wondrous grin lifted her lips and at this, he looked back at her, as if he’d known she’d smile.

She returned to her dancing, cheeks burning with excitement to know he was watching. She glanced back to catch his expression once more, to try to decipher it, but he was…gone? Perplexed, she turned this way and that. Disappointment threatened to plummet her gut as the procession stopped. She smiled at each excited lassie and lad, giving them the wreaths to throw into the Lughnasadh fire as blessings as they dodged among the adults’ bodies with bits of food on sticks or toys they’d fashioned out of wood and scraps. Wherever her eyes strayed, she saw no trace of him. The longing ache constricted her throat. She smiled through it.

A sheep horn blared from the lips of the royal page. Castle Kilravock loomed behind them in the distance and the colorful flags of each clan snapped in the wind over their camps. The bodhran thrummed a commanding cadence, causing the crowd to hush.

“Hear ye! May yer best warriors or lairds come forth!” called the royal seneschal.

Brighde and the sea of ladies parted, huddled to either side of the opening in the ropes. Through the corridor they formed, the menfolk climbed to the sloping fields where the contest officials stood among the hectares of barley. Every colored tartan swayed as kerchiefs waved. A dull thunder of a herd of muscle rumbled the ground as they passed, making the air smell of sweat and brawn and body heat. Her brother walked near the front, dropping a kiss to Aileana’s hand and palming his unborn bairn as he passed. Other contestants postured toward the front with him, in hopes of being given the best portions of field to clear.

She searched each man who passed, each face, each forearm. No dark eyes and braid. Her hands slid across her belly to worry the beadwork upon her bodice, looking for Tormund, looking for the beautiful patterns on his forearms that she’d traced in the afternoon sun yesterday as they lay in each other’s arms in the countryside, before he brought her back from his village. Finding no trace of him and biting back that disappointment once more—

A callused palm slid around her from behind, covering her hand upon her belly.

Sea breeze and sagebrush filled her nose, as a broad chest came flush with her back and a shadow blocked the sun from her cheek. A face leaned down to her ear, and a finger traced across her exposed throat, hooking the string and pulling so the talon wedged between her breasts slipped free and thumped against her bodice.

“I like the way my favors look upon ye.” Something else slipped into her bodice. Another lavender posy! Sakes, she might swoon at how sweet the gesture was.

She whirled around. Gazed up into beautiful obsidian eyes, warmed with those brown striations, glittering with mischief and doting, even though he wore his typical stern expression. She gripped his cheeks, eyes bouncing between his. He didn’t tense beneath her touch.

“Do ye dare compete today? Yer record isna’ the brightest, nàmhaid,” she teased, surrounded by the celebratory din.

That cocksure smirk lifted the corner of his lips as his eyes twinkled.

“That depends, angel. Do ye compete, too? If so, I may as well forfeit now, for ye’re a ruthless competitor.”

She giggled and he chuckled, revealing that tooth. Now that she thought about it, he didn’t usually smile so big that it showed, as if he kept that tiny imperfection concealed like the rest of him.

“Yer pride is safe this time, demon. Ye have me far bested when it comes to brawn. I can nay wield a scythe for more than a few moments without my arms aching.”

His eyes softened, and she felt a calloused thumb scrape over her cheekbone, examining her, then glancing out at the other warriors. She followed his gaze, landing on James.

“Good. Then it seems the rest of the competition is weak and should be easily trounced.”

She raised her eyes heavenward. He ribbed her brother with that remark.