Page 138 of Outlaw Ever After

Alex smiled up at him.

“As I lay on Yule Night, alone in my longing…” Distant singing could be heard rolling up the slope from the waters, muffled by the heavy snow lying in drifts against the willow fence.

“They’re coming!” called Peigi, leaning out a window.

He glanced up to see his songbird’s happy eyes dancing with excitement and her hair, braided over her crown like a country maiden, glowing more auburn today with the hearth fire crackling behind her in a welcoming glow.

The sweet scents of cinnamon and cloves wafted from the window straight to his nose.

“My songbird has been busy this morn, I can smell!” he called, cupping his hand around his mouth.

“Indeed, Gertie and I have just withdrawn the final tray of apple tarts!”

“Does mi lady need me to sample them and ensure they’re nay poisoned before we partake?” He waggled his brow in jest, his stomach always hopeful for whatever she baked, even as she threatened to rap his knuckles for sneaking morsels.

And these days, his waggle always earned him a giggle. He loved that he’d worked so bloody hard for it.

She laughed and shook her head as the apple of his eye climbed atop her stool and poked her head above the sill in front of her maw, ginger-blond waves and bright green eyes wide as she wiggled her fingers in a wave.

“Sakes, man, ye’re insufferable. Aye, come hither then.”

He chuckled and stood upright, rubbing the twinge that resided in his back from when he’d almost missed this all, almost succumbed to the whispering of the sidh . He smiled. For it was a reminder to fight for what really mattered, not only when it mattered, but every day.

Moving around the cradle on the worktable strewn with tools, he banked the lantern, setting aside his sander. He dusted his hands and lumbered to his wife through the pathway he’d shoveled this morn. They’d only arrived from Freuchie the day before.

“And how are my bonny lasses?” he asked, cradling Esther’s wee head and pressing a kiss to it. Then his hand slipped across Peigi’s belly to pat the tiny bump he loved to play his flute to and kiss at night and as they lay skin to skin… He dusted a kiss to his woman’s lips.

“Yer lasses are ready for cousins.”

“And Niall?” He arched a brow.

She sighed. “The babe sleeps soundly, as is normal for him this time of day.”

Caleb harrumphed. “So he can be awake at the witching hour, playing with his untucked feet and demanding his mither’s breast,” he grumbled as she laughed about their almost one-year old son, named after the man who had once taken in a frightened boy of twelve and helped him survive.

Wee Niall had just been weaned a few months prior and was still protesting the decision.

The wassailing was growing louder.

“Uncl Sham is binging tweat!” Esther squealed and bounced on her stool.

Caleb’s hand slipped through the window to steady her as he bestowed a doting smile on his daughter, and he quickly took in Peigi’s humors to ensure she felt fine.

“Indeed, Uncle Seamus is bringing treats,” Peigi said.

“Do ye need to rest?” he murmured. “Need me to finish the cider for ye or knead the dough for the morrow? Have ye eaten this afternoon? Wish me to warm the morning stew for ye?”

“Sakes, man, nay fret so over me.” She blushed, her words exasperated but her lips a soft smile just for him.

She insisted she was fine, as she had while carrying every bairn. She was so strong, so resilient, and yet, he’d never unsee how fragile she’d been carrying Alexander. He would never vanquish from his mind her pale collapse, or the knot of dread it had pitted in his gut. Blessedly with their fourth child, she was quite the opposite of sick, and often he saw her nibbling on fruits or pastry when she rested between tasks or sat at her writing desk, poring over the book of songs she was writing for their babes entitled Music of the Greenwood .

She lifted a fresh tart to his mouth and Caleb sank his teeth into bliss as he moaned his pleasure, and grinned as she brushed the pastry flecks dusting onto his beard.

“The Laird Comyn has been hard at work as weel, I see.” She glanced to his craft through the open workshop door.

Alex, having stopped to frolic in a snow drift, joined them at the prospect of food.

“Have ye helped yer faither weel, darling?” she asked the boy.