Page 27 of Outlaw Ever After

“To where do ye run so disheveled?” a villager teased as clusters paused in their chatter and dancers stopped to stare.

Alex called, “To the kirk! To take my lady to wife!”

Cheers lifted for them. “Blessed Lughnasadh!” Tankards raised. “Bring yer bonny bride back for a dance around the fire!” they called as Margaret beamed up at him.

He chuckled, mounting up and hoisting her up behind him. They scarce could breathe as they climbed the opposite path through the pine trees and finally, around to the base of the stairs that climbed to the kirk, dismounting. Horse hooves thundered close below, but he couldn’t see the approaching rider.

That distant bell tolling across the glen hadn’t ceased, filling the air with clanging, calling out the start of a contest.

Chapter Eight

Alexander pulled her up the stairs embedded in the cliffside, climbing toward the Celtic cross, a lopsided smile on his lips as their gazes connected over his shoulder.

Her legs ached and her hair was a disaster and yet, she’d never felt more energized! Her brother was going to be furious. And worried when she returned disheveled from loving and dancing and celebrating, a married woman! Seamus would want blood.

But Seamus often lost sight of the softer side of things. While kind with his wife and sisters, life had hardened his heart within a permanent coat of armor.

The bells continued to toll across the glen. She pattered up the steps when a horseman burst over the horizon onto the path.

Peigi cried out, startled off balance.

Alexander pulled her behind him as he flicked loose the scythe across his back and snapped around. Fear sliced through her as he spun it into his grip.

She’d seen this transformation time and again on Seamus when he was called to arms and the warrior in him took charge.

“Who is it?” she begged.

“Wheesht,” he hushed, squeezing her hip as her hands tightened on his arm in a death grip.

A man leapt off the back of a lathered mount, skidding to a halt.

“Reaper,” he barked, skin battle-scarred, his dark hair and beard streaked with gray. “I thought I saw ye ride this way. Make haste.”

“Reaper?” she breathed as her brow furrowed.

What did they mean by Reaper ? As in, the Reaper? The master liberator of souls? Who delivered damned souls beyond the veil?

He relaxed his posture and turned to her. Cupped her cheek as if to ease her worry.

“Just a battle name, lass.”

She shook her head. Sakes, all knew the folklore about the Reaper. The name alone was cause to run in the other direction, for reapers were the pale death, the usherer into the afterlife with their scythes…

She stared at the scythe in his hand. He hadn’t earned that nickname by living a gentle life. Was his name really Alexander?

Had she given herself to the worst sort of blackguard?

“I’m the same man.” He took up her hands as if a plea, kissing each set of knuckles. Rested his forehead to hers. “I want that life, I swear it.”

She nodded uncertainly. Of course she already knew he was a warrior worth his salt. He’d never denied it. But Reaper ? A deadly reputation…

“The new employ?” she questioned.

He nodded eagerly. “I’ve been appointed.” He drew his scroll out of his satchel and shook it for emphasis. “Any day now I am to meet with the archbishop to declare my acceptance. I want that life with ye, I swear it.”

He walked her back down the steps they’d climbed to face the newcomer.

The rider’s obsidian eyes fixed on her. They narrowed in curiosity on her disheveled hair. The flower in her hand.