Page 45 of Outlaw Ever After

A country wedding.

Up they spiraled as he took in the next tapestry, the maids following quietly behind them and the din growing distant: the lady playing a lyre in a cloistered orchard, enveloped in folds of finery, blossoming branches surrounding her.

The babe at the woman’s breast. Me .

The layman stood upon the next weaving, styled a baron! Dressed in a puffy doublet and hose receiving the keys of Castle Freuchie, a prize for once alerting the king to danger…

The visual feast rippled solemnity through him. Home . He’d dashed past this story of how his family had established themselves time and again, brimming with much imagination and not enough appreciation for his own good.

That draft washed over him again. A chill shivered down his spine.

“Those fickle fae ,” Joslyn muttered as if spirits floated overhead. He smiled at the forgotten familiarity of her words. “Whose fates do they play with now?”

Chapter Fourteen

Ghosts of the past whispered as he ascended to the first floor, then the second, housing the guest chambers. They approached the winding stairs at the end of the corridor that led to the third floor beneath the gallery.

“Continue, mi laird,” Joslyn said under her breath, head bowing in deference, gesturing for him to go first. “The guest chambers are filled, but there is one other nay in use.”

“The laird’s chamber is the other way,” he quipped, as the maids snickered behind him.

“I nay think Seamus Grant is inclined to share his bed with ye.” Joslyn winked.

They spiraled even higher, the narrow passage having seemed larger as a lad but in truth too narrow for his shoulders and the steps barely wide enough for a toe hold. The third-floor corridor was dark; only the light from Joslyn’s taper wavered a halo around them.

He stopped at a familiar door. She smiled softly as she pushed it open in homecoming.

It creaked into darkness. A waft of must met his nose. And yet, it smelled of a scent so familiar he fought the sensation of being overwrought.

How a smell could transport a soul back in time.

He stepped into the darkness. Watched the taper streak a path across the flooring, revealing flashes of cobwebs, an armoire, a toy chest, a bairn-sized bed beneath a four-posted canopy of carved wood draped in proud…Comyn tartan.

He cleared roughness from his throat as Joslyn secured the taper in a holder, swishing away more cobwebs.

“This chamber has nay been touched. I would have thought Seamus would have ransacked the lot of it.” For some reason though, Seamus hadn’t .

Joslyn set the maids about dragging the blankets and pillows off the bed in a plume of dust that stirred sneezes from their chests. They threw the tapestry aside and the window-shutters wide to beat them out. A cold draft rushed in.

“The rumor is that Lady Grant—Seamus and Lady Peigi’s mither—insisted that Seamus keep it as it was and leave us to our salvaging. The strife was much, but she came to stay with us for a spell and kenned we grieved. She gentled him… But Seamus was grieving, too, for his sire was also slain that day,” she added. “I wonder if he still is.”

What the hell did Alexander care of Seamus-bloody-Grant’s grief? It was strange to hear a conquered people refer to their conqueror with any degree of affection. And gentled him, Alex’s arse.

“Me shoulder, still bleeding, mind ye,” he rolled it out, “begs to argue Seamus’s particular brand of gentleness.”

She hurried to the sideboard where an ewer and basin sat. Rummaged in the cabinet for more candles and lit them, securing them in the candelabra upon the mantel. The years had been kind to her. Her hair was grayer, her wrinkles well earned, but she was fed, groomed, and well in spirits.

“I’m glad to see ye hale,” he said. “Glad to see most of my faither’s folk were allowed to live.”

“For a moment, I feared I’d be witnessing yer execution. But thanks to the Lady Peigi, there was no need to worry. Much like her mither, I sense she is: perceptive, though she’s still fresh here.” At this, her eyes flashed to his. “Ye seem familiar with her. And she, protective of ye, that scream…”

“Fresh?” He ignored Joslyn’s other remark. “When did she arrive?”

Alexander propped his satchel and scythe—begrudgingly returned to him—against the bedstand.

He opened the toy chest and rummaged within, withdrawing a…dusty toy shield hand-painted with the crest of a scythe. He steeled the thumping organ in his chest and felt the stick horse, once fashioned for a laddie as a Christmastide gift, the leather around its muzzle brittle and cracking from lack of oiling. He could still imagine the feel of the handle in his grip. He felt other familiar board jeus and trifles. The crumhorn his mother had taught him to play rested beside them, along with other instruments.

To the far wall was an armoire. He dared to move to it as the maids continued thwacking dust from the bedding.