Page 64 of Outlaw Ever After

Alex shrugged innocently. “What? When I was a laddie, we always played the Burning Sticks in our birthday claes.”

Chuckles rumbled through the crowd.

“And got our arses fried,” Aulay muttered beneath his breath.

Alex coughed at the jest. Hard.

“Haud yer wheesht, ye bawbag,” Alex murmured, only inciting Aulay to chuckle harder.

Hell, it had been good to drink with him last night. It was as if he’d picked up where he’d left off so long ago. He’d missed these folk, even if the bitter years had torn a rip in the fabric of their kinship. If only Aulay had known what had happened to his sire’s skull, but the villagers, and Jossy—nobody knew to where it had vanished. Every year on Soul Mass, they prayed for his entrapped soul.

“Bawbags got fried, too,” Aulay quipped.

A laugh burst up Alex’s throat and he quickly cleared it with a pound to his chest. Blast it, but Aulay was going to give him away. He’d done so time and again when they’d been bairns, lined up for a tongue-lashing from the head cook for stealing pears.

He sauntered out onto the pitch.

“Good luck, eejit,” Aulay whispered at his back. “Rules! Three burning sticks must strike ye true!” he announced before Alex could retaliate. “First man to be struck three times loses! The winner draws their next opponent! At the blow of my horn!”

Graham sized him up as MacGregor patted him on the back and said something in his ear. The two men shared a silent glance, when they both finally nodded. Ah, was MacGregor conspiring something?

Alex’s mouth tipped up. Child’s play, these two.

The horn blasted.

Graham strode forth. Alex cocked his head and considered Graham, who bounced on his toes and rolled out his shoulders.

The man is nervous. He inspected each of Graham’s tells.

Good. A nervous man erred.

Alex slipped free a rib slitter and picked his nails casually, then stalked a slow circle around Graham, putting him further on edge. Graham might have muscles as soft as pudding, no longer boasting youth, but Alex knew better than to leave himself disarmed of his wits.

Muscle fought battles, but wit always won them.

All spectators faded. All fury at Peigi’s predicament and Seamus for cornering him this morning vanished. He had reasons to win. It wasn’t just for his reluctant songbird who’d stitched his coat like a wife would do for her man as a matter of principle . He had a chance to set free his sire of this curse that had held his soul captive for so long. He had his people’s support to win back his birthright.

Graham dashed for the fire. Alex continued prowling around him as Graham gathered up burning sticks. Graham threw one quickly. The fire bounced off Alex’s chest, singeing him.

The crowd cried out.

Peigi gasped.

His eyes darted sidelong, her hands over her mouth and she leaned forward in her chair as exclamations resonated through the throngs, for he’d made no effort to move.

He winked at her and she sat back, composing herself, as if she didn’t care.

“Strike one!” shouted Aulay, grinning at him. “For shame, Sir Alexander!”

Alex bit his thumb at Aulay, who stifled a grin at the insult.

He kept prowling his circle. Slow, steady—

Graham threw another. Alex inched in front of it, letting it bounce off him. The burn welted his skin. He welcomed the sizzle.

Again, another gasp, but none so clear to him as Peigi’s.

He glanced to Peigi and this time, his lips quirked. “Careful, Lady Peigi, or I might think ye worry for me!”