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Bran’s grin widens further, all effortless charm and wicked intent. His eyes spark with mischief, the kind that makes trouble look inviting.
By the gods, he’s unfairly handsome. Not that I’d ever admit it to him—his ego’s already unbearable—but I can see why people are drawn to him. The charm, the wit, the devil-may-care grin—it’s a dangerous combination.
“Fine,” I sigh dramatically, a teasing smile on my lips. “But none of that funny business you’re always on about.”
Bran raises his pinkie finger to me, eyes gleaming. “I swear, only serious business tonight.”
I stare blankly at his hand
He wiggles his finger expectantly. “Go on.”
I arch a brow. “Bran, what am I to do with that?”
With a grin, he grabs my pinky with his. “It’s called a pinky promise. You wrap your pinky around mine, then you lean and seal it with a kiss.”
I chuckle. “Is this an American thing?”
“Are you really going to leave me hanging?”
I laugh, but oblige to his playful demands.
“There you go! I knew you were my favourite for a reason!”
There’s a twinkle in Bran’s eye when he meets my gaze again. “In honesty, I can sense your affections are otherwise engaged elsewhere. So, I promise to be on my best behaviour with you.” He winks.
I blink, momentarily thrown. I can’t form the right words to respond.
Casey stomps up, fiddle in hand, his excitement bubbling over. Callan follows behind, holding our grandfather’s bodhran.
“Are you joinin’ in?” Casey asks, brows raised with a mix of curiosity and concern. “You sound worse than a wounded hound, if I recall correctly.”
Callan’s eyes narrow, and he responds curtly, “Even if I could sing, ye should ken by now that I’m not a trained dog like my two younger siblings.”
Casey scoffs, crossing his arms. “Aye, because ye’re far too dignified for a bit of fun, aren’t ye, Cal?” He smirks, eyes glinting with mischief. “These folks would throw silver to see ye try a reel without lookin’ like a bear that just woke up from hibernation—angry, clumsy, and in desperate need of a bath.”
Callan levels him with a pointed look, unimpressed. “Eejit.”
Casey grins, completely unfazed, before looking down at me with a spark of challenge in his eyes. “All right, Triona, let’s give ‘em a performance they’ll never forget!”
Bran hums thoughtfully beside me, and I glance toward Casey. “Bran is joining in alongside us,” I say, watching as flared excitement flashes in Casey’s eyes before he coolly masks it.
He tilts his head, feigning nonchalance. “Aye? And can he play anything worth hearin’?”
Bran smirks, stepping forward with an easy swagger. Without a word, he suavely plucks the fiddle from Casey’s hands, giving it a quick, effortless tune before tossing a wink my way. “Why don’t we find out?”
My father claps his hands together. “All right, ye lot! In close now. Ye’re in for a treat!”
As the first notes rise into the air, a spark of energy surges through me, lifting my heart with the rhythm. The world fades, leaving only the music and the fire it stirs within me.
Oh, Lachlan MacDougal, a bonnie Scots lad,
Strolled into the tavern, finest kilt he was clad.
He danced on the tables, not givin’ a care,
When he woke the next morning, his kilt was not there!
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
