Chapter 27
On the afternoon of the day before the cèilidh, Alex watched from the tower. He stood with his arms folded, weight set into the stone terrace, eye fixed on the slope by the giant fences.
Below, Erica sat in the grass with Bettie and Katie. Three heads bent together over a braid of flowers. She laughed at something the girls said, light and unguarded. The sound did not carry, but he felt it tug at something in his chest anyway.
Calum’s tread was easy to recognize. He stopped beside him and rested his hands on the wall.
“Ye are early to watch,” he noted.
“I am counting the guards,” Alex answered.
“Aye,” Calum said. “And the flowers.”
Silence fell between them, and at that moment, nothing could be heard except the whistle of the gentle wind.
Alex kept his gaze on the slope. “Tell me I am making a mistake. Tell me there is something I am nae seeing with Erica.”
Calum let out a slow breath. “I have ken ye since we were lads, me Laird. Ye ken I’ll always tell ye when ye are making a mistake.”
Alex turned to him at last.
“And I ken this,” Calum said. “Whatever yer heart chooses, it chooses. If it is a mistake, ye will be the only one who learns that.”
Below, Erica tipped her face to the sun. Bettie looped a ribbon around her wrist and tied it clumsily. Erica left it as it was. She did not look up.
Alex set his palms flat on the stone to quell the urge to move. “We will keep the extra patrols,” he said.
“Aye,” Calum said. “We already have.”
Alex nodded and forced his gaze back to the walk along the north wall. “Good. Now isnae the time to slack,” he said. “Especially with the cèilidh upon us. Be sure to watch very closely.”
“I will,” Calum said. He did not move. “And mind yerself, me Laird.”
Alex did not answer. He watched until the girls tugged Erica to her feet and pulled her toward the kitchen door. When the castle swallowed them, he exhaled.
The cèilidh arrived just as quickly the next day.
The hall swelled and thinned like the sea as fiddles ran quickly. Erica stood in the doorway and let the press wash over her. She felt the music push against her ribs and the floor steady beneath her shoes. Someone nearby laughed, and another person shouted for another reel.
She tried to let all these distractions steady her. It was the only way she could properly announce the decision she had made overnight to Alex.
It was now or never.
Taking another breath, she stepped inside.
Bettie and Katie shot past with their hands full of ribbons and a crust of sugared bread. They circled her and ran off again.
Erica studied Grandmamma, who attended to guests, then exhaled and made herself smile and kept walking.
She found Alex near the far wall of the Great Hall. He watched the floor and the door in the same breath. The line of his jaw was set. The cup in his hand was full. He looked like a man who had come to the edge of a field and could not step in.
Erica stopped in front of him. Her heart beat too fast for the words to come smoothly, so she swallowed over and over before informing him of her decision.
“Erica,” he greeted, his voice low but inquisitive.
“I am done, Alex,” she stated.
“What?”
“I am done fighting,” she repeated in the same tone.
His head snapped up at once. Surprise flashed across his face.
“I will marry ye. White wedding and all.”
His good eye widened.
“If ye wish,” she continued, as steadily as she could, “ye can turn this cèilidh into a handfasting.”
The words left her and took a weight with them. Her chest felt light and strange, as if her breath had gone thin. She waited for sound to crash back over them. It did not. The music went on the same as before.
Alex stared at her. He did not close the space between them. He did not speak. She saw the conflict in his eye and knew she could not help him. Not here. Not now.
Behind them, a cheer rose for a turn well danced. Her hands felt too warm. She laced her fingers to keep them still.
“This is what ye wanted,” she said, softer now. “I agree to yer plan. Love is nothing when me life is at stake.”
He blinked once, slowly. The cup in his hand did not move.
“Well,” she said, and heard the plea she had not meant to voice. She kept her chin up anyway. “Are ye going to say something or nae?”
Alex felt the hall lean toward them. The pipes thinned, and the drum lost its beat. He opened his mouth and found no clear answer. He had wanted this, and the wanting had turned him cautious.
“We can speak of it—”
The doors at the far end swung wide, cutting him off. His eyes snapped up, and he watched as Laird MacGee entered with a hat in hand and a smile clipped neatly at the corners.
MacGee moved like a man who had practiced being small. He bowed to the room, to the music, to the guests, then to Alex.
“Me apologies for the delay,” he said. “I wouldnae miss a celebration like this.”
Erica went still beside Alex. He felt the tremor in her breath, though she had not moved.
“Please excuse me,” she said.
She stepped back, then turned into the crowd, quick and quiet.
A prickle ran along Alex’s neck as he watched her slip between a line of dancers and vanish behind a belt of men near the side doors. He turned back to MacGee, catching the bandage that still covered his arm from where he had struck him.
MacGee filled the space with polite noise. “A fine hall. Warm fire. Good music. I must commend yer hospitality, Laird MacMillan. I have long admired—”
“Mingle with the people, MacGee. We will talk later.”
With that, Alex disappeared into the crowd.
For the next thirty minutes, he thought of following Erica, but for some reason, he did not. If she had come to this decision, the last thing she needed was him smothering her. The best thing to do was play this close.
Later, as the cèilidh settled into a smooth rhythm, MacGee found him again.
“I must say, Laird MacMillan, what ye have managed to do with the—”
“Ye can relax,” Alex said, his voice flat. “We ken what ye have been doing since Erica came here.”
MacGee blinked once, the practiced smile freezing on his face. “I beg yer pardon?”
“Yer note,” Alex said. “We saw it. Ye arenae as clever as ye think.”
The smile thinned. “Aye, so ye read me letter. I didnae mean any harm by it. I just wanted Erica to ken what is going on regarding the search for her faither and braither.”
“Nae that one,” Alex cut in. “The one ye sent to her in the market.”
Color drained from MacGee’s face. “I never sent her a note in the market.”
The space between them suddenly tightened. Around them, the reel faltered. A fiddler missed a string. Two guests slowed down, heads bent as if to catch a better sound.
“Is this a joke?” Alex asked, shifting his stance.
“What are ye saying?” MacGee asked, careful now. “The only letter I sent was sealed and delivered here. To the castle, nae the market.”
Alex’s certainty cracked across the grain. He had seen the threat. He had felt the shape of it. If MacGee had not sent the note, then who had, and from where?
“Then who—”
Before he could finish speaking, a maid rushed in from the side passage, breathless, eyes wide. She dipped into a curtsy that was more a fall. “Me Laird, forgive the interruption. We cannae find Lady Erica.”
The music died down.
Alex turned. “What do ye mean, ye cannae find her?”
“She said she was going to check on the children,” the maid blurted. “We cannae find her or the children.”