13. Night of Many Changes #5
Casey claps a hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my reverie. His grin stretches ear to ear. “Come now, birthday lass, no hidin’ in the shadows tonight. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”
Before we can step forward, a tall figure blocks our path, arms outstretched as if commanding the attention of everyone gathered.
“That’s a grand idea. Come now!” My father’s voice booms, louder than necessary, echoing over the laughter and music.
“I believe the guest of honour must sing the laird of this land one song.”
“What song?” I ask, feigning ignorance, though I know exactly where this is heading.
“Tartan Troubles, my wee lass,” he announces, a playful glint in his eyes.
“Da, please don’t make me,” I protest half-heartedly.
“Ach now, who else but me brought ye into this world?” He puffs out his chest, mock pride writ large across his face, like a cockerel strutting through the yard.
“I believe Ma did most of the work. Wouldn’t you agree?” I shoot back, trying to suppress a grin.
My mother, standing behind him, lets out a gentle laugh. She gives me a conspiratorial wink, but still sides with my father. “Casey, fetch the bodhran for us, aye?”
“Me? Why do I have to do it?” Casey protests, but the laughter in his tone is unmistakable.
“Ach, jus do what yer mother says!” My father replies, hands on his hips, a playful challenge in his eyes.
“Ye’re only backin’ her because—oh, nevermind.” With a loud huff, he complies, drawing chuckles from those nearest to us.
Callan snickers from his position, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
“Ye as well, Callan!” My father husks, pointing at him with mock authority.
“Not really a two-person task…” he trails off when he catches Ma’s pointed look. Callan sighs dramatically, heading off together with Casey.
“You’re going to make me the laughingstock of the evening, Da.”
He roars, his eyes twinkling. “Nae such thing, lass! Ye’re the star of the show tonight, and it’s time ye show them what ye’re made of.”
Bran cuts in then, his grin devilish. “I would love to perform alongside you, if that’s all right, Triona.”
“You know it?” I ask, surprised.
Bran’s grin widens. “My father owns the pub in the village, and he owned one back home. Doesn’t take but a handful of times hearing it to pick it up. ”
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?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay ,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
Lach wandered the village, his arse in the breeze,
Hands hidin’ his pride as he shook at the knees.
He shouted, “My kilt! It’s gone far an’ wide,
If ye see it flappin’, please tell it to bide!”
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
He checked wi’ the barkeep as he came into sight,
“Was I wearin’ my kilt when I left ye last night?”
He laughed till he cried, and he started to say,
“As ye slept in the bushes, the wind took it away!”
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
He ran to the pub where the ceilidh was loud,
But all that he found was a mocking wee crowd,
“If ye want yer kilt back, there’s no’ need to cry,
Ye’ll just need to jump up and reach for the sky!”
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
They hung it up high on the tavern’s tall beam,
And Lach had to jump, wi’ a wobble and scream.
But each time he’d leap wi’ a huff and a shout,
His kilt fluttered higher and the crowd would cheer out!
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
At last, dear Lach, with a desperate heav e
Caught hold of his kilt, then he started to leave.
He threw it back on with a grunt and a spin,
And vowed he’d no’ drink so much ever again!
“Oh, where’s my kilt? Oh, where could it be?
I had it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low, but to my dismay,
My kilt up and vanished at the break o’ day!”
Now Lach wears his kilt wi’ a belt o’ strong leather,
And ties it on tight in all kinds o’ weather.
So shed not a tear for the skin he was showin’,
For the lasses come flocking, bright smiles a glowin’.
“Oh, there’s my kilt, right where it should be
I lost it last night after pint number three!
I searched high and low and found it at last,
And thanks to misfortune, I’m no longer chaste!”
As the last verse rings out, I can’t help but laugh as the crowd’s cheers ring in my ears. Performing with Casey and Bran feels as if I’m reclaiming a piece of my childhood—a moment of unbridled joy. This is a memory I’ll hold on to forever.
Others take the position around the fire to play their own music once more, allowing us a moment of reprieve.
Couples spin and twirl, creating a whirlwind of flashing kilts and skirts, stomping boots, and the rhythmic claps of dancers mingling with the lively tunes that fill the space. The firelight flickers off the stone walls, casting golden hues on faces flushed from joy and whiskey.
Casey gives Bran a playful shove, both of them laughing, getting along as if they’ve known one another for years. It warms my heart to see how easily Bran has fit in.
I am still soaking in all the sights and sounds when I feel a presence approach me from the side. He steps into my line of sight, exuding a confidence that borders on intoxicating.
“Triona,” he begins, his voice a velvety timbre that wraps around my name like a caress. The way it’s said sends a flutter through me. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier.”
His gaze holds mine with a smouldering intensity that sends a flush creeping up my neck. I nod for him to continue.
He sighs, a slow, deliberate sound, his fingers brushing the back of his neck in a gesture so casual yet irresistibly magnetic.
When his eyes meet mine again, they smoulder with a heat that feels both dangerous and enthralling.
“I said things to your brother… out of frustration. I did it knowing it would upset him.”
I arch a brow, intrigued despite myself. “Is that so?”
He nods, a roguish glint sparking in his eyes. “Quite so. Show me a man who would not bristle at the intrusion upon a moment shared with the woman who commands his heart.”