Chapter Two
The crowd gathered around Torquil MacGregor swayed to the music as he strummed his lute with practiced ease.
There was no need to concentrate. The notes came to him easily.
He could lose himself in his music. The song was one he played often—at almost every gathering he attended, and it always seemed to be a crowd favorite.
He took pride in that. Kenning that something he had created entertained so many people.
He had written the song a few years afore.
Surprisingly, the melody had come to him in a rush, so quickly he had to fumble for ink and parchment to scribble it down afore it left him.
A storm had raged outside. The wind whipped the trees outside his window ferociously, thrashing the branches against the shutters as thunder boomed so loudly it shook the rafters of his quaint home.
The song was about the volatility of relationships.
Not that Torquil had ever experienced the feeling himself, but he had seen plenty of courtships disintegrate into disaster.
Enough so, that he understood the ever-churning storm of emotions.
The end result was a solemn tune that built up into a crashing crescendo.
Only he kenned the true meaning of the tune, but every crowd he had ever performed it for, enjoyed it.
But it wasn’t the crowd that interested him at this moment.
Nay. He thought to the performance he had witnessed moments afore he took to the stage.
The bonny lassie fiddling with adept fingers, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.
Her long, chestnut hair, woven into a thick plait that had loosened, allowing tendrils to break free and dance around her face as she played.
Most of the onlookers danced along happily, but there were those whose looks dripped with disdain.
Though the lass appeared to ignore them as she played softly at first, her music emoting a devastating rawness that he had never heard in any song afore.
At least not one so skillfully done. Not even in his own volatile-driven song had he ever felt he’d delivered so much raw emotion. Though that was always his hope.
The lass had drawn Torquil in, pulling him away from the conversation he had been having with Evander, his older brother, and commanding he approach the stage. He drew closer, step by mesmerized step.
Her talent in playing the fiddle was unmatched to any person he had listened to afore. He was intoxicated by the sound. By the movement.
By her.
She was tempting, sultry, with smoldering eyes that matched the flames of the bonfire erected nearby.
And when their eyes had met, it was as if lightning had struck him right there in the spot he stood watching her. A jolt such as he had never experienced.
He searched for the lass that had disappeared quick as a flash once she had finished her song. She had moved so fast, he had lost her in the crowd.
The crowd.
He should be engaging them, but the lass had him so intrigued, she consumed his mind, making him forget he was performing for others.
His eyes scanned the people until his gaze locked on hers once again.
There.
She was on the edge of the clearing, standing near the trees, watching him in much the same way he had watched her. Even from here, he could see the snide looks thrown her way. He could see the hands covering mouths as they whispered and gossiped about the lass.
She noticed, too.
He could tell in the way she broke eye contact with him to look at the others, her brown brows drawing down.
But she didn’t cower. He smirked as he watched her transform into a vision of strength.
The lass straightened her shoulders, jutted her chin out in defiance, and crossed her arms, afore locking her eyes with his once again.
Her composure was something to be commended.
Torquil dipped his head slightly and smiled in her direction.
He noticed a few village folk in the crowd acknowledge who he was smiling to and they nodded, jabbing their friend’s ribs with an elbow, and gesturing betwixt he and the lass.
Some men narrowed their eyes as they watched his movements, their mouths thin lines.
Mayhap they realized he was a MacGregor.
He was sure there were MacGregor enemies in attendance.
The village was unaffiliated. Men, women, and children from all clans had arrived to take part in the celebration.
Even so, one would be daft to start a fight here.
Torquil paid the men no mind and played louder in response. His own rebellion.
He had no interest in fighting or warfare. That was for lairds and warriors. For people like his cousin, who was laird of clan MacGregor, or his brother, who was his cousin’s man-at-arms. His brother savored the fight. Lived for it.
Torquil did not. He thought it was a waste of time and life. Too many good men died in the name of fighting for someone else’s idea of what was needed for the clan.
He’d much rather entertain those around him, no matter what clan they did or did not swear fealty to.
The lass had stepped from the shadows of the trees and closer to the stage. Did she feel the same effect he had when he had watched her play earlier?
She was watching his hands strum the strings of his lute with the sharp eyes of a musician. Watching his fingers.
She lifted her eyes, and their gazes clashed together once again. No words needed to be spoken betwixt them. They had an unspoken understanding. Torquil could not explain it. He didn’t ken the lass’s name, however, he felt like he kenned her. Understood her.
He had never been so enthralled by someone.
He finished his song, and when she clapped her hands, he offered her a barely perceptible nod.
Respectful, but challenging. How he would love a collaboration betwixt them.
With her fiddle and beautiful voice, and his lute, and surprisingly deep baritone, their harmonies would be decadent.
He could imagine them together, wandering the country, playing as an unexpected duo.
It would be divine.
With a final look, she pressed her lips together, and walked away. Slowly, he noticed, as she looked at him over her slender shoulder. So slow, it was almost as if she wanted to be followed.
“What got into ye at the end of yer song, brother?” Evander clapped Torquil on the back, drawing his attention away from the fleeing lass. “Ye made some villagers stop mid-conversation and watch ye. ’Twas impressive, I must say.”
Torquil shook his head and chuckled. “Just giving the crowd a good show. ’Twas what they came for, was it no’?”
Evander narrowed his eyes. “Aye. But I have seen ye perform that song hundreds of times. Ne’er once have ye ended it with such passion.”
“Passion?” Torquil barked out a laugh. “’Tis that what ye heard?”
His brother shrugged. “Call it what ye will, brother. Ye ken ’twas out of the norm of how ye usually play.
” Evander lowered his voice and leaned in closer.
“The villagers have been friendly, but I noticed a few warriors from other clans looking suspicious. ’Tis possible they may have fighting on their mind. ”
Torquil sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Ye believe that e’eryone that isnae patting yer back and sharing a tankard of ale with ye wants to fight ye. I dinnae ken how ye live like that.” Torquil shook his head.
Evander met his eyes, his look serious. “’Tis how I keep ye, me, and our clan safe. Ye always need to be on guard for those that dinnae have yer best interests in sight.”
“We are at a ceilidh, Torquil stressed. “In a village. One that is no’ sworn to any of the surrounding clans, including ours. Why would anyone want to disturb the peace of the night?”
Evander harrumphed. “That we ken of.” His brother pushed a hand through his long hair. “Ye truly dinnae have a fighting bone in yer body, Torquil. ’Tis good that ye are a musician.”
They made their way to the area where long tables and benches had been set up and each took a seat. Within moments a young serving wench appeared with mugs and a pitcher of ale.
She smiled shyly at Torquil as she poured the ale and handed him the mug.
“I enjoyed yer performance o’ermuch.” Her voice was soft and her cheeks flamed as she offered the compliment.
“Thank ye,” he grinned, and he and Evander clanked their mugs together afore taking long pulls of the ale.
The lass dipped into a curtsy and left.
“She is sweet on ye,” Evander said, gesturing with his hand holding the mug to the retreating lass.
“Please, she is much too young.”
“Aye, but she doesnae realize that.”
Torquil shook his head and took another sip of ale.
Across from him, Evander cleared his throat, drawing his attention.
Torquil raised an eyebrow in question.
“Say whate’er ’tis ye want to say. ’Tis clearly eating at yer innards.”
“I saw ye watching the fiddler lass.”
Torquil kept his face neutral, careful not to show any reaction to his brother. Evander would pick up on it and would rib him endlessly. “She was quite talented. I noticed many people stopped and listened.”
His brother squinted, nodding his head. “Aye. Do ye ken who she is?”
Torquil frowned. “Nay. I have ne’er laid eyes upon the lass afore today.”
“Take heed and keep it that way. She is one of the Hart daughters.”
Outwardly, Torquil remained calm. Inwardly, a knot formed in his stomach. “Is that so?”
“Aye. Her brothers are here, along with her parents. Laird and Lady Hart.”
“I ken verra weel who her parents are, brother.”
Evander stood, stretching his back. “’Twas just a quick reminder lest ye forget.” He walked away, leaving Torquil alone with his thoughts.
Forbidden thoughts.
He kenned of the Harts. All of the MacGregor’s did.
They weren’t sworn enemies, but there was no love lost betwixt the two clans.
Torquil tried to stay out of clan politics, but everyone was aware of the accusations thrown at each side.
First it was cattle raids. Then horse raids.
Then the Hart’s storehouses had been emptied of their wares.
They blamed the MacGregor. Honestly, Torquil had no information on what was true and what was not.
But every time the two clans came in contact, the accusations ran rampant.
To him, it was silly nonsense, but his brothers and cousin insisted it was the work of the Harts.
Accusations aside, he also kenned of the middle daughter whose reputation followed her everywhere.
That explained the looks she had received from some of the villagers and clansfolk.
The lass was accustomed to it, apparently, judging by the way she dealt with them.
He was interested in her playing and singing.
And only her playing and singing.
Therefore, her reputation had absolutely no impact on his interest or thoughts on the lass.
Or at least that was what he kept telling himself as he rode home that night.