Page 84 of Wanted By the Wicked Highlander

“Aye, go on. Just daenae trip over yer own boots on the way.”

Brian took off across the courtyard at a dead sprint before Philomena had finished the sentence, weaving between skirts and cups of whisky. Of course, with that much energy, how would he have once considered that six-year-olds weren’t meant to interrupt a Laird before his own wedding?

Nearly every neighboring clan had answered the invitation, it seemed.

Lairds and Ladies filled every corner of the courtyard not already claimed by tables of food or barrels of whisky, renewing old alliances over shared cups and loud, easy laughter that carried across the stone walls.

Alasdair MacRae stood near the front, Isobel having rejoined him just as she'd promised, with her hand tucked firmly through his arm. The thin scar along his cheekbone from Kerr’s camp was nearly faded now, visible only when it caught the light between the quiet nods he exchanged with Lairds he had not spoken to in years. Old rivalries seemed, for one clear afternoon at least, to have been set aside in favor of a good drink and better gossip.

John O’Connor stood near the Gate with a cup of whisky he had refilled twice already. He was trading old war stories with a MacKenzie soldier he had apparently fought beside years ago; some border skirmish neither man could quite agree on the details.

“It was the Northern Pass,” the MacKenzie man insisted.

“It was the Eastern Ford, and ye nearly drowned in it, if I recall correctly.”

“I did nae nearly drown!”

“Ye came out of that river looking like a half-dead salmon, man! I have the memory of it still.” A third soldier nearby snorted into his own cup, clearly enjoying the argument rather more than either man directly involved in the argument.

One arrival, however, drew more attention than the others.

A tall Highlander rode in alone through the Gates, his dark horse moving at an unhurried pace, the crowded courtyard parting easily to let him through.

He wore no colors Alba immediately recognized, dark and plain against the general finery of the gathered guests, and something in the way he carried himself—utterly unbothered by the attention he drew, utterly comfortable in his own solitary presence—made more than one head turn as he passed.

Conversation softened for a moment in a widening ring around him before the nearest men caught themselves and offered careful, respectful nods, the kind given to a man whose reputation preceded him by rather more than his actual words ever did.

“Didnae think he would come,” one clansman murmured to another, low enough that Alba only caught it because she happened to be standing close.

“Neither did I,” the second man admitted, watching the rider dismount near the stables with unhurried, deliberate movements. “He hasnae left his own lands in near on three years, by all accounts.”

Fergus glanced toward the newcomer, something between surprise and genuine delight crossing his face before he turned to elbow Sebastian in the ribs.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “The mighty Laird Hendry Anderson finally left his mires for yer weddin’, MacGregor. I’d nae have wagered coin on it.”

“The Hermit?” Sebastian asked, a slow smile spreading despite the formality of the moment, glancing toward the dark rider now handing his horse off to a stable boy who looked equal parts terrified and thrilled at the honor.

“Aye, that’s the one. He keeps to himself so thoroughly, half the Highlands have forgotten what his voice sounds like.”

“So it would seem he still has one, then.”

“So it would seem.”

More than one guest had already begun murmuring stories to their neighbors—a debt owed, an old alliance, a favor called in from further back than anyone in the courtyard could quite remember—though none of them seemed any closer to an actual answer than Alba herself.

The stranger, as if he had heard every word of it despite the distance, merely inclined his head in a brief, unreadable greeting toward the two of them before turning and disappearing into the thick of the crowd without another word, the hawk on his arm shifting its weight once and settling again.

Alba, standing close enough to have caught the whole exchange, turned to Margaret with open curiosity.

“Who is he?”

Margaret smiled, slow and entirely too knowing for Alba’s liking, shifting Lily higher on her lap. “A story for another day.”

* * *

The priest was an older man, silver-haired and sun-weathered, with a deep, steady voice that carried across the courtyard without needing to be raised.

He had married half the Highlands by now, or so Fergus claimed, and it showed in the unhurried way he moved through the ritual, unbothered by the crowd pressing close on every side or the restless shifting of a boy near the front who kept craning his neck for a better view.