Page 47

His heart swelled at the sight.

“Ye never play the stone throw,” Duncan muttered in his ear.

“I did now.”

“I noticed,” he chuckled. “I wonder why.”

Alisdair said nothing, just looked at Isla as he was dragged away to celebrate his victory with ale.

He was deep in conversation with his men when he heard the thud of hooves. He looked up and smiled when he spotted his most trusted advisor.

“Gavin!” Ewan exclaimed from beside him.

Gavin dismounted and approached with a wide smile on his lips. “I go to clean up yer mess, and I come to find ye married,” he said, pulling Alisdair up from his seat and into a bear hug.

A few years older than Alisdair, Gavin was like an older brother and a second-in-command.

“Did the MacKeons give ye trouble?” Alisdair asked, sitting back down.

“No more trouble than ye got yerself into, me Laird,” Gavin replied. “Is it true that ye married a Sinclair? Ewan, what were ye doin’?”

“Tryin’ to talk him out of it,” Ewan drawled. “Truth be told, I am glad me braither was so stubborn about it.”

“Aye!” Gavin grabbed a cup of ale from a passing servant and drained it in one go. “And where is the lass now?”

Alisdair said nothing, just turned to where Isla was sitting with his aunt and talking with the other women.

“Ah,” Gavin chuckled. “I see.”

The other men at the table roared with laughter and teased Alisdair, who shook his head and hid his smile behind his cup.

Gavin studied him for a moment, before taking a seat beside him. “I am happy for ye. It has been a while since I last saw ye smile and celebrate. Everyone can feel it. It is as if we can all breathe easier.”

Alisdair nodded. He knew exactly what his friend meant. A dark cloud had followed him since the night he lost everything. He never smiled, never took a joke well. A good leader, yes, but always so burdened that his clan seemed to carry his guilt and grief right along with him.

“Let’s drink!” Gavin boomed. “I missed the weddin’, so I have a lot to make up for!”

The men burst into loud laughter and poured more ale as they shared stories of how Isla had ridden up to the castle and demanded to speak to Alisdair. Alisdair listened, his eyes drifting to her constantly.

The night eventually fell, and the bonfires roared higher. The fiddler picked up the most joyous tune, and soon everyone was dancing and smiling.

Alisdair saw Isla watch the dancing couples with his aunt. That was when someone approached her. It was one of his warriors—a tall, broad, fearless man. His body tensed, afraid that the man was going to insult her, but the man simply extended his hand toward her.

“The lad has guts, asking yer wife to dance,” Duncan remarked.

“Why not?” Gavin countered. “After all, the Laird seems to have no intention to ask her to dance.”

Alisdair said nothing.

He drained his cup when he saw Isla give her hand to the man. The man put one hand on her waist and drew her closer, and she rested her hands on his shoulders.

He tightened his grip on his cup until his knuckles turned white, trying to tamp down the fury inside him. He watched as the man guided her easily, moving with her without losing the rhythm.

Duncan leaned in. “Ye are strangling yer cup,” he teased.

“I am rehearshin’ strangling ye.”

He chuckled loudly and turned back to the other men.