Page 31 of Highlander’s Captive

“Okay.”

“Are ye ready?”

“Yes. Of course.” She straightened her back and walked to him. She looked at the bouquet.

“Oh, aye, ’tis for ye.” He handed it to her. “Couldnae find any flowers at this time. ’Tis almost winter.”

“No need for flowers. This is more than enough. There are no women to throw this to anyway.”

He frowned. “Do ye throw flowers to women? Why?”

Oh shoot. “It’s a tradition I’ve seen in Ireland. The bride throws the bouquet to unmarried women, and whoever catches it gets married next.”

Hamish smiled and opened the door for her to go through. “They’re funny, the Irish. Never heard of such a tradition.”

They began descending the stairs. “Are you married, Hamish?” Amy asked.

“Me?” He laughed. “Nae, mistress.”

“No one special in your life?”

Hamish threw a glance at her over his shoulder. “Aye, there is someone I care about. Innis. A friend. She lives in the Borderlands. She has a tough life. I send her coin whenever I can.”

“That’s very kind of you. Why can’t you be together?”

“I’m nae interested in her like that. She’s more of a sister than a lover.”

“Well, I’m sure one day, you will settle down with someone.”

“Aye, that is the goal, though I dinna wish to marry. I’ve had enough people ordering me around, where I go and what I do. I’d like to buy my own estate, my own lands, and lead my life the way I want to.”

They descended to the ground floor of the tower where the weapons and food were stored. Hamish turned to Amy, sadness in his eyes.

“’Tis nae easy to find a good woman who isna taken. Craig Cambel is a lucky man.”

Amy opened her mouth, not even sure what to say, but Hamish already turned and opened the front door for her.

Outside, rain drizzled, mixed with snow. The courtyard had turned into a swamp. She lifted her skirts and followed Hamish across the courtyard and into the great hall, which stood between the Comyn Tower and the eastern tower against the north wall.

When she entered, the hall grew silent. The burned parts of the roof were patched up, although quite poorly, and water dripped from there into a barrel. The hall smelled of damp thatch and warm beeswax candles. They set the room in a golden glow, like a million faerie lights. The tables and benches were pushed aside, and the warriors—there must have been at least fifty of them—stood in a large oval, silently watching her.

At the head of the oval, stood Craig. Owen stood next to him. Craig wore a blue tunic, and a belt with his sword on it. His hair was combed and his short beard freshly trimmed. Wow, it looked like he’d made an effort for her. He stood with his feet wide apart, solemn, his back straight, as though he was about to participate in a sacrament.

His eyes were on her, dark and heavy, and it was as though they caught her and held her in their gaze. Surprisingly, he wasn’t hostile. He was…

Admiring.

Kind.

Respectful.

As the men stepped aside to let her through, she walked towards him across the middle of the circle, her medieval heelless shoes whispering softly against the wooden floor. The closer to Craig she got, the warmer her whole body became. And when she reached him, her cheeks were hot and her throat hurt from tension.

Silly.

What was wrong with her that she was sweating from nervousness, that her heart beat like a drum?

Craig smiled at her.