She was not only wise, but compassionate. She would make a good mother someday, Trick realized, then shook the stray thought from his head.
She would never get to be a mother at the rate they were going.
At long last Niall pulled away and gave Kendra a shaky smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m your sister now,” she said kindly. “And I’ll not leave you to bear it all on your own, Niall. Family should support each other through such grief, but with your father ill, and your sister and brother—” She broke off, flushing pink. “Anyway, I’m here for you.”
“I’m here for you, too,” Trick put in, surprised by how good it felt to say that. To be needed by someone. He hadn’t had that in eighteen years, and he’d never thought he’d have it again.
Despite all his father’s tales of his mother’s treason and treachery, he looked at the stoic backs of the people walking toward Duncraven and knew that once upon a time he’d felt happy in this place. Even living in that forbidding gray keep at the top of the hill.
And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could overcome the barriers between them.
Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.
“What happens now back at the castle?” Kendra asked.
“A draidgie,” Niall said. “Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment.”
“More merriment?” She looked incredulous.
“To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side.”
She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.
Still, they were both surprised at Niall’s next words to Trick.
“Are you ready for a good fight?”
FORTY
NIALL STOMPED into the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.
The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.
He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. “It’s a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!” And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.
Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.
Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross’s shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.
She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.
He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.
“Men,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. “I’ll never understand them.”
“You want mine?” another woman asked.
A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.
Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. “Could you believe that?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Me, neither. I’ve never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?” He paused for a satisfying breath. “I was angry. I’ve been angry since I got here. I didn’t want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—”
“But you discovered a brother.”
He rolled right over that. “It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing.”
With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth.
“Are you hurting?” she asked.
“Not enough to care.” As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then the distinctive, slightly sweet flavor she was learning to think of as Trick.
Though she felt conscious of people watching, she couldn’t stop her hands from going around him, sliding beneath his plaid to feel the planes of his back through his fine lawn shirt. Her fingers itched to touch his skin, but the shirt was tucked securely into his kilt. His kilt with nothing underneath.
The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms.
“Is something amiss?” he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
Kendra’s borrowed shawl had slipped from her shoulders to the floor. “Goodness.” She knelt to reclaim it, marveling that his knees looked as firm and golden and appealing as the rest of him. She surprised herself by sneaking a peek beneath the tartan on her way back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven’s gloom.
Trick’s lips quirked as he watched her straighten. “I asked Niall what leannan means,” he said.
“And?”
“Sweetheart.” He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. “It means sweetheart.”
Something fluttered inside her. “Leannan,” she whispered.
His expression suddenly sobered, as though he’d just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. “Heart’s wounds, I’m tired.”
“You didn’t get any sleep.”
Her gaze followed his as he
