Page 70 of Don't Give A Damn About My Plaid Reputation
All she knew was he was beaming up at her, as if he’d just been handed everything he’d ever wanted.
Mayhap he had.
For certes, ‘twas exactly the way she felt, as well.
In the distance, a piper began a cheerful tune.
Kester dropped a quick kiss to her lips, over and done far too quickly to celebrate the joy pounding through her veins. But his grin was full of promise, and she knew she had tonight—and all the nights of their lives—to look forward to more kisses.
“Well, soon-to-be-wife? Shall I escort ye to the piping competition? Show them what a lass can do?”
Grinning, she slipped her arm through his and took the pipes Pudge offered her. She lifted her chin. “I think that sounds like a fine idea, my love.”
Chapter 11
“Are ye disappointed?”Pudge asked, wearing his usual scowl.
Kester, who stood beside the priest with his arms crossed in front of his chest, raised a brow at his friend. “’Tis a fine day in the Highlands, the MacBains will have Kester’s Meadow returned to them, and I’m about to marry the woman I love. Why would I be disappointed?”
One of Pudge’s shoulders jerked, a subtle shrug. “She didnae win.”
Ah.
Grinning—there wasn’t anything which could stop him from grinning today—Kester swept his gaze around the representatives of the various clans who were attending his wedding.
Last night, the piping competition had lasted until the embers burned low, then had erupted again this morning. At first, the stodgy traditionalists had been reluctant to allow Robena to compete, but ‘twas Murray who’d surprised them.
The grumpy old laird had stomped into the center of the piping circle and declared, “Then dinnae let her compete, but let herplay. I think she’s proven she can do aught a lad can do, eh?”
Since the story of her daring—and stupid—attempt to rescue wee Elspeth Murray had already swept through the gathered clans, there were few who could object.
And so, Robena, despite her exhaustion, despite her near drowning, had played.
And Kester’s grin grew even wider, remembering.
She’d held his gaze as she’d piped, and her song had been one of celebration, one of joy. The notes tripped fast and fun from her fingers, each chasing the next in a sound of pure delight.
The Sutherland piper had countered with a dirge, and the MacLeod with a march, and she’d answered them all with the same aching, mournful tune she’d played for the MacBain men days ago.
Kester wasn’t the only one wiping at his eyes when she finished.
By this morning, when everyone gathered again on the main field, only a few pipers were left. The others had removed themselves from the competition one by one as they realized they weren’t as talented. Eventually, only Robena and the Mackenzie piper—a grizzled old grandda of a man with a beard as long as Auld Gommy’s—remained.
And when the final note was played, the Mackenzie piper offered her his hand, clasping it as if they were equals.
“Laird?” Pudge prompted.
Remembering the question, Kester shrugged. “Did she no’ win?”
“’Tis being said the Mackenzie won the competition.”
“Mayhap, but he—and every other man here—saw and heard her skill, and kens she’s their equal. That was what she wanted.” ‘Twas what he’d wanted too.
Pudge hummed, half-thoughtful, half-surprised. “True. So ye’re saying the actual title doesnae matter?”
“No’ to her. No’ to me. And no’ to all the pipers who heard and acknowledged her.”
His friend grunted. “Ye ken, ye’re smarter than ye look, Laird.”
