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 her play. 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.”
The insult surprised a laugh out of Kester, and as he watched, Pudge’s lips reluctantly curled upward.
In the distance, a single, clear pipe note began. As the attention of the gathered men swung toward the hill, more notes—more pipers—joined in.
And Kester didn’t think his smile could grow, but he was wrong.
Heralded by their music, the best pipers of the Highlands began to march in step down the rise where the Murrays had camped. And in the middle of their honor guard marched a phalanx of MacBains: Mook in the front, Weesil in the back, and Auld Gommy and Giric flanking.
And in the middle…
In the middle of his men and the Highlands’ best pipers, marched Lady Robena Oliphant.
Kester was already moving, striding toward the newcomers. But before he reached them, the pipers split and spread out, moving to stand around the inside of the circle the gathered clan representatives had formed.