Redeemed (Heroes of the Highlands) (The MacKays #2) by Kerrigan Byrne Page A

they subsided. “Until the lasses would let me,” he admitted honestly. “Then most of my untried efforts were focused on them.”
    Her eyes had gone round and luminous, and she watched him laugh as though witnessing something rarer than the lights above them. The speed at which they narrowed with displeasure was equally astounding.
    “Them?” she turned the word over on her tongue and frowned. “I question the moral character of any woman who would let you.”
    “ Ye did,” he chuckled.
    “Don’t be ridiculous, that was different,” she insisted.
    “’Tis what most of the lasses say,” he taunted.
    “Most…” Her frown deepened. “How many were there?”
    He grinned, thoroughly enjoying himself, and shrugged. “I was a pretty lad.”
    She huffed, clearly incensed.
    “If it makes ye feel better, they’re all long dead now.” He sped his walk to hide his smug smile, knowing she’d chase him, and looking forward to it.
    “ Oh are they? All scores and scores of them? You’re horrid,” she accused, catching him easily. “I could just kick you.”
    He chortled. “Nay, ye couldna if ye tried!” And for some reason, that sent him into more fits of mirth.
    She scowled. Though obviously fighting a begrudging smile. Her shoulders began to shake as small gasps escaped through her nose first. Before long, they’d stopped walking and were both bent over, holding onto their sides as humor held them prisoner. Their laughter tangled with the sea breeze and was carried across the moors by ribbons of celestial color.
    Kylah straightened first, taking a sighing breath while Daroch wiped a tear of amusement from his eye.
    “Our humor is dark.” Her voice was still warmed by laughter.
    “It matches our thoughts,” he mused. “Our pasts.”
    “Aye,” she murmured.
    Their eyes locked.
    She blinked.
    He swallowed.
    Daroch felt something very powerful sizzle in the air between them. It vibrated on a frequency that could only be found in silence, but contained untold volumes. Its language consisted of internalized desires floating upon words like “maybe” and “what if.” It was the surge of rebellion against fate that turned a fleeing man’s galloping horse in the opposite direction. It changed the courses of exploring sea fleets and sometimes, the fates of entire civilizations.
    So charged with this energy, Daroch took a step toward her.
    She retreated, tucking a glossy auburn curl behind her ear. “Where are we going?” she asked with false brightness, turning toward their previous course and setting off slowly, taking her glow with her. “What business have you this evening?”
    He fell into step beside her, letting the moment pass with a mixture of relief and disappointment. “If you believe it, I’m on my way to finish milking my fig trees.”
    “I’m sorry,” she gawked at him in utter disbelief. “I thought you just said you were on your way to milk—”
    “Fig trees.” He veered left and climbed a dark hill.
    “I don’t… I don’t know what you mean.” She levitated herself up the hill. “Is that a euphemism for something?”
    They crested the hill and he gestured toward a neat row of short, exotic trees silhouetted against the glowing night sky nestled at the opposite base. “I chanced upon a Grecian apothecary’s apprentice some forty years ago who was exploring the Highlands as bade by his master for a certain strain of Meadowsweet herb. I was in possession of a large quantity of the stuff as I’d used it for inflammation caused by a broken foot. The apprentice traded me these saplings not just for the fruit, but for what else it contains.”
    Reaching the trees, Daroch circled them and pointed to taps set into shallow bark. Beneath them, wooden bowls caught the sticky leavings.
    “What is it?” Kylah bent over a bowl, inspecting the sap-like content with her usual all encompassing curiosity.
    “I call it Arborlatix which, in Latin, roughly translates to tree milk.” He