This one goes out to anyone who’s having a Tuesday that feels like a Thursday! I dare you to get through this excerpt of Cynthia Breeding‘s Rogue of the Moors without smiling. (I absolutely could not.) Love the excerpt? You’re in luck, because Rogue of Moors is out today!
Bridget noticed that all four of the MacDonald men were seated at the table for supper. None of them appeared bruised or battered, so they must have taken their mother’s warning not to exchange blows seriously. Bridget knew men thought fighting was the solution to most arguments, but she had never understood why they would enjoy brawling simply for the sake of it. Looking at the granite set to Alasdair’s jaw made her wonder if a skirmish might not still take place.
“We serve ourselves here,” Joanna said as she brought in a dish of vegetables and smiled at Bridget as she sat down. “Doona skimp on your servings.” She glanced at her sons. “I am used to big appetites, so there is always plenty of food.”
“Thank ye,” Bridget said. “The boar smells delicious.”
“Allow me to carve ye some,” Niall said, flourishing a knife with enough skill that Bridget had no doubt he’d be deadly with a dagger.
Alasdair gave him a sharp look but said nothing.
Oddly enough, the other brothers were quiet and subdued this evening. Even though she’d only met them briefly when they’d come to Glenfinnan, she didn’t think the reserved behavior fit any of them. Rowdy, boisterous, rambunctious, yes. Quiet, no. Had the retelling this afternoon of the fate of that poor girl affected them so much?
Bridget glanced at Alasdair. He hadn’t been in the room, but the memories were probably crystal clear. She wished she could say something to him, but she caught the glimpse he gave her. His eyes were like emerald shards. She’d seen that look on her brothers’ faces, warning anyone with any sense not to broach them. Now was not the time to comment.
A clamoring near the back of the house broke the silence. Bridget heard shouting and several heavy thuds. It sounded like an altercation taking place, although none of the men seated seemed to be overly concerned.
The kitchen door banged, followed by the trampling of boots coming down the hall. The yelling hadn’t stopped either. Three lads in shirts, breeches, and tartan caps burst into the room, one of them dripping wet.
“’Tis nae my fault ye fell into the burn,” one said.
“Ye pushed me, ye fool,” the wet one answered.