The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2) Page 10

  “How many warriors did we lose in the end … against the MacLeods?” Lachlann asked finally, deliberately changing the subject.

  His brothers’ expressions sobered.

  “Thirty-two,” replied Tearlach.

  Lachlann tensed. It would take the Frasers of Skye years to recover from such a loss.

  “Many of our men are on the mainland still, aiding King David’s cause,” Lucas added, his face grim, as if reading his elder brother’s thoughts. “Warriors are thin on the ground at Talasgair.”

  Of course. With everything that had happened of late, Lachlann had almost forgotten. The Scottish king was planning a raid across the border. There was currently a truce between the English and the Scottish, but David planned to break it, to push south while the English king’s focus was on France.

  Lachlann would have joined them if his father hadn’t been plotting against the MacLeods. Morgan Fraser had wanted all his sons by his side when he faced his enemy.

  “I’ll take the Guard out to patrol our borders then,” Lachlann replied, his gaze sweeping over his brothers’ faces. “MacLeod will know we’ve been weakened. We don’t want the bastard getting any ideas.”

  Adaira leaned against the stone window ledge and looked out at where the last of the sun’s light gilded the huge mountain to the south. Preshal More—that was its name. She’d seen it once from afar when she’d joined her kin on a trip to visit the MacDonalds of Sleat on the southern edge of the isle.

  She stared at the bald, rocky outline of the mountain. Its bulk was strangely comforting, a reminder that despite all that had befallen her of late, some things remained constant.

  Three days had passed since Lachlann had told her she would wed his father, and in that time an odd calm had descended upon her.

  She’d been through such extremes of emotion in the past few days that she now felt drained.

  This evening Adaira couldn’t summon much feeling at all, save a dull dread that had lodged in the pit of her belly.

  On the table a few feet away sat the remains of her supper. Remembering Lachlann’s warning, she’d eaten most of it, although every bite had stuck in her throat. Still, her body felt stronger since she’d resumed eating, and her head no longer spun.

  A cold breeze fluttered in through the open window. The nights had a bite to them now, and although the servants had lit the hearth in this room, Adaira found herself huddled deep inside a nest of blankets upon her sleeping pallet every morning. The stone she leaned against was as cold as a lump of frozen snow.

  Adaira continued to stare out the window, her gaze turning inward now. She thought back to her days at Dunvegan. She’d never fully appreciated how blessed they were, but she did now. Her father’s servants loved her, and she’d taken their warmth for granted. Here, the woman who brought up her food and cleared away her chamber pot was stone-faced and cold-eyed.

  At Dunvegan she’d had her own horse and often gone riding with her sisters or her father’s men. Her father had even let her keep Dùnglas, her wolf-hound pup, although she wasn’t sure Aonghus Budge would have ever let the dog accompany them to Islay.

  Adaira swallowed hard, remembering how she used to flit about the keep, carefree and more than a little silly. She’d spent her days learning the pursuits befitting a lady. She could play the harp well enough and was a neat embroiderer.

  She’d lived a privileged life, and even seeing her sisters’ own struggles—Caitrin’s unhappy marriage and Rhona’s forced one—hadn’t truly touched her. She’d always lived a little apart from it, always believed she’d remain happy.

  She didn’t believe that now. Her old life seemed as if it had belonged to a princess, and she wasn’t that girl anymore. She felt as if she’d aged years in just a few days. That laughing, carefree lass was dead.

  The sound of the key grating in the lock, drew Adaira from her thoughts. Turning, she watched the door open and Lachlann Fraser step inside.

  Adaira went rigid. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d delivered the news she would wed his father.

  Despite that the sight of him made her belly churn, she would have been blind not to notice how attractive he was. His slightly disheveled appearance today only highlighted his arrogant good-looks, his swaggering self-confidence.

  Lachlann was clad in dusty leathers, a travel stained cloak hanging from his broad shoulders. His hair was sweaty and plastered against his scalp, as if he’d just removed a helmet. He looked as if he’d returned from a patrol.

  Shutting the door behind him, Lachlann leaned up against it, surveying her.

  Adaira hissed out a breath. “What do ye want?”

  His mouth curved. “I’ve been away … checking our northern border. Now I’m back I thought I’d check on ye.” Lachlann’s gaze shifted to the empty tray a few feet away. “I see ye are eating.”

  Adaira clenched her jaw. “The servants could have told ye that.”

  “Aye, but I’d prefer to check on ye in person.”

  Adaira folded her arms across her breasts. The sight of this man was a painful reminder of her own gullibility. Still, the knowledge that he’d been patrolling the border with the MacLeods rattled her.

  “There was no sign of yer father or his men,” Lachlann said quietly, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts. “I’d wager he doesn’t suspect ye are here.”

  Bleak disappointment flooded through Adaira. “Ye can go now,” she rasped.

  Lachlann pushed himself off the door and crossed to her. Adaira took a rapid step back, cowering against the window frame.

  He stopped a few feet short of her, his dark-auburn brows knitting together. “There’s no need to shrink from me like I’m Satan himself,” he murmured.

  Adaira glared at him although underneath her despair she felt a frisson of satisfaction. Finally, a chink in his armor of unshakable self-confidence. He wasn’t used to having women revile him. “Ye are Satan,” she countered. “Ye are arrogant, deceitful, and without a heart.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reckless

  THE WIND WHISTLED across the hills, bringing with it the scent of autumn. Lachlann urged his horse up to the brow of the hill and reined it in next to his father’s. The hawk’s claws gripped his left wrist through its leather sleeve, its hooded head moving toward him. Saighead—Arrow—sensed he was about to let her off her leash.

  Lachlann cast a glance in his father’s direction. This was the first time Morgan Fraser had been out on his horse since the battle. He sat a little stiffly in the saddle, his face tense with discomfort. Yet his gaze was determined as he surveyed the sky. His father’s hawk, Stoirm—Storm—shifted upon the chieftain’s arm. He too was ready to hunt.

  “Shall we let them off?” Lachlann asked. Behind him, he could hear the thunder of hooves as his brothers approached.

  “Aye,” his father grunted. “I’ve just spotted a pair of pigeons. They’ll do for a start.”

  The two men removed the hoods from their hawks and unleashed them. Lachlann raised his left hand, letting Saighead launch herself into the sky, her powerful wings causing a draft behind her.

  Lachlann watched, momentarily enraptured. There were few things more beautiful to watch than a bird of prey taking flight. Saighead stretched her wings wide and soared high, joining Stoirm as they began their hunt.

  Aware that someone was watching him, Lachlann tore his gaze from the sky and met his father’s eye.

  “Is the MacLeod lass behaving herself?” Morgan asked.

  His father rarely referred to Adaira by her given name these days. The chieftain hadn’t seen her since her incarceration nearly two months earlier. But with Samhuinn looming, the fire festival that marked the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter, that soon would change. The nights had started to become long and cold, and the handfasting drew near.

  “Aye, well enough,” Lachlann replied tersely.

  “Is she eating? I’ve no wish to wed a scarecrow.”


  “I check on her most days … and see to it she finishes her meals.”

  Morgan nodded. “Good.”

  Lachlann drew in a deep breath then, glancing over his shoulder at where his brothers drew near. He had just a few moments alone with his father. He would have to speak now, or they’d have an audience.

  “Are ye really going through with this?” he asked, his voice low.

  Morgan huffed. “Aye.” He inclined his head, studying Lachlann with a hard, searching look. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because Adaira doesn’t deserve it.” The words surprised Lachlann as they left his mouth, yet he didn’t stop. This impulse had been growing within him for weeks now. “Da, don’t punish her for MacLeod’s crimes against ye.”

  Whenever Lachlann climbed the steps to the tower chamber, he steeled himself to look upon Adaira’s pale face, her haunted eyes. Occasionally they exchanged a few awkward words, but for the most part they remained silent. The first few times he’d visited her, Adaira had raged at him, but after a while she’d run out of insults and ignored him instead. And with each visit, Lachlann had felt something grow inside him—something that had led to this.

  His father stared back at him for a long, drawn out moment. “MacLeod loves his daughters,” he replied softly. “Aye, he’s a bully, but there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for them … I want him to know what it feels like to lose something he loves.”

  Lachlann held his gaze. His brothers had reached them and were now reining in their horses.

  “God’s bones,” Lucas panted, his voice rough with irritation. “Ye two ride as if all the demons of hell were behind ye.”

  Lachlann ignored his brother. His attention remained upon his father. “It won’t bring Una back to ye,” he said coldly. “Nothing will do that.”

  Morgan Fraser’s gaze narrowed, something dangerous moving in the depths of his eyes. None of his sons ever spoke of Una. She was a forbidden topic at Talasgair. Lachlann had just stepped over an invisible line, but he didn’t care. Today, he felt reckless.

  “No, it won’t,” his father replied, his voice developing a lethal edge. “But it’ll cut MacLeod deep. That lass will suffer at my hands, and her father will know of it. A man doesn’t cross me and get away with it. This is a grudge I’ll take to my grave.”

  Lachlann stared back at him, but in place of his father all he saw was a man—a vengeful and bitter one. Lachlann’s younger brothers had always ribbed him over how much he was like his father—how they were destined to forever lock horns, for they knew just how to provoke each other.

  If it were true then Lachlann faced a bleak and unhappy future. Was this what he would become?

  Adaira watched with suspicion as Lachlann entered the chamber. He carried a large hessian bag, which he set down on the table.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted her.

  Adaira didn’t reply. She noted that he hadn’t called her ‘aingeal’ since their struggle on the beach. There was an odd formality in him these days—very different to the brash individual who’d fled Dunvegan with her. Sometimes he almost seemed subdued in her presence, although today he appeared a little more cheerful.

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked, deliberately rude. Spending day after day in this tiny chamber was slowly chipping away at her, eroding her naturally optimistic spirit. Apart from Lachlann, the only face she saw was that of the sour-faced maid who delivered her meals, emptied her chamber-pot, and brought her clean clothes.

  “A diversion,” he replied with a half-smile.

  He withdrew a large clay bottle stoppered with a cork and two clay cups. Then he produced a wooden board marked with squares and a small cloth pouch.

  “Have ye ever played Ard-ri?”

  Adaira frowned. She was a clan-chief’s daughter, of course she had. Reluctantly, she nodded.

  “Good,” he replied. “I’m not the world’s most patient teacher.” He pulled out two chairs and took a seat on one. “Come on … let’s play a game.”

  “I’m not playing Ard-ri with ye, Fraser.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Ye must be growing witless with boredom.” He reached for the clay bottle and unstoppered it. “I’ve brought plum wine to make the experience more bearable for ye.”

  “I don’t care. Take yer wine and yer game and leave me be.”

  Ignoring her, Lachlann poured two cups of wine, before he emptied the cloth pouch and started placing small brown and white counters upon the board before him. One of the counters was twice as high as the others and marked with a crown on top: the king stone.

  “Playing Ard-ri with a Fraser doesn’t mean ye have to stop hating me,” he said as he worked. “I’m not asking for friendship. Just a game.”

  “I don’t understand why ye keep visiting me,” Adaira replied. “Haven’t I made it clear ye aren’t welcome?”

  “Ye have, but we Frasers are thick-headed as well as stubborn. I’m the reason ye are here so I like to check ye are well.”

  Adaira went still. That was the first time he’d even hinted that he felt guilty for what he’d done, and even then the comment was spoken with the flippant edge she’d come to expect from him.

  Lachlann fixed her with a level look. “Just one game, Adaira. That’s all I ask.”

  Silence fell between them and then, reluctantly, Adaira rose from the bed, where she’d been perched, and walked to the table. She sat down, pushing her chair back in an attempt to put as much space between them as possible.

  Before them the Ard-ri board sat ready. Ard-ri—or High King—was an old game, and one her father loved. The game simulated a viking raid: four attacking viking drakkars were pitted against the Scottish king and his defenders.

  Adaira wasn’t a strong player; both Rhona and Caitrin had always beaten her at it. She imagined this game would be over with merciful swiftness.

  “Do ye want to be the attacker or the defender?” Lachlann asked.

  Adaira picked up her cup of wine and took a sip. It was delicious, deep and rich, not like the sour wine that accompanied her meals. “I’ll attack,” she replied.

  Lachlann flashed her a wolfish smile. “Then it’s up to me to put up a strong defense.” He motioned to the board. “Ye take the first move.”

  Adaira stared back at him but made no attempt to reach for a counter. “I liked ye once, Lachlann,” she said after a pause. “When we fled Dunvegan together, I was in awe of yer courage. I thought ye were a good man, an honorable one.”

  Lachlann’s smile faded. “I’m no saint, Adaira,” he replied softly, “but nor am I the worst man ye will ever meet.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Aye … now go on, make yer move.”

  Adaira cast Lachlann a look of simmering hate, before she dropped her gaze to the board. She focused on it, her lips compressing as she remembered her father’s advice on how to play Ard-ri well. He’d told her to attack aggressively, and so she did, moving a counter diagonally across the board so that it sat up against the defending pieces.

  Lachlann inclined his head, eyes gleaming. “Interesting move.”

  Adaira gave him a cool look in reply, before she took another sip of wine. “Yer turn.”

  Hours, and four games of Ard-ri later, Adaira held up her hands in defeat.

  “That’s it. I’m not playing with ye anymore.”

  Lachlann leaned back in his chair and crossed one long leg over his knee at the ankle. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m tired of losing,” Adaira said ungraciously. “Ye crow like a rooster every time ye beat me.”

  He cast her a look of mock-hurt. “No, I don’t.”

  The clay bottle of wine had long been emptied, and although she felt the most relaxed she had in a long while, she also felt drowsy and hungry. Outside, the light had faded. The maid would arrive with supper shortly.

  Realizing their games had indeed ended, Lachlann shrugged and began to put away the counters. Adaira watched him, lazily admiring his profile, before
she caught herself.

  This afternoon had been a distraction, but he was still the man who’d broken his promise to her. She wouldn’t let attraction pull her in, drown her good sense, as it had on the journey here.

  “How many days till Samhuinn?” she asked, breaking the silence between them.

  Lachlann looked up, his gaze meeting hers. “Five.”

  Adaira’s belly clenched at this news. So soon. It felt an eternity since she’d been locked up in here, and yet at the same time it wasn’t long enough. Time marched on. She’d known autumn was slipping toward winter, for the days grew short and the breeze that wafted in through her window had a bite to it in the mornings and evenings. Only, she’d told herself that Samhuinn must be still some way off.

  “I tried to talk to Da … to get him to change his mind,” Lachlann said. His face was stern now, his gaze hooded. “But it’s impossible. His need for vengeance consumes him—and I’m the last person he’d take counsel from. He’ll not be swayed.”

  Adaira’s pulse accelerated. She’d tried not to think of the future, about what it would be like to be Morgan Fraser’s wife. Suddenly, Aonghus Budge almost seemed an appealing alternative. He was a boor and a bully, but at least the chieftain of the Budges of Islay wasn’t driven by blind hate.

  Swallowing hard, Adaira wished she had some more wine to calm her nerves. “What will become of me?” she asked, a tremble in her voice.

  Lachlann held her gaze, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know.”

  Adaira leaned forward and grabbed his arm, squeezing tight. “Help me, Lachlann,” she gasped. “Ye can’t let me wed him.”

  Lachlann blinked. It was as if a portcullis had just slammed down between them. He took hold of her hand and gently pried her fingers free, then he pushed back his chair, rising to his feet. His face was like hewn stone when he answered her, “I can’t.”