The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2) Page 12

  Time stretched out, and she continued to stare into the darkness. It was strange, but she didn’t even feel remotely drowsy.

  She was still wide awake when she heard the light scrape of footfalls on stone outside her door—and then a heartbeat later, the clunk of an iron key in the lock.

  Adaira sat up, heart pounding.

  Who would come to her chamber at this hour? Had Morgan Fraser come to rape her before the handfasting?

  Terror exploded in her chest. He’d been angry enough tonight to do it. His rage upon hearing of Scotland's defeat had been a terrible thing to behold. Her own father had a blistering temper when roused, one that could send both his kin and servants running for cover. But she was less afraid of MacLeod than she was of Morgan Fraser. The Fraser chieftain’s temper was a cold, vicious thing.

  The door opened, and Adaira clutched the blanket to her. “Go away,” she hissed, terror pulsing through her. “Or I’ll scream these walls down.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  By Moonlight

  “QUIET,” CAME A harsh male whisper. “Noise travels in this place.”

  Adaira froze. She recognized Lachlann Fraser’s voice instantly.

  Fresh panic seized her.

  What does he want with me?

  Wordlessly, he entered the chamber, crossed to the window, and threw it open. Moonlight filtered in, illuminating his tall form. Adaira’s gaze swept over him. He wore a heavy cloak and boots, and carried a bundle under his arm.

  Lachlann hunkered down, so that their gazes were level. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Do ye still want my help?”

  Adaira stared at him before silently nodding.

  “Good. We’re leaving Talasgair … now.”

  Adaira stifled a gasp. “Ye will take me to Argyle?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Aye … if that’s where ye wish to go.”

  Adaira’s breathing hitched. She didn’t want to hope; this could be some cruel trick. Lachlann could be toying with her.

  But before she could question him further, he pushed the bundle he carried into her arms. “Get dressed and put on this cloak and boots,” he ordered softly. “We need to go.”

  He rose to his feet and stepped back, giving her space.

  After a moment's hesitation, Adaira pushed aside the blanket and got to her feet. She still wore the fine cream léine of that evening. She pulled on the blue kirtle she’d worn for the feast over the top, her fingers fumbling with the laces. Then she reached down and hauled on the fur-lined boots. Finally, she slung the heavy woolen cloak about her shoulders, fastening it about the throat.

  All the while, Lachlann watched and waited. She’d never seen his face so serious. “Ready?”

  Adaira nodded once more.

  “Follow close behind me … and don't speak. My father’s a light sleeper.”

  They left the tower chamber, padding softly down the worn stone stairs.

  Adaira held her breath as they inched their way across the wide landing, past the door to the chieftain’s bed-chamber. Adaira imagined Morgan Fraser slept with one eye open. He didn't seem the kind of man to let his guard down—ever.

  It was a long, tense trip to the bottom. At the foot of the stairwell, a single torch burned upon a bracket against the wall. It threw a soft light across a guard, who sat, slumped on the floor.

  Adaira drew up sharply, her gaze searching the man’s face. For a moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

  Loosing a breath, she cut a glance to Lachlann. Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat.

  With a jolt she realized he really was helping her escape.

  Adaira’s mind whirled. This didn’t make sense. After everything that had happened, she couldn’t understand why Lachlann Fraser would help her. What had changed?

  There was no time to ask him about it now though; her questions would have to wait.

  Lachlann led the way out of the tower, toward the oldest part of fortress: the ancient stone round tower. Adaira wondered how he planned for them to escape this place. There would be guards everywhere.

  But there didn’t seem to be, or at least not in the passageways Lachlann was taking. They entered the round tower, where the Great Hall sat in the midst of the old broch, but Lachlann didn't take her into the hall itself. Instead, they skirted a passageway around it.

  Halfway along the passage, the scuff of boots against stone alerted them to someone’s presence.

  Lachlann ducked into the shadows, pulling Adaira with him. Crushed against the long hard length of his body, her heart thundering so loudly she was sure the whole fortress could hear it, Adaira listened to the approaching footsteps.

  It was a heavy, unsteady tread. A shadow passed by, a drunken man on his way to the privy.

  They waited until all sign of him had passed, before Lachlann released Adaira and the pair of them emerged from the shadows. The near miss had put her on edge; her heart still pounded. However, Lachlann’s face, lit by a guttering torch on the wall, was hard and focused.

  He then leaned in close to Adaira, his breath tickling her ear. “We’re taking the back way out,” he whispered. “Keep a few paces behind me until the path is clear. The East Gate will be guarded. Whatever happens stay silent. Prepare yerself … things may get bloody.”

  Adaira nodded, although her belly now pitched and roiled with nerves. She suddenly needed to pee, but there was no time to find a privy.

  Lachlann led the way to the back of the broch. As instructed, Adaira followed in his wake, keeping to the shadows a few feet behind him. They passed under a wide stone arch, and Adaira felt crisp air fan her face. The doorway was before them. Lachlann moved out into a moonlit yard and broke into a light-footed sprint. A high stone wall reared up before them, and a narrow wooden gate lay straight ahead.

  Silhouetted by burning torches on the walls, Adaira spied two dark outlines of guards either side of the gate. Adaira covered her mouth with a hand and slowed her pace. Lachlann was running straight for them.

  Steel flashed as Lachlann drew his dirk.

  A flurry of movement, grunts, thumps, and the scuff of booted feet on dirt followed.

  Heart pounding, Adaira crept across the yard. Two prone figures lay on the ground. Lachlann had his back to her as he unbolted the gate.

  Adaira stepped over the guards, her legs trembling now. “What did ye do to them?” She’d only whispered the question, but it seemed to echo across the yard.

  Lachlann whipped round, gaze narrowed, and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her against him.

  “I told ye to keep silent,” he hissed in her ear.

  “I know, but the guards … are they—”

  “Dead? Aye. Now hold yer tongue. We’re not out of danger yet.”

  Lachlann shoved his shoulder against the gate and, with a creak, it opened. Once again, the noise seemed to reverberate in the night’s stillness. There wasn’t even the moan of the wind to disguise it.

  Tension thrummed through Adaira. Her senses were stretched so taut that she imagined every soul in Talasgair must have heard. She drew in a sharp breath, bracing herself for shouts and the tattoo of running feet.

  But no sounds came.

  Lachlann took Adaira by the hand and led her through the gate. The land rose steeply on Talasgair’s eastern side, and the pair were forced to scramble their way up a rocky slope, before they crested the hill.

  They’d only traveled a couple of furlongs from the walls when Adaira’s lungs started to protest. Her legs felt weak and clumsy under her. After two moons locked away in the tower, her body wasn’t used to this sudden exertion. She was relieved that Lachlann held her hand, towing her behind him as he broke into a run.

  A short while later they approached the ruins of another broch, entering it through the remains of an ancient archway. Stacked stone walls, crumbling with age, rose around them. A star-strewn night sky arched above, for the broch’s roof had fallen into ruin long ago.
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  “Where are we?” Adaira gasped, struggling to regain her breath.

  “This is Dun Sleadale, an old Pict fort,” Lachlann replied. “Come on … we can’t linger here either.”

  He led her to the far side of the ruins, where a horse awaited them. Relief kicked within Adaira at the sight of it. She watched Lachlann untether the horse and run a hand down the beast’s neck.

  “Ye planned this?” she breathed.

  “Aye,” he replied, busying himself with tightening the horse’s girth. “We wouldn’t get far on foot.”

  “Why are ye helping me?”

  Lachlann stilled before casting a look over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. Ye asked me to, didn’t ye?”

  “Aye … and ye refused.”

  His expression shuttered, and he turned away. “I … changed my mind.”

  Lachlann swung up onto the back of the horse. He then stretched his hand down to her. “Climb up.”

  Adaira grasped his hand, slipped her foot into the stirrup, and sprang up, settling herself down behind him. She tried to sit back as far as possible, but the shape of the saddle meant that she slid down toward him, her breasts pressed up against his back. Tensing, Adaira loosely wrapped her arms about his waist.

  They moved off, leaving the ruin of Dun Sleadale behind. The horse picked its way down the pebble-strewn hillside. The hoary light of the moon lit the path before them.

  Adaira tried to guess the time. It was very late, or early depending how ye looked at it. They would have to ride hard to be far from here by dawn.

  The maid would raise the alarm shortly after sunrise if someone didn’t discover the dead guards at the East Gate first.

  The chill night air stung Adaira’s cheeks. It was cold enough tonight for a frost to settle. It didn’t take long for her fingers and toes to grow numb.

  At the bottom of the hill, they reached an unpaved highway.

  “Where does this road lead?” Adaira asked.

  “This is the main highway south-east,” Lachlann replied, drawing the horse to a halt. “If ye want to take the fastest route to Argyle, this is it.”

  Adaira caught the edge in his voice and tensed. “What’s wrong?”

  “My father will be after us at dawn,” he said flatly. “He knows yer kin reside at Gylen Castle and that’s where we were heading last time. Neither of us will find refuge there.”

  Anxiety fluttered up under Adaira’s ribcage. In their escape from Talasgair, she hadn’t even considered that. “So, ye think we shouldn’t go to Argyle?”

  A brief silence stretched out between them. “It would be wiser to find somewhere to wait him out, before we cross to the mainland,” he replied. “But ye may never be able to go to Gylen Castle as ye had planned … not now.”

  Adaira drew in a deep breath. His words were unwelcome, yet she realized he spoke the truth. Once they were far from Talasgair, she’d have to make new plans, but for now they had other priorities. “Where can we hide in the meantime?”

  “My brothers told me that Baltair MacDonald fell in battle. Yer sister is now chatelaine of Duntulm, is she not?”

  Adaira went still, caught off-guard by the question. “Aye.”

  Lachlann turned his profile to her. He was frowning. “Would she shelter us?”

  “She would,” Adaira replied without hesitation. She trusted Caitrin with her life. “But ye do realize we’ll have to ride through my father’s lands to reach MacDonald territory?”

  “Aye,” he growled. “It hadn’t escaped me.”

  “But ye would take the risk?”

  Lachlann muttered a curse and raked a hand through his hair. “If Baltair MacDonald was still chieftain of Duntulm, I wouldn’t go within ten leagues of the place. The man was loyal to yer father. But if ye think yer sister can be trusted, we can stay with her till the dust settles.”

  Adaira considered his words. Her first impulse was to insist they rode like the wind south for Kyleakin before taking a boat across the water. She hated the thought of delaying. Every day that she remained on Skye put her at risk of being caught by either Malcolm MacLeod or Morgan Fraser.

  And yet, without a destination in mind, they’d be fleeing blind.

  She was also wary of Lachlann. He’d risked his neck to free her, but she didn’t trust him. The man never did anything unless he stood to gain from it; she’d learned that the hard way.

  However, he did have a valid point. His father would follow them to Gylen Castle, if he didn’t catch them first.

  Lachlann’s idea to seek refuge at Duntulm was only marginally less dangerous. They risked capture by her father’s men, and there was no guarantee Morgan Fraser wouldn’t follow them.

  “Will yer father hunt us if we cross into MacLeod lands?” she asked, giving her fears voice.

  A pause followed, and when Lachlann answered, his voice was bleak. “Aye … our only advantage is that if we travel north-east, he won’t know where we’re headed.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I Did It For Ye

  LACHLANN’S GAZE FIXED ahead.

  It was fortunate there was a full-moon tonight, on the eve of Samhuinn. Without it they couldn't have traveled in the dark. Even so, Lachlann’s attention swept the bare hillsides around them, on the look-out for trouble.

  He and Adaira now rode cross country. They’d left the highway behind, and instead of traveling south-east as he'd initially planned, they were riding north-east. Their path would take them through the mountainous heart of the isle, through narrow passes and uninhabited land. He could see the bulk of those mountains in the distance now, their sculpted silhouettes frosted silver.

  Adaira pressed up against his back. She’d wrapped her hands around his waist. Despite the layers of clothing they both wore, he could feel the length of her body pressed up against him, and the softness of her breasts, jolting against him with every stride.

  The sensation was distracting, although his thoughts were focused on what lay ahead—and on what he’d left behind.

  There were some bridges that could only be crossed once—some steps that could never be retraced.

  With an ache in his chest, he knew he’d never see the walls of Talasgair again, never catch sight of the Fraser pennants snapping in the wind or hear the wail of a highland pipe calling him home.

  The ache increased till it hurt to breathe.

  What have I done?

  Lachlann’s own behavior stunned him. He’d struggled ever since refusing to help Adaira, but when he’d watched his father with her at the feast, something inside him—a cord that had long been fraying—snapped.

  The arrival of his cousin Marcas Fraser had thrown the whole evening into an uproar. For a short while everyone inside the hall had forgotten that there would be a wedding the following day. Instead they had been outraged to discover Scotland's defeat against the English.

  Lachlann too had reeled from the devastating news—but all he’d been able to think about as he sat at the table, listening to Lucas bellow in rage next to him, was getting Adaira out of Talasgair.

  It had been the perfect evening to arrange an escape. Everyone was distracted, including his father, who finished the feast early and took Marcas away with him to his solar to discuss the grim details of the battle at length.

  Lachlann had taken his horse out for an evening ride and tethered it inside the ruins of Dun Sleadale nearby, before making his way back to the broch on foot. He’d made some excuse to the guards at the West Gate about how the beast had thrown him and galloped off into the gloaming. He’d told them he would go looking for it in the morning.

  After that, he’d waited in his bed-chamber, listening as the broch slowly went to sleep. And when the moon had risen high into the sky, he finally made his move.

  “I can hear ye thinking,” Adaira spoke up, shattering the silence between them. Her voice was soft, yet wary.

  “Why? Are ye a sorceress?” he replied. He’d meant to use a teasing tone, but instead his voice s
ounded brittle.

  Adaira huffed. “I don’t need to be a witch to hear the chatter of yer thoughts. Ye are as tense as a board.”

  Lachlann didn’t answer. For once, he had no idea what to say.

  Silence fell between them, before Adaira eventually broke it. “It was a brave thing ye did … and I thank ye for it.”

  Lachlann snorted. He wasn’t sure whether it was brave or the act of an idiot.

  “I still don’t understand why ye did it,” Adaira continued.

  “Ye don’t need to,” he replied. “Ye are free, aren’t ye?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Enough, Adaira,” he said, his voice weary. “I’d prefer we traveled in silence.”

  The rosy blush of dawn stained the eastern sky. Adaira glanced up before bowing her head and splashing water on her face. The water’s chill made her suck in a breath.

  They had halted in the bottom of a rocky valley. The bulk of huge mountains reared high above them, and a clear burn trickled through the vale. The water was icy and fresh. Filling her cupped hands with it, Adaira drank deep before refilling their water skin. Around her a glittering frost carpeted the ground.

  She glanced behind her, at where Lachlann was in the midst of a long stretch. She heard the muscles and bones in his back and shoulders creak. It'd been a long, tiring night, but they couldn't rest yet.

  Adaira’s gaze settled upon Lachlann’s face. His expression was tense, his features strained. She’d felt the tension growing in him with each furlong they traveled from Talasgair. His mood put her on edge and worried her.

  Was he planning something? Would he betray her again?

  Adaira drew in a slow, steadying breath. The time had come for them to have a frank conversation. She’d been avoiding this moment, for he’d been evasive every time she’d tried to speak to him—yet a resolve now filled her.

  “What’s wrong, Lachlann?” Adaira asked, breaking the silence.

  Lachlann glanced toward her, his gaze narrowing. “Nothing.”