The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2) Page 15

  “What will ye do now?” she asked softly. “Now that ye have given all that up.” Her pulse raced as she waited for his response. Last night had changed everything between them; suddenly she had to know what his plans were.

  Their gazes fused and held, tension rising between them. Adaira’s heart started to thunder against her ribs now.

  Lachlann tore his gaze away and looked out across the sound. “I don’t know,” he said roughly. “My focus for the moment is keeping ye safe.”

  Adaira swallowed. She hadn’t taken a bite of her bread and cheese, for her stomach had suddenly closed. “And after that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Lachlann’s attention swiveled to her once more. “Things will change soon, Adaira … once we reach Duntulm, we won’t be free to act as we please.”

  Adaira drew in a deep, steadying breath. “What are ye saying?”

  He held her eye. “I won’t find a warm welcome with yer sister. I’m an outlaw … she’ll want rid of me.”

  “We won’t have to stay with Caitrin long,” Adaira countered, her voice rising slightly. “We don’t have to wait. We could cross to the mainland immediately.”

  “And go where? Ye know Gylen Castle isn’t a safe choice.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll go somewhere else.”

  Lachlann’s mouth thinned. “Ye deserve better than that.”

  Adaira stared back at him, sickly panic rising within her. “Are ye going to abandon me?”

  Lachlann cursed, rising to his feet and scattering the remnants of his bread and cheese. “No, of course I’m not.”

  “So what are ye saying then?”

  He stared down at her, his face suddenly fierce. “I’d bind ye to me, Aingeal,” he said, his voice low and firm. “I’d make ye my wife … but I have nothing to offer ye but myself. No fortune, no lands. Only a price on my head that makes yer life forfeit as well.”

  Adaira stared up at him, her gaze widening. “Are ye proposing to me?”

  His throat bobbed. “Aye … and I’m making a mess of it.”

  Adaira’s breathing hitched. “No, ye aren’t,” she whispered. “Ye have just caught me by surprise. This all seems so sudden.”

  It was. Just two days earlier she’d hated him, and he’d seemed indifferent to her suffering. It felt like a lifetime ago now though.

  Lachlann loosed a deep breath, his gaze never leaving hers. “Time runs against us. I promised to look after ye … but I fear that soon something, or someone, will stop me.”

  Adaira swallowed. “Lachlann,” she said softly, her vision blurring. “Ye don’t have to wed me to keep me safe. I’d never let ye do that.”

  Lachlann shook his head, his expression turning strained. “What if I told ye that I’m in love with ye?” he rasped. “Would that change things?”

  Adaira’s lips parted in shock.

  “I can’t give ye a lady’s life,” he pressed on. “But I will protect ye … I will love ye.”

  Adaira drew in a shaky breath. Her mind whirled as she struggled to take his words in. His proposal, and his declaration, had completely thrown her—and yet underneath the confusion a warmth welled within her.

  Lachlann watched her for a long moment, a nerve feathering in his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Will ye be my wife, Adaira MacLeod?”

  Adaira drew in a shaky breath. Tears escaped then, spilling down her cheeks, but she smiled through them, joy flowering in her breast. “Aye,” she whispered back, “gladly.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Lady of Duntulm

  ADAIRA CRANED HER neck to view Duntulm’s proud outline against the darkening sky. Perched high upon a basalt cliff, the fortress overlooked a stretch of water called ‘The Minch’ and the isles of Tulm and Lewis in the distance.

  It was a bleak evening; a wind whipped in from the sea, and the sky had turned leaden with the promise of bad weather. Yet the sight of the MacDonald stronghold filled Adaira with such relief that her vision swam with tears.

  Caitrin. She’d see her again.

  They approached the castle over a hump-backed stone bridge spanning a river and then through Duntulm hamlet. The village was small, little more than a scattering of stone cottages around a central dirt square. The peaked roof of a kirk rose to the south. There were few folk about, just one or two women bringing in washing before the foul weather hit. Adaira breathed in the pungent odor of peat from cook fires and the aroma of what smelled like mutton stew.

  Her belly growled in response.

  They rode up the hill toward the keep. Adaira couldn’t think of any fortress as well defended as Duntulm. The steep cliffs provided protection on three sides while on the landward side a deep ditch surrounded the high curtain wall. Even Dunvegan, although bigger, wasn’t as secure.

  Peering around Lachlann, Adaira spied the outlines of men in the gloaming as they readied themselves to raise the drawbridge for the evening.

  “Wait!” Adaira called out. “We’re here to see Lady Caitrin!”

  That got the guards’ attention. They halted at the sound of Adaira’s voice, and the sight of the huge horse bearing down upon them, before shifting back to let them pass.

  A moment later the stallion thundered over the drawbridge and into the fortress.

  Lachlann swung down from his horse before helping Adaira to the ground. He craned his neck then, taking in the huge basalt keep and tower that reared overhead. This was his first visit to Duntulm. Perched on a lonely cliff top and commanding a view for many furlongs distant, the castle was an impressive sight.

  His attention shifted to the steps that led up to the entrance to the keep, where a tall man with long pale-blond hair tied back at the nape of his neck descended. Clad in leather and plaid, his expression forbidding, the warrior reached the bailey courtyard and strode across to greet the newcomers.

  “Good evening.” His voice was as unfriendly as his expression. “Who are ye, and what business brings ye to Duntulm?”

  Lachlann opened his mouth to reply, for he was used to taking charge in situations like this. However, this time he hesitated. His name wasn’t one he should be speaking loudly on this island, if at all.

  “My name is Lady Adaira MacLeod, and this is my escort,” Adaira replied confidently, meeting the warrior’s gaze. “I’m here to see my sister.”

  The man’s eyes widened. His expression softened a little. “Lady Adaira … does yer father know ye are here?”

  Adaira’s mouth thinned. “No … and no one is to tell him.”

  The warrior nodded slowly, his gaze shifting to Lachlann. His expression hardened.

  Tensing under the scrutiny, Lachlann knew this man guessed at his identity. The flame-red hair of the Frasers of Skye was well-known on the isle. One glance at him and folk could guess his parentage.

  “Does yer escort have a name?” the guard asked, still staring at Lachlann.

  “Aye, but it’s best I keep it to myself right now,” Lachlann answered.

  Adaira broke the tense silence that followed, stepping in front of Lachlann so that she drew the man’s gaze. “What is yer name?”

  “I’m Darron MacNichol,” he said after a pause, dragging his attention back to Adaira. “Captain of Duntulm Guard.”

  Adaira raised her chin. “Captain MacNichol … please take us to my sister.”

  MacNichol nodded, his face turning grim once more. “Follow me.”

  The captain led the way into the keep. They crossed a wide entrance hall and began to climb a narrow stone stairwell. On the way up, Lachlann noted how different Duntulm was to his father’s fortress. Talasgair was a blend of the past and the present—an ancient broch attached to a newer tower—but Duntulm was an imposing rectangular-shaped keep. The main tower rose four floors high. It was a solid fortress, with walls over two feet thick, and built of the same basalt as the cliffs on which it perched.

  MacNichol led them to a solar on the third level of the keep. It was a larg
e chamber with two windows: one looking south over green hills, the other facing north across the sea. A fire roared in the hearth, casting the chamber in a warm glow.

  “Wait here,” the captain ordered. “Lady Caitrin will be with ye shortly.”

  He left them alone then. Lachlann and Adaira shared a look. He could see the excitement in her eyes; she couldn’t wait to see her sister. However, Lachlann didn’t share the feeling. He knew this meeting wasn’t going to go as smoothly as Adaira hoped it would.

  Reaching out, he stroked her cheek. However, he jerked his hand away when he heard footsteps rapidly approaching outside the solar.

  “Adaira!”

  Lady Caitrin MacDonald flew through the door and launched herself at her youngest sister.

  Lachlann backed up, giving the pair of them space.

  Caitrin was as he’d heard her described: tall and willowy with hair the color of sea-foam. Dressed in mourning black, she was a striking sight. It reminded Lachlann of looking upon a frosty morning. Beautiful, yet cold.

  A large set of iron keys hung from a girdle around Caitrin’s waist, revealing her status here as chatelaine of Duntulm. The keys rattled as she pulled back from Adaira. Tears streaked her face.

  “God’s Bones, Adi,” she gasped. “When I heard ye had run away, I thought ye lost forever.”

  Adaira wiped away her own tears. “As ye can see, I’m not lost.”

  Lachlann moved back farther, edging toward the hearth. He was intruding here.

  Eyes glittering, Caitrin reached out and stroked Adaira’s cheek. “Da scoured the isle looking for ye. He even sent men to Gylen Castle,” she said softly, “and when they said ye weren’t there either, I imagined the worst.”

  Caitrin broke off there, her gaze shifting to Lachlann for the first time. The tenderness on her face disappeared, and her gaze narrowed. Although Lachlann hadn’t introduced himself to Darron MacNichol, the man would know who he was—and he would have informed his mistress. A Fraser: her father’s escaped prisoner.

  Caitrin looked back at Adaira, her frown deepening. “Where have ye been all this time?”

  Adaira heaved in a deep breath. “Do ye want to sit down?”

  Her sister shook her head, folding her arms across her breasts. “I’d prefer to stand—go on.”

  Adaira cast a look over her shoulder at Lachlann. He could see the concern in her eyes, but Lachlann merely nodded. They both knew this wouldn’t end well. It couldn’t be helped or avoided though.

  Turning back to her sister, Adaira began to speak. And as she did so, Lachlann stood in silence, watching Caitrin’s face.

  The woman didn't give much away. Yet when Adaira revealed that Lachlann had betrayed her, taking her back to Talasgair rather than to the mainland as promised, Caitrin’s expression altered. Her blue eyes hardened, and her jaw tensed.

  Adaira pressed on, explaining how she was locked in the tower and informed by Morgan Fraser that she was to become his wife. She chronicled her time at Talasgair, finishing with how Lachlann had freed her on the eve of Samhuinn.

  “We hope Morgan Fraser won’t follow us here,” Adaira concluded, with another glance at Lachlann. “For he’ll have to cross MacLeod lands to do so.”

  Caitrin didn’t answer. Her face, even when she looked upon her sister, had gone stony.

  Adaira stepped forward, and took one of her sister’s clenched hands, squeezing it. “We won’t impose on ye for long,” she continued. “As soon as it’s safe, Lachlann and I will travel to the mainland.”

  “Ye can’t go to Gylen Castle,” Caitrin replied, her voice clipped. “Da has left instructions with our uncle to send word if ye ever turn up there.”

  “Then we’ll go somewhere else,” Adaira countered. “Will ye give us shelter in the meantime? Da must never know though.”

  A ponderous silence fell in the solar, broken only by the crackling of the hearth.

  Caitrin drew in a long measured breath, before she eventually replied. “Of course I will give ye shelter, my sister,” she murmured. “Da has stopped searching for ye, for now, so ye should be safe here.”

  Caitrin then swung her gaze to Lachlann, favoring him with a baleful look.

  Lachlann tensed. He knew what was coming next.

  “I thank ye for bringing my sister here,” she said coldly. “But at first light tomorrow ye will leave Duntulm.”

  Lachlann held her eye. He hadn’t opened his mouth once during the sisters’ reunion and knew that to do so now would only damn him. Even so, Lady Caitrin’s imperious attitude was starting to chafe.

  Adaira surprised him then.

  He’d thought she’d appeal to her sister, plead with her. But instead she moved back and stood next to Lachlann, her arm curling around his waist. Instinctively, he looped his arm over her shoulder in response.

  “No,” Adaira said softly. “Lachlann stays here … with me.”

  The Lady of Duntulm stared at Adaira, her face paling. Her gaze shifted from Adaira to Lachlann as realization dawned. “This man’s a self-serving liar,” she finally managed. “Ye shouldn’t have anything more to do with him.”

  Adaira shook her head, and when she answered, there was steel in her voice. “This man will be my husband soon. We will not be parted.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  One Chance

  CAITRIN’S SLENDER JAW tightened. Adaira could see anger flickering in her sister’s eyes, yet she didn’t care. A thrill had gone through her as she’d stood up to Caitrin. Like Rhona, her eldest sister had a habit of thinking she knew what was best for her.

  Not anymore.

  Caitrin heaved in a deep breath and smoothed her hands upon her skirts. Then, her attention settled upon Lachlann. “Can ye give me a few moments alone with my sister?”

  Lachlann inclined his head before nodding. Adaira tensed and looked up at him, but he merely smiled. “I should see to my horse,” he murmured. Reaching down, he gave Adaira’s hand a gentle squeeze.

  With a nod to Caitrin, he left the solar.

  Silence followed him.

  Caitrin waited a few moments, before she pinned Adaira with a hard look. “Please tell me ye haven’t lain with him?”

  Adaira held her gaze. Her first instinct was to deny the accusation—what business was it of Caitrin’s anyway? But then stubbornness intervened. She’d not lie or pretend she was ashamed of what had passed between her and Lachlann.

  However, she didn’t need to say anything. Her face told the whole story.

  Caitrin groaned and ran a hand over her face. “Satan’s Cods, no!” Her sister then crossed to the mantelpiece and poured herself a goblet of wine, which she took a large gulp from before turning on Adaira. “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “But he betrayed ye.” Caitrin shook her head as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “He gave ye to his father … a man who would have made ye his whore.”

  The harshness of her sister’s words made Adaira flinch. Caitrin had changed. Time was, she’d never have said such things. “Morgan Fraser never touched me.”

  Caitrin glared at her. Her face was ashen, high spots of color upon her cheek bones. “Aye … but his son has.”

  “And I welcomed his touch.”

  “Ye are too trusting. Rhona and I always warned ye that some man would take advantage of it … and the worst sort has!”

  “Enough!” Adaira’s temper finally snapped. Caitrin spoke to her as if she was an empty-headed goose. She’d not tolerate it a moment longer. “Ye think ye know me, but ye don’t. I have the wits to know a good man from a bad one.”

  Caitrin’s eyes grew huge, and she drew back as if Adaira had just slapped her. “I’m just trying to protect ye,” she replied, a rasp to her voice. “I thought ye were dead. And then ye turn up alive and well, with this awful tale. How do ye expect me to react?”

  “I expect ye to listen to me. To trust my word.”

  “But that man’s a Fraser! He’s—”

&nbs
p; “Going to be my husband. He loves me, Caitrin.”

  Adaira moved over to the hearth and sank down into a chair. Her legs felt weak. Caitrin muttered an oath and took a seat opposite. Her fingers clenched around the stem of the goblet she clutched. Watching her, Adaira noted the lines of tension that bracketed her sister’s mouth. Despite that he’d been dead over three months now, her marriage to Baltair MacDonald had taken its toll. Adaira had little idea of what Caitrin had endured during the two years she’d been wedded, for her eldest sister kept her own counsel, yet the change in Caitrin spoke volumes.

  “Love is the easy part,” Caitrin murmured, staring into the fire. “But what happens when ye are living rough, eight months gone with a bairn? Will love fill yer belly and keep ye warm when ye are both living on gruel in the midst of winter?”

  “Lachlann knows how to survive,” Adaira replied tightly, “and I’m not completely useless either.”

  Caitrin favored her with a condescending look that made Adaira’s anger rise once more. Caitrin had often resorted to such expressions when Adaira said or did things she thought immature.

  Leaning forward, Adaira held her sister’s eye boldly. “I’m not who I was, Caitrin. I’ll never be a lady now … not like ye.” Her voice was low and steady, even if her heart raced. “For the first time in my life I can choose my own path. Ye of all people should understand what that means.”

  Caitrin stared back at her. The scorn drained from her face, replaced by a fragility Adaira had never seen before. Her eyes glistened, and for a moment it seemed she would weep. Then, Caitrin inhaled deeply, mastering her reaction. “But are ye sure of him?” she asked finally, a husky edge to her voice. “I also know what it means to make the wrong choice.”

  “Lachlann understands me, and I know he’ll keep me safe.” Adaira’s mouth curved into a soft smile. “I’m happy to be an outlaw’s bride.”