The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2) Page 18

  He grappled with the hands around his throat, grabbed hold of the little finger of MacLeod’s right hand, and yanked it back.

  The crack of breaking bone sliced through the air.

  Malcolm MacLeod gave a shout of agony and let go of him. Lachlann rolled away, choking, before bouncing up into a crouching position. The back of his skull ached, as did his throat, but he was ready for the bastard, should he come at him again.

  MacLeod glowered at him, tears of pain glittering in his eyes. Then he drew his dirk with his left hand. “I’m going to gut ye, Fraser.”

  “No!”

  A small body hurtled in between them.

  “Adaira!”

  Lachlann reached for her arm, but she ducked out of his grasp. Instead, she faced her father, stepping forward so that the sharp tip of his dirk nearly touched her breast.

  “Get back, Adaira,” MacLeod ordered, biting out the words. “Don’t interfere.”

  She shook her head, her gaze never leaving his. “No, Da. Not until ye promise to let Lachlann be.”

  “Foolish lass.” His voice was a low, threatening growl. “Don’t ever stand in my way. Once I deal with Fraser, I’ll find a suitable punishment for ye.”

  “No!” Her voice lashed across the kirk. Lachlann saw the high spots of color that had appeared on her cheeks. She wasn’t just upset, she was incensed. “I can’t live the life ye have chosen for me. Let me be free … let me be happy with the man I love.”

  Lachlann’s breathing hitched. He stepped forward, reaching for Adaira’s arm, but a strong hand clasped around his shoulder and hauled him back. He twisted to see Taran behind him. The warrior’s scarred face was grim. “Leave her,” he warned, his voice low. “Let Adaira finish this.”

  Malcolm MacLeod’s slate-grey gaze narrowed. “He’s a Fraser,” he spat. “Why did ye have to fall in love with one of them?”

  Did Lachlann imagine it, or was there a quaver to the man’s voice. The madness was gone from his eyes. They now glittered. From the pain of his broken finger, or something else?

  Adaira’s throat bobbed. “The heart decides,” she whispered. “It doesn’t care for feuds or reckoning.” She paused here, and father and daughter shared a long silent look.

  Malcolm MacLeod’s face tensed, still fighting his outrage. “Morgan Fraser will crow over this … to know his son has wed a MacLeod.”

  No, he won’t, Lachlann thought grimly.

  Adaira shook her head. “Lachlann has broken with his father. We will leave Skye and start a new life elsewhere.”

  MacLeod stared at her. His mouth tightened, a nerve flickering in his cheek.

  When the clan-chief spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, although there was a raw edge to it. “I’ve failed ye, lass. Ye look at me as if I’m a beast.”

  Lachlann grew still as he watched. It was painful to see a proud man struggle so. He saw then that despite his foul temper and controlling ways, MacLeod did indeed love his daughters.

  “Let us be then,” Adaira’s voice, although quiet, carried across the silent kirk. “Let me love whomever I choose.”

  The priest stood a few feet away, his face ashen, while Rhona and Caitrin stood beside him, arms clasped around each other. The sisters’ faces were stricken.

  A long pause stretched out.

  “Da.” The pain in Adaira’s voice made Lachlann’s chest constrict. “Will ye give us yer blessing?”

  Another silence fell, this one heavy with tension. Lachlann watched MacLeod’s face and witnessed the struggle there. The man was fighting a war within. Pride and anger against a fierce love for his youngest daughter.

  The clan-chief closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest. His answer came in a whisper. “Aye, lass. I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Ten Lifetimes

  LACHLANN HELD ADAIRA close and buried his face in her hair. “Promise me that ye will never take such a risk again.” His voice held a raw edge. “Ye could have been injured … or worse.”

  Adaira squeezed her eyes shut. She buried her face in his chest, finding solace in the heat and strength of his body. “I promise,” she whispered back.

  She hadn’t wanted to intervene. But as she’d watched her father draw his dirk, she’d known he meant to slay Lachlann. Initially, he’d wanted to take him prisoner again, which would have been bad enough. But she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her father kill him.

  Lachlann could hold his own, she’d seen that. Yet he didn’t possess her father’s murderous rage. Few withstood it.

  She’d acted on instinct then.

  Lachlann pulled back and hooked a finger under her chin, raising her face so that their gazes met. His mouth quirked. “So ye love me, Aingeal?”

  Adaira huffed. “I was wondering when ye would bring that up.”

  “So … it isn’t true then?”

  They stood alone in the kirk. The others, including the priest, had left. Lachlann was watching her with a tender look that made a lump rise in Adaira’s throat.

  “Of course it’s true,” she whispered. “Do ye think I’d say such a thing if I didn’t mean it?”

  Lachlann smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It was a difficult situation … desperation might have driven ye to it.”

  Adaira swallowed, suddenly shy. “No,” she replied softly. “It just made me brave enough to say what was in my heart.”

  They left the Duntulm village kirk and walked, hand-in-hand, through the crofters’ hamlet beyond. The nooning meal approached. The aroma of baking bread and stew wafted out of the cottages’ open doors.

  Children, playing outdoors while their mothers readied the meal, called out to the couple.

  Adaira raised a hand and waved at them, although she couldn’t summon the energy to call out a greeting.

  After what she’d just endured, she felt utterly exhausted.

  Caitrin was putting on a special nooning meal for their father’s visit. They would all be gathering in the Great Hall for it soon. Adaira was tempted to retire to her chamber and hide away, yet she knew she and Lachlann would have to join them for the feast.

  Her father had swallowed his pride and given them his blessing. But his acceptance was brittle. She couldn’t risk offending him.

  Adaira glanced across at Lachlann. “Are ye happy to join the others in the Great Hall now?”

  He made a face. “As long as ye are sure yer father won’t try to gut me with a carving knife.”

  Adaira favored him with an arch look. “Not today, he won’t.”

  “Then, aye, I’ll join yer kin for the feast, although I can’t say I’ve much appetite.”

  Adaira linked her arm through his. “Me neither.”

  He placed a hand over hers and squeezed gently. “I wanted today to be special for ye. I’m sorry it wasn’t.”

  She glanced up at him. “It was special.”

  Lachlann snorted. “Until yer father barged in.”

  “Thank the Lord, Da didn’t interrupt us sooner.”

  He smiled, and the expression released the last of the lingering tension within Adaira. Lachlann Fraser had a smile that could warm the coldest day of winter.

  The smile turned wicked then. “Does this mean ye promise to obey me from now on … wife?”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. “Not at all … husband.”

  The aroma of rich boar stew filled the Great Hall. Lachlann dug a spoon into the dumpling that floated in the wooden bowl before him. The meal smelled incredible; a pity then that with Malcolm MacLeod glowering at him at the head of the table, he didn’t feel like eating. The healer had splinted MacLeod’s broken finger, and his right arm now hung in a sling.

  The table before them groaned under the weight of the feast Caitrin had put on for them. There were huge tureens of stew and dumplings, baskets of breads studded with walnuts, wheels of cheese, and a divine-smelling apple pudding. MacLeod had the look of a man who enjoyed such fare regularly. Howeve
r, he ate soberly, his storm-grey gaze never leaving Lachlann.

  A lilting harp melody accompanied the meal. A young woman with dark hair sat by the nearby hearth, a serene expression on her face as she played a soft tune.

  It did little to ease the tension in the Great Hall.

  Lachlann raised his cup of ale to his lips and glanced at Adaira. She sat beside him, silent and watchful. Like him, she ate slowly.

  “A delicious meal, Caitrin.” Rhona broke the ponderous silence with a forced smile. “Yer cook could teach Fiona and Greer a trick or two.”

  “Don’t ever mention such to them,” Taran replied with an arched eyebrow. “Fiona prides herself as Skye’s best cook.”

  Una huffed at that. Seated at MacLeod’s side, the woman wore a petulant expression. “She over-salts her stews, and her bannocks are too heavy,” Una said sourly.

  The comment earned her a dark look from her husband. “Fiona serves me well, wife,” he grumbled. “If ye think ye can do better, maybe I should send ye to toil in the kitchen.”

  Lachlann hid a smile behind his cup. Although he bore his father little good-will these days, he knew that Una had been the cause of much of Morgan Fraser’s bitterness and hate. She sailed through life, taking what she wanted and leaving wrecks behind her. Una had broken off a long-standing betrothal to wed Morgan Fraser. But she’d met her match in Malcolm MacLeod.

  The clan-chief shifted his gaze to Lachlann then, pinning him with a hard stare. “How is it ye managed to escape Dunvegan?” His voice was low with a threatening edge. “The guards at the Sea-gate swear they never saw ye.”

  “Do ye remember how I loved to explore when I was a bairn?” Adaira spoke up before Lachlann had time to ready a suitable reply. “Ye were forever telling me off for wandering through the dungeon?”

  Her father nodded, his expression wary.

  “Well, one day I discovered a hidden passage there … it leads out to the woods north-east of Dunvegan.”

  MacLeod tensed, his gaze narrowing. “What?”

  “After I drugged the guards and freed Lachlann, we escaped through it.”

  A nerve ticked in the clan-chief’s cheek. “Why didn’t ye ever tell me of this passage?”

  Adaira lowered her gaze, chastened. “I liked having a secret … I’m sorry, Da.”

  “And ye are the only one who knows of it? No one else was involved in this plan of yours?” MacLeod cut a hard glance toward Rhona. His voice was flinty now.

  Adaira shook her head.

  Lachlann drew in a slow breath, resisting the urge to look Rhona and Taran’s way. Wisely, Adaira had left them out of it.

  A brittle silence settled over the table.

  Lachlann let his gaze rest fully upon his father-in-law. Feeling the weight of his stare, MacLeod met his eye. He could see the resentment, the simmering anger that needed very little to ignite it.

  Although it galled him to do so, Lachlann knew his next words needed to weave peace, not antagonize.

  “I love yer daughter,” he said, his gaze never wavering. “And I will work for the rest of my life to prove myself worthy of her.”

  MacLeod’s mouth twisted, and he snorted, although the dislike in his eyes dimmed a little. “Ye would need ten lifetimes for that, Fraser.”

  Lachlann stood by the hearth in the Great Hall, nursing a goblet of wine. MacLeod and Una had retired to their chamber, while Adaira had gone off with her sisters. They would help her prepare for her wedding night.

  The emptiness of the hall soothed Lachlann. The crackle of the hearth and the richness of the wine eased the tension in his shoulders.

  This was a day he’d never forget. He’d wed the woman he loved, but MacLeod had almost ruined everything. The man was as tenacious as a maddened boar, and just as difficult to fight. He wasn’t sure how he’d have handled things if MacLeod had actually come at him with that dirk.

  All the same, he hated that Adaira had put herself in danger to save him.

  Lachlann ran a hand down his face. He had to do a better job of protecting her in future.

  “I misjudged ye, it seems.” Lachlann tore himself from his brooding and glanced up to see Taran MacKinnon standing next to him. “Ye aren’t the feckless bastard I took ye for.”

  The warrior wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was staring into the fire, his expression reflective. The firelight played over the two scars that slashed across his features. They were deep and ugly, and Lachlann wondered how he’d gotten them.

  Lachlann huffed, his fingers tightening around the goblet. “Ye seem like a good judge of character to me, MacKinnon.”

  Taran grunted. He glanced over at Lachlann, studying him. “Ye have balls, I’ll give ye that … few men stand up to MacLeod and live.”

  Lachlann’s mouth twisted. “I don’t think he appreciated what I had to say.”

  Taran laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Maybe not … but he’ll never forget it. Ye didn’t just defend Adaira in that kirk, but her sisters as well. Ye told him what he should have heard years ago.”

  Their gazes met, and for the first time since their meeting in Dunvegan dungeon, the flinty chill in the man’s eyes was gone. With a jolt Lachlann understood that Taran MacKinnon was very different to how he appeared. Beneath that scarred, forbidding appearance lay a kind, big-hearted soul.

  He’d helped Adaira escape Dunvegan after-all.

  Lachlann frowned, recalling the tense discussion during the feast earlier in the day. MacLeod was shrewd; he knew he’d not been told the full story. Lachlann had seen the naked suspicion in his eyes.

  “He doesn’t know about what happened after Adaira and I left Dunvegan, does he?” Lachlann asked. “About Talasgair … and my father?”

  “No … ye wouldn’t be drawing breath right now if he did.” Taran paused here, his gaze shadowing. “MacLeod doesn’t know Rhona and I helped Adaira either … and it’s best he never does.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Here We Are

  “YE HAVE ALREADY lain with him?” Rhona stared at Adaira, aghast.

  Adaira nodded.

  “When did this happen?” Rhona demanded. She placed her goblet of wine down on the table beside her with a thud. They sat in Caitrin’s solar, in high-backed chairs before the hearth.

  “On the journey here,” Adaira replied, her mouth quirking. Rhona’s shock was almost comical. “In a forest glade on the eve of Samhuinn.”

  Rhona swung her gaze round to Caitrin. Their eldest sister was looking down at her wine, a smile curving her lips. “Ye knew?”

  “Aye.” Caitrin glanced up, her smile widening. “Why do ye think I was so keen to see them wed? I had to make sure Fraser made an honest woman of her.”

  Adaira snorted.

  Rhona picked up her goblet once more and took a gulp of wine. She then fixed Adaira with an appraising look. “So … what was it like?”

  Adaira’s cheeks warmed. Her mind went blank as she struggled for a response that wouldn’t embarrass her or reveal too much. She couldn’t think of one.

  Rhona was smirking now. Her sister was giving her a knowing look that made her squirm. “I see,” she murmured, raising an eyebrow. “Words fail ye, do they?”

  Adaira make a small choking sound—rescued when Caitrin cleared her throat and cast Rhona a look of censure. “Stop teasing her.”

  “I only asked a simple question,” Rhona replied, all innocence.

  Caitrin then turned her attention back to Adaira. “Was he gentle with ye?” she asked. She wore a tense, pained expression. “A woman’s first time can be … traumatic.”

  Adaira met her gaze, her chest constricting when she saw that her sister’s blue eyes were shadowed. She knew then with certainty that Caitrin had never found any pleasure in Baltair MacDonald’s bed.

  Adaira’s heart ached for her. She wished her sister could know passion, tenderness, and trust in a man’s arms. She wished her to experience what she had with Lachlann.

  “Aye,” she said sof
tly. “He was gentle.”

  Caitrin smiled, although the expression held a melancholy edge. “I’m glad … I only want ye to be happy, Adi.”

  Adaira smiled back, her vision misting. “And I wish the same for ye.”

  Caitrin glanced away. “I am content now. I like feeling useful, having a purpose that goes beyond being a wife and a mother.” Her features tensed then. “I just hope Da doesn’t interfere.”

  “After today he might rethink the way he treats us,” Rhona replied.

  Caitrin looked up. “I can’t believe what Lachlann said to him.”

  “Or that he’s still breathing after saying it,” Rhona quipped.

  Adaira’s mouth curved. “Why do ye think I had to step in?”

  Rhona took a sip of wine, her expression turning wistful. “Do ye remember how we three used to sit in Ma’s solar and speculate about the men we’d one day marry?”

  Caitrin rolled her eyes. “Ye used to scoff at us. Ye were adamant that ye would wed no one.”

  “I was,” Rhona replied with a wry smile. “But fate had other plans for me.” Her gaze shifted to Adaira. “Ye were forever going on about how the man who’d one day win yer heart would be strong, valiant, and handsome. Have ye wed the man ye dreamed of?”

  Adaira took a measured sip from her own goblet. She knew Rhona was teasing her again, but she didn’t mind. The question made her think. “Lachlann is all those things,” she said quietly after a long pause. “But he’s also real. He can be impatient, arrogant—and infuriatingly stubborn. No one makes me as angry as him.”

  Caitrin huffed a laugh. “I’m glad to see ye aren’t blind to his faults.”

  Adaira shook her head, smiling. “I’m not perfect either. Lachlann exists in this world, not in my dreams … I prefer it that way.”

  “Aye, perfection is boring.” Rhona’s gaze met hers, before a wicked gleam lit in her eyes. “But seducing yer husband isn’t. Let’s talk about more pressing matters. What are ye going to wear to bed?”