The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2) Read online

  His opponent parried, bringing up his blade to block the attack. He then swiftly followed it up with a feint. Lachlann jumped to one side, narrowly avoiding the trap.

  The two men moved fast, circling each other as they lunged, attacked, feinted, and parried. Their wooden blades became a blur.

  Lachlann managed a circle parry, catching the tip of Taran’s sword with his own and deflecting it. He followed up with a swipe at Taran’s ribs, slamming into him with the flat of his blade. Taran’s hiss echoed across the bailey.

  Adaira held her breath. She’d seen few men beat Taran MacKinnon, but Lachlann was close to doing so.

  It was then that Lachlann realized Adaira was among the crowd.

  His gaze snapped her way, and he grinned.

  That was when Taran made his move; one moment of distraction was all he needed.

  He lunged and brought his blade down across the hilt of Lachlann’s wooden sword, where his fingers grasped. Lachlann reeled back, but Taran was still moving. He ducked past him and slammed his sword into Lachlann’s belly.

  Lachlann wheezed, as the breath gusted out of him, and sprawled backward onto the dirt.

  Adaira gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while around her the surrounding MacLeod and MacDonald warriors roared with approval.

  Standing over Lachlann, breathing hard, Taran grinned. “Novice’s mistake that … letting a woman distract ye.”

  Lachlann winced, propping himself up onto an elbow. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand. “Aye.” His gaze traveled back to Adaira again. Relief flooded through her when his mouth curved into a smile, swiftly followed by frustration. The man was irrepressible.

  Lachlann tore his attention from his wife and shot Taran a challenging look. “That’s round one to ye, MacKinnon. Best of three?”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  My North Star

  “RAIN’S ON ITS way … mark my words.”

  Adaira huffed in frustration and glanced up at the sky. “Nonsense. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky.”

  “Ye obviously haven’t looked north then,” Lachlann replied with a raised eyebrow, “at the enormous bank of rain clouds rolling toward us.” His brow furrowed then. “God’s bones, where are ye taking me, woman? We’ve been walking for hours.”

  “Oh, do stop complaining,” Adaira shot back, striding up the grassy hill. “We’re almost there.”

  The picnic had been her idea. Since their handfasting, they’d hardly had a quiet moment alone together. Her father’s presence at Duntulm dominated the whole keep. Their only refuge was their bed-chamber.

  Reaching the brow of the hill, Adaira smiled. Ahead, the boughs of tall trees beckoned, but before the woodland ran a glittering burn. Caitrin had told her of this place and had suggested it was the ideal location for a husband and wife to spend a private afternoon together.

  “This is the spot!” She glanced over her shoulder at Lachlann. He carried a rolled up blanket under one arm and a basket in the other hand.

  “Thank Christ,” he muttered. “What did ye put in this basket—rocks?”

  Adaira relieved him of it with a sweet smile. The walk from Duntulm had been longer than she’d realized, and she’d packed rather a lot for their noon meal.

  “The effort will be worth it, my love,” she told him, stretching up on tip-toe to kiss him. “Ye shall see.”

  Lachlann smiled, his gaze gleaming as he took in his surroundings. “It’s a pretty spot … I’ll give ye that.”

  “Put down the blanket,” Adaira instructed. “I don’t know about ye, but I’m starving.”

  With a grin, Lachlann did as bid. Adaira settled down next to him and produced a large clay bottle from the basket. “Newly pressed cider.”

  His gaze widened. “No wonder that basket was so heavy … how did ye manage to get yer hands on that?”

  Adaira favored him with a conspirator’s grin. “I made a plea to Caitrin.”

  “Generous lass.” Lachlann took the bottle from her and poured out two cups of cider. “She comes across a bit stern at times, but it’s good to see there’s a heart in there.”

  “Caitrin hasn’t had an easy time of it,” Adaira murmured, her buoyant mood ebbing as it sometimes did when she thought of what her sister had endured. “Baltair MacDonald was a cruel man,” she added with a shudder.

  Lachlann’s gaze narrowed. “A shadow passed over yer face when ye said his name … did he do something to ye?”

  Adaira paused, considering whether to tell him. Lachlann was her husband; there shouldn’t be any secrets between them. “He started taking a liking to me during his visits to Dunvegan,” she admitted. “I didn’t notice at first, but then I caught him staring at me at mealtimes. The day after Caitrin gave birth, he cornered me and tried to kiss me. Rhona interrupted him, thankfully.”

  Lachlann’s expression turned thunderous, and Adaira was glad that Baltair MacDonald was dead. Even so, his protectiveness, his concern, warmed her. “Worry not,” she assured him softly. “Baltair never had the opportunity to corner me again.” She paused then and took a sip of cider. It was light and fruity. “Before ye met me, I could be a bit silly. Both Rhona and Caitrin warned me that I trusted too readily and always thought the best of folk … even when they’d done nothing to merit it.”

  Lachlann watched her, his expression softening. “I cured ye of that, didn’t I?”

  “Ye did.”

  He glanced away. “I destroyed something in ye, Adaira. I’ll always be sorry for that.”

  “No, ye didn’t,” she replied, reaching out a hand and placing it on his arm. “Ye forged me.”

  He looked up, surprised. “What?”

  “I was a bit helpless before we met. I’d never have escaped Dunvegan if it weren’t for Rhona and Taran. Ye forced me to see the world as it really is. Ye made me strong, like a tempered blade.”

  His mouth compressed. “Aye, but it was a high price to pay, Aingeal.”

  “A price we both paid,” she said softly, holding his gaze. “We gave up different things, but in the end it was the making of us.”

  Lachlann inhaled slowly, his moss-green eyes darkening. “Ye are my north star, Adaira. Every time I look at ye, I’m reminded of what really matters.”

  Their gazes held for a long moment, before Adaira smiled. “Aye, that’s why I wanted us to come here today. I never see my husband.”

  He gave her an arch look. “The Lady of Duntulm likes to keep me busy. I shoed half the horses in her stable yesterday. She wants me to do the other half tomorrow.”

  Adaira laughed before leaning back and retrieving a cloth wrapped parcel from the basket. “I think that’s why she let me bring these.” She pulled back the cloth to reveal a pile of pork and egg pies.

  A smile spread over Lachlann’s face. “Like I said before—she’s a generous lass.”

  Seated on the banks of the burn, they ate their meal and shared the bottle of cider. The day had started off unseasonably warm, but it grew chiller as the afternoon wore on. A wind sprang up, driving in from the north, and to Adaira’s chagrin she noted the dark clouds Lachlann had spied on the way here were now looming close.

  Presently, fat drops of rain started to patter across the ground.

  Adaira, who’d been lying on her side next to her husband, sat up and cursed.

  “What did I tell ye?” he said smugly.

  “No one likes a ‘know-it-all’,” she replied tartly. “Come on, help me pack up.”

  They’d just cleared away the remnants of their meal and were rolling up the blanket, when the heavens opened. Heavy sheets of rain sluiced across the hillside, battering them.

  “We’re going to get soaked,” Adaira cried, clutching the basket to her.

  “Come on.” Lachlann took hold of her arm and steered her toward the trees. “Let’s see if we can find shelter in the woods.”

  They dove for the tree line, ducking their heads under the pelting rain. Inside the woods they found a spreading oak t
o hide under. The tree had lost half its leaves, but it still provided some shelter. Shaking the rain from her hair, Adaira glanced over at Lachlann to find him grinning at her. “Don’t say a word,” she growled. “Ye insufferable man.”

  Lachlann’s grin turned wicked. “Insufferable, am I?”

  “Aye, ye love to be proved right.”

  He laughed and grabbed hold of Adaira, catching her so suddenly that she squealed and dropped her basket. Then, he pressed her up against the tree trunk and kissed her breathless. Around them the rain drummed down and thunder rumbled overhead.

  Eventually, tearing his mouth from hers, Lachlann trailed a burning line down her neck. “I took ye for the first time against an old oak like this one,” he murmured, his voice husky.

  Adaira sighed, arching her neck back to encourage his questing lips. She’d never forget that night. It had changed her life forever.

  “Shall I take ye again?” Lachlann whispered. He ran his hands down her back and rucked up her damp skirts. “Here in the rain?”

  Adaira’s breathing hitched, fire surging through her veins. “Aye,” she breathed.

  Lachlann raised his head from her. “I didn’t hear ye, wife.” His hand slid up the bare skin of her thigh. “Do ye want me to stop?”

  “No,” she gasped. She tangled her fingers through his wet hair, pushing his face back down to her exposed neck. “But ye can cease talking now.”

  Epilogue

  Always

  ADAIRA HATED GOODBYES.

  She knew it was cowardly, but she would have preferred to have stolen away under the cover of darkness than to have to bid her family farewell. Despite her happiness with Lachlann, and her excitement for their future together, she’d been dreading this moment.

  Two weeks had passed since their wedding. Malcolm MacLeod had continued to remain at Duntulm, as had Rhona and Taran. Caitrin seemed pleased to have the company and now that she’d made peace with her father, Adaira was relieved too. However, they all knew the moment to say goodbye was looming.

  The cool weather was setting in—Lachlann and Adaira needed to travel to the mainland before the first of the winter storms made the crossing treacherous. Adaira had put off naming their departure date, for she’d loved seeing her sisters again, spending long afternoons talking to them as they sewed, spun, or embroidered in Caitrin’s solar.

  But now here they all were, standing upon the jetty on the shore to the north of Duntulm village. She couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer.

  A brisk breeze blew in off the water, bringing with it a chill that drilled into Adaira’s bones. They’d delayed longer than they should have. Beside her, Lachlann cast Adaira a smile.

  “The boat’s ready, Aingeal. It’s time to go.”

  Adaira nodded, turning to the four figures standing behind her: Caitrin, Rhona, Taran, and Malcolm MacLeod. Her step-mother hung back, deliberately keeping her distance. Relations had been cool between Una and her step-daughters during the past two weeks. Adaira would shed no tears over leaving Una behind.

  Caitrin was weeping as she stepped forward and threw her arms around Adaira. “I’ll miss ye.”

  Adaira hugged her back, squeezing her eyes shut as tears leaked out. There wasn’t any point trying to stem them. It would only make saying goodbye harder. “Once we’re settled, come visit us.”

  “I will,” Caitrin replied, her voice husky. “I promise.”

  Caitrin stepped back, not bothering to wipe her wet cheeks. Even upset, there was a dignity to her sister, a regalness that Adaira knew she’d never possess. Caitrin could rule Duntulm as well as any man could.

  “Take care, lass.” Taran stepped forward and embraced her. The gruffness in his voice belied the warmth in his eyes. His gaze shifted to Lachlann. A look passed between the two men. Adaira had been surprised to discover that they’d become friends of late. They’d taken to sparring every morning in the practice yard and had gone out hunting together two days earlier. “Ye too, Fraser.”

  Lachlann nodded before smiling. “Keep working on yer feints. Ye often go to the left and give yerself away.”

  Taran snorted. “And ye are overconfident to a fault. I’d watch that.”

  Lachlann laughed.

  Rhona choked back a sob as she threw her arms around Adaira. “What will I do without ye?” The two of them had spent so much time together over the past fortnight that it had felt as if they’d gone back in time, to the days when neither had been wedded, to when their lives had followed the same path. But those days were gone now; this short period together had been a blessing—one that would always come to an end.

  “Ye will be fine,” Adaira whispered back. “I’m a nuisance anyway. I prattle too much and get on yer nerves.”

  “I’ll never complain about yer prattling again … I promise.” Rhona pulled away and scrubbed at her tears. Her cheeks had gone blotchy, and her eyes were red-rimmed, yet she was still beautiful.

  “Ye will visit me too?” Adaira asked, her gaze flicking between Rhona and Taran.

  Taran nodded. “As soon as we can.”

  Heaving a deep breath, Adaira turned to the last person who waited to say goodbye to her.

  Malcolm MacLeod had stood quietly, awaiting his turn. He watched Adaira, his grey eyes gleaming.

  “Goodbye, Da,” Adaira said softly. “I’ll miss ye too.”

  His throat bobbed. “Will ye, lass?”

  “Aye.” Adaira stepped close. She meant it too. They’d been through much of late, and there had been times when she’d hated her father. But all that was behind them now. Since their wedding day, MacLeod had slowly thawed toward Lachlann, to the point where he could now look at him without glowering. However, when she looked into her father’s eyes now, all Adaira could see was love.

  “Thank ye for sending word to Gylen Castle,” she whispered. “Yer blessing means a lot to me.” She stepped close to her father then and threw her arms about him. His girth made him difficult to embrace, and for a moment MacLeod just stood there, stone still. Adaira was about to pull-back, disappointed that he had not responded, when his arms went about her and squeezed tight.

  “Ye are a good girl,” he rumbled, his voice thick with emotion. “Ye have yer mother’s pure spirit and soft heart. She’d be proud to see ye now.”

  Adaira swallowed as more tears flowed, burning down her cheeks. Her father had never before said such a thing. He had no idea what his words meant to her.

  When she pulled away, she saw that his eyes glittered with tears. However, a moment later, he shifted his gaze to Lachlann and his mouth compressed. “Make sure ye look after my daughter, Fraser.”

  Lachlann inclined his head. “With my life.”

  Adaira waved until her arm ached, until the four figures on the jetty were merely specks in the distance. Even then she continued to watch, her gaze upon Duntulm’s lonely silhouette, perched upon the cliff-edge.

  The wind bit and clawed at her, stinging her wet cheeks. She pulled her fur mantle close and tried to ignore the emptiness in her chest. Lachlann sat next to her, but remained silent, giving her the time she needed. Meanwhile, the screech of gulls and the rhythmic splash of the oarsmen were the only sounds. Caitrin had asked four of her men to escort Adaira and Lachlann across the water and ensure they reached Argyle safely.

  Eventually, Adaira sniffed and withdrew a scrap of linen. Embroidered and scented with rose, it had been a gift from Caitrin that morning. Adaira dried her face and turned to her husband. “I hated that,” she whispered. “It feels as if someone just tore my heart out.”

  His gaze was soft as it met hers. “That’s because ye love more deeply and true than anyone I’ve ever met,” he replied, reaching out and brushing the last teardrops from her eyelashes. “There’s no shame in it. It’s why we all adore ye. A woman with yer capacity to love will never be alone.”

  A smile curved her mouth at his words. He spoke them with gruff sincerity.

  “Thank ye for understanding,” she w
hispered. “For putting up with my bossy sisters.”

  He huffed a laugh. “I’m glad ye had the chance to mend things with yer kin before ye went.”

  Adaira watched him, noting how his eyes shadowed then. Lachlann would not have such an opportunity with his brothers or father. He was dead to them now, or as good as dead if his path should ever cross theirs again.

  “I’m sorry yer family is lost to ye,” she murmured.

  He shook his head, flashed her a smile, and put his arm around Adaira’s shoulders, drawing her close. “Ye are my family now, Aingeal,” he replied softly. “The only one I’ll ever need.”

  The End.

  Read the next book in the series!

  Book #3 of The Brides of Skye, THE ROGUE’S BRIDE, is available on preorder now. Release date, June 20, 2019!

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  The heart never forgets. The widow trying to forge a new life for herself. The man she once spurned bent on revenge.

  Caitrin is a widow left to rule her husband’s territory alone. The survivor of a loveless, unhappy marriage, she vows never to let another man control her. Instead, she finds herself in charge of a vast estate.

  Alasdair MacDonald returns from war to discover his sister-in-law is chatelaine over his dead brother’s lands—territory that now belongs to him.

  Caitrin has haunted Alasdair’s dreams from the moment she spurned him years earlier. He’s never gotten over it, or forgiven her for breaking his heart by choosing his elder brother over him. Now he has a chance for vengeance, to take her young son and her new-found freedom from her. Only he soon discovers that his long dormant feelings for the beautiful widow can’t be so easily set aside.

  Read Chapter One of THE ROGUE’S BRIDE below: