by Jayne Castel
Lachlann sank into the hot water and released a long sigh.
Finally, he almost felt back to his old self.
He sat in the deep iron tub in his bed-chamber, a medium-sized room with a narrow window looking east over the hills behind Talasgair. Outside, daylight was fading, and the sky was ablaze with red and gold.
It felt good to be back here. It was a drafty, damp space, and cold in winter despite the hearth that burned against one wall—yet this afternoon it felt as spacious and warm as his father’s solar.
The servant had added a drop of lavender oil to the water, and the scent wafted through the damp air. Lachlann closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell reminded him of summer, of the courtyard garden on the southern edge of the keep.
Never again would he take the sweet scent of freedom for granted.
Home. His return was bitter-sweet. He was pleased to be here, but circumstances had made things awkward.
On one level he was relieved his father still lived—just because they’d never gotten on didn’t mean he wished the old man dead—but on another it complicated life. With Morgan Fraser in charge, he would resume his role as captain of Talasgair Guard, which often took him away from the broch for days at a time. That didn’t please Lachlann, for he’d have preferred to stay close to Talasgair. He wanted to keep an eye on his scheming younger brother. Even before Lachlann’s capture, Lucas had been forever trying to ingratiate himself with their father.
And then there was Adaira. Lachlann couldn’t help her at present, and that frustrated him. He hated having his hands tied like this.
Lachlann let out a long sigh, sinking deeper into the hot water.
The crash of the door flying open and slamming against the wall, yanked Lachlann from his reverie. His gaze snapped up to see Lucas striding into his bed-chamber. “What are ye doing in here?” his brother boomed. “The men are still celebrating yer return downstairs. They want stories and boasts of yer escape from Dunvegan.”
“They’ll have to wait,” Lachlann drawled back. He pushed himself up, retrieved a cake of lye soap, and began to scrub under his arms. Despite his sea-water bath, his skin itched with filth. “I’m busy.”
Lucas pulled up a stool and lowered his heavily muscled bulk onto it. Lachlann eyed his brother. Lucas seemed to get bigger by the year. Folk here had nicknamed him ‘The Giant of Talasgair’, such was his height and breadth. He was formidable in a fight although Lachlann was quicker. He’d always been the fastest of the four of them—but that hadn’t helped him during the battle against the MacLeods.
“I’ve just been to see Da,” Lucas said after a pause. “If ye take his chair again, he’ll have ye flogged.”
Lachlann threw back his head and gave a belly laugh. “Bootlicking worm … I should have known ye would go straight to him.”
Lucas’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t reply to the insult. “Da wants to know if ye have had yer way with the MacLeod lass.”
Lachlann stopped soaping himself and favored Lucas with a slow, dark look. However, he didn’t answer.
“Well, have ye?”
“What is it to him?”
His brother gave an off-hand shrug. “Who knows … maybe he’s worried she’s carrying yer brat. He might have to kill her for that.”
A chill feathered across Lachlann’s naked skin despite the heat of the bath water. He thought back to the kiss he’d shared with Adaira and of how he’d wanted to take it further. It was just as well he hadn’t.
“I never touched her,” he lied. A kiss was a touch. “As far as I know, she’s still a maid.” That was the truth at least.
Silence fell between them then. Lachlann resumed soaping himself, although the pleasure he’d found in his bath had gone. He wished his brother would take himself off and leave him in peace. Lucas’s toadying toward their father irritated him. He’d only been back at Talasgair a few hours and already his brother, the one who’d stood to inherit if Lachlann had never returned home, was seeking to undermine him.
Ye won’t get my lands, ye bastard, he thought grimly. Over my dead body.
Lucas heaved himself off the stool and rose to his feet, towering over Lachlann. “I’ll leave ye to it,” he said. His gaze was shuttered.
Lachlann watched his brother leave the chamber, slamming the door behind him with his usual finesse.
Heaving a sigh, Lachlann sank down under the water. The heat enveloped him like a soothing blanket. Resurfacing, he reached for the cake of lye soap once more and started to soap his wet hair.
A frown furrowed his forehead as he did so.
No doubt Lucas would go straight to their father.
Chapter Thirteen
The Happy News
“YE WANTED TO see me?”
Lachlann stepped inside his father’s bed-chamber to find the healer tending to Morgan Fraser’s wounds.
“Aye,” his father rasped. “Come in, and shut the door.”
The healer, Domhnall, smeared salve over an ugly scab that stretched down the chieftain’s naked flank. Domhnall was a portly man of middling years; his kindly face was tense in concentration as he worked.
One glance at that wound told Lachlann that his father was indeed lucky to still be alive. Though healing, the gash looked angry and sore.
“Had a good look at my war-wound, eh?” His father’s voice was sharp. “I can assure ye it looked far worse a few days ago.”
“Aye, it did,” Domhnall agreed with a grimace. “But it’s healing well now … ye shall make a full recovery, milord.”
“Good to hear,” Lachlann replied, his mouth quirking. He swore his father was indestructible. He’d be well into middle age himself before Morgan Fraser went to his cairn.
“Wrap the wound now, Domhnall,” Morgan grunted. He was frowning. Even a moment or two in his presence and Lachlann was already wearing upon him. “I want to speak to my son alone.”
“Aye, milord.” The healer gave a brisk nod before reaching for a clean linen bandage. “This shouldn’t take long.”
The healer worked deftly, wrapping the chieftain’s torso with practiced ease. While the healer finished tending to his patient, Lachlann took up a place next to the window. It was a grey, windy morning outdoors. Leaden clouds moved sluggishly across the sky, promising stormy weather to come. Despite the chill in the air, his father had insisted Domhnall left the window open.
A short while later the healer collected his basket of healing powders, tinctures, unguents, and bandages, and hurried from the chamber. After Domhnall had departed, Lachlann remained silent. He watched his father with a hooded gaze, arms folded across his chest. Two days had passed since he’d returned to Talasgair; he’d been awaiting another summons.
“Have ye seen the MacLeod lass since ye locked her up?” Morgan asked finally.
Lachlann shook his head. “No … why?”
His father’s mouth thinned. He didn’t appreciate Lachlann answering with another question. “The girl is refusing to eat.”
Lachlann nodded. This wasn’t news to him. He’d already heard the same. The cook had ranted that they should let the MacLeod scold starve rather than allow good food go to waste. Half the time, Adaira hurled the food back in the faces of the servants. She’d broken over half a dozen clay bowls and cups in the past two days. Nonetheless, the cook dutifully sent up trays at each mealtime as instructed.
“She’s unhappy,” Lachlann pointed out, “and angry.”
“With ye, no doubt.”
Lachlann shrugged. “With the world.”
“Do ye think MacLeod will come after his daughter?”
Lachlann shook his head. “Only if he knows she’s here. Once he exhausts his search on Skye … he’ll think we’ve crossed to the mainland.”
He was aware that his father was observing him keenly then, with a cunning glint in his eye that Lachlann knew well.
“It suits me that Adaira MacLeod doesn’t waste away to skin and bone,” Morgan said softly. “She must
live.”
Lachlann’s gaze narrowed. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It made the fine hair on the back of his neck prickle. “Ye have decided what to do with her then?”
Morgan Fraser leaned back against the pillows, wincing as he did so. “Domhnall says I’ll be well enough to resume my old duties by Samhuinn. I plan to wed Adaira MacLeod on that date.”
For a heartbeat Lachlann merely stared at his father. Had he misheard? “Ye will wed her?”
The Fraser chief’s mouth curved into a rare smile. “Aye.”
Lachlann didn’t move from his position against the window sill. “Why?”
“MacLeod robbed me of a wife,” Morgan growled. “And I will rob him of a daughter.”
Lachlann drew in a slow, steadying breath. “Malcolm MacLeod will be rabid when he hears ye have wed Adaira,” he pointed out. “Do ye want to reignite feuding between ye?”
His father’s face tightened into a hard line. “The feud still lives,” he spat out the words. “And so does my enemy. This will hurt him in a way no blade could. He’ll bleed where no one can see.”
Vindictiveness dripped from Morgan’s voice. The hatred he bore MacLeod was no natural thing; it had soured into an illness of late.
Morgan Fraser spoke little of Lachlann’s mother—the woman who’d borne him four strapping sons—but all at Talasgair knew how he’d loved Una. He’d sworn never to remarry, not while she still lived. But he would break that promise now if it was for vengeance.
Silence fell in the chamber. Lachlann digested this news before realizing that it sat ill with him. His father wore a gloating expression. Adaira was nothing more than a weapon in his hands.
“Can I go now?” Lachlann asked finally. He’d had enough of his father’s scheming.
“Not yet,” Morgan replied. He’d been observing Lachlann with a hard, predatory gaze, watching his reaction to the news. “I have a task for ye, son.”
Lachlann pushed himself off the sill. “Aye, what is it?”
“I want ye to be the one to inform Lady Adaira of the happy news. Go up and tell her now.”
Lachlann climbed the stairwell to the tower room, his jaw clenched with anger.
Vicious bastard.
This was punishment, although for what Lachlann wasn’t sure. Sometimes when Lachlann looked into his father’s eyes, he thought he saw dislike there. Father and son often clashed. Lucas had once told Lachlann it was because they were too alike—but Lachlann hadn’t liked that.
I’m nothing like that bitter old curmudgeon.
Reaching the landing before the door, Lachlann halted. He wasn’t going to enjoy this, yet it was best to get it over with quickly.
He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
“Get out!”
A tray flew at his head. Lachlann ducked, and the missile clattered against the pitted stone wall.
He closed the door and backed up against it, ducking again as half a loaf of bread flew at him. He wasn’t fast enough this time, and the bread bounced off his temple. Lachlann reeled back. The bread was stale and had a hard crust.
Cursing, Lachlann rubbed his forehead, his gaze settling on the fury who faced him. “Was that necessary?” he growled.
“Aye,” she spat. “Leave! I have no wish to see or speak to ye.”
Lachlann’s gaze traveled over her bedraggled form. Her brown hair was wild and dirty. She’d lost weight, even in the two days she’d been in here. He could see it in the delicate lines of her face. The green kirtle and cream léine she wore were both soiled and in need of laundering. She clenched her fists at her sides, the remnants of her last untouched meal scattered over the floor.
However, it was not her appearance that took Lachlann aback, but her eyes. They were desolate, lost.
Adaira MacLeod was suffering.
Lachlann opened his mouth to speak before hesitating. He knew he could lack charm—but then it didn’t matter how he phrased this news, she wasn’t going to like it.
“Adaira,” he began, gentling his voice as if talking to a nervous horse. “My father has decided yer fate.” Their gazes met and held. “Ye will wed him … at Samhuinn.”
His voice died away, leaving a deep silence in its wake.
For a long moment Adaira merely stared at him. Then he watched as her face drained of color and her eyes rolled back in her head. Lachlann stepped forward to catch Adaira as she collapsed upon the floor.
Chapter Fourteen
Despair
WHEN ADAIRA CAME to, she felt someone stroking her cheek. The touch was soft, although the skin was slightly rough: a man’s hand.
Adaira’s eyes flickered open, and she looked up into Lachlann Fraser’s face.
Like a breaking wave, the memory of his news crashed over her.
I am to be Morgan Fraser’s wife.
Tears leaked from Adaira’s eyes, trickling down her face.
Lachlann stared down at her. A shadow moved in his eyes. His face was serious, and a nerve flickered in his cheek. He drew his hand back from her face. “Are ye well?”
Hysteria bubbled up within Adaira. “No,” she rasped.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position and closed her eyes for a moment. Her head still spun, although she supposed lack of food was partially to blame for her faint. Adaira covered her face with her hands. “Leave me, Lachlann … please,” she whispered.
When he didn’t move, she tried to stand up. However, her knees buckled under her. Lachlann was there in an instant, supporting her.
“Sit down on the bed, Adaira.” He guided her over to the pallet and lowered her down onto it. Then he hunkered down so that their gazes were level. There was concern on his face now. “I’m going to bring ye up another tray of bread and stew,” he said, his voice low and firm, “and ye are going to eat it. Ye will make yerself sick if ye continue to refuse food.”
Adaira’s mouth twisted, even as despair pressed down upon her. “Good.”
Lachlann huffed a frustrated breath. “Ye don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Lachlann frowned. “If ye don’t eat, Da will have servants force ye.” He gave her a long, steady look. “Ye won’t escape him by starving yerself, Adaira. Da’s a powerful man. He nearly always gets what he wants.”
She stared at him, anger welling like a springtide within her. Adaira welcomed the sensation, for it quelled the urge to start weeping uncontrollably. “This is all yer fault,” she rasped the words. “I hate ye, Lachlann Fraser.”
His mouth compressed. “And ye are welcome to … but it changes nothing.”
Adaira’s right hand balled into a fist. She longed to strike him. He was so hard, so arrogant. The man didn’t have an ounce of pity in him.
But Adaira didn’t hit him. Instead, she pressed her fist into the straw-stuffed mattress. Her short spell at Talasgair had taught her that the Frasers were ruthless. Morgan Fraser had treated her harshly, and his sons were cut of the same cloth. Lachlann hadn’t raised a hand to her when she’d fought him on the shore below the fortress, but he might now.
No wonder Una fled this place.
For the first time, Adaira felt some sympathy for her step-mother. She’d never liked Una much but now realized why she’d left Morgan Fraser. No woman could abide such an arrogant man.
Thinking about Una reminded Adaira of her father, her sisters, and everything she’d left behind at Dunvegan. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. She wished now that she’d never run away.
Lachlann rose to his feet before her. Adaira’s gaze didn’t follow him. She merely stared down at her bare feet and wished him gone.
“Ye need to eat,” he said gruffly. “I’ll return shortly with something from the kitchen.”
“Why the grim face?”
Lachlann glanced up from his half-eaten trencher of stew to find Lucas watching him. They sat at the chieftain’s table in the Great Hall with Niall and Tearlach. The high-backed carven chair where the chieftain usuall
y sat was still empty—Lachlann had heeded his father’s warning. It would be a few more days yet before Morgan Fraser would be well enough to join his kin and retainers at mealtimes.
“I spoke to Da,” Lachlann replied, reaching for a cup of ale.
Understanding lit in his brother’s eyes. “So, the lass knows?”
Lachlann nodded. He took a deep draft of wine, draining his cup. It was plum—sour and strong. It suited his mood. He reached for a ewer and refilled the cup to the brim.
“What’s wrong?” There was a goading tone to Lucas’s voice. “Wanted her for yerself, did ye?”
Lachlann favored him with a dark look and took another gulp of wine. He wouldn’t respond to that question, although if Lucas continued to goad him, he’d answer with his fist instead.
Lachlann took another gulp of wine. Do I want her for myself? The question rose, unbidden.
He hadn’t liked seeing Adaira MacLeod in that state, and he knew he was responsible for it—but that didn’t mean he was jealous of his father claiming her. Even so, his mood had been black ever since he’d departed from her chamber. He’d brought a fresh tray of food up to her and stood over her while she slowly ate it. Neither of them had spoken a word.
“It’ll seem strange to have Lady Adaira as a step-mother,” Niall spoke up, helping himself to another bowl of boar stew. “She’s younger than any of us.”
“I can’t believe he’s wedding her,” Tearlach grumbled. “She’s a MacLeod for God’s sake.”
“I can see the appeal,” Lucas replied, favoring his brothers with a wolfish grin. “MacLeod or not, the lass is a bonny wee thing.” He cast Lachlann a look, his grin widening. “The old dog will live forever now.”
Niall and Tearlach laughed at that, but Lachlann said nothing. He’d had enough of this topic. He took another gulp of wine, his gaze traveling around the hall. Most of the retainers had finished their nooning meal and were getting up to return to their chores. Some, however, lingered over a cup of wine. Without their chieftain’s strict eye upon them, they relaxed more than usual. Since returning, Lachlann had noticed there were a number of faces missing among the men here.
