by Jayne Castel
Chapter Sixteen
A Feast for the Betrothed
“YE WILL JOIN the chieftain and his kin for supper this evening,” the maid informed Adaira coldly, setting down the tray of bannocks, butter, honey, and fresh milk.
Despite that she’d been expecting a summons from Fraser, Adaira tensed. Samhuinn was just a day away now. The waiting was finally over.
The maid, a tall, slender young woman with dark-blond hair pulled back in a severe braid, ran a disparaging look over Adaira. “Ye look like a peasant. I will bring ye up a fresh léine and kirtle to wear.”
Adaira no longer wore the soiled clothing she’d been captured in. Instead, she was clad in a coarse ankle-length tunic with a tattered plaid shawl around her shoulders. It wasn’t what Morgan Fraser would wish to see her in.
The maid’s face screwed up then, and she sniffed. “Ye also reek. I’ll have a bath prepared.”
Adaira sat there numbly, not bothering to answer. Over the past weeks she’d spoken so seldom she was beginning to wonder if she would lose the use of her tongue. That afternoon a few days earlier playing Ard-ri with Lachlann had contained the longest conversation she’d had with anyone in a long while.
She hadn’t seen him since.
Her plea for help had failed, but Adaira wasn’t sorry she’d asked him, only that he’d denied her. She knew she’d been trying for the impossible, but she’d had to do it. She’d hoped Lachlann had been nursing a guilty conscience, yet if he had, it wasn’t enough to help her.
Seeing that her comments weren’t going to be responded to, the maid muttered a curse under her breath and headed toward the door. “Dull wit.”
Two burly male servants brought in an iron tub and then filled it with hot water. The maid added scented oils to the bath and left a cake of lye soap, drying cloths, and fresh clothing. Then all of them departed.
Alone in the chamber Adaira stripped off her scratchy tunic and stepped into the tub. She loosed a deep sigh as she sank into the hot water. Despite the dread that dogged every waking thought, she couldn’t deny the bath was a thing of delight.
The scent of rose, a perfume that reminded her of Rhona, wafted up, and she inhaled deeply. She closed her eyes, and for a moment she was back in Dunvegan in her bower being fussed over by her hand-maid, Liosa.
Adaira’s eyes snapped open.
That happy existence belonged to someone else.
Even so, the heat of the water seeped into her chilled bones, and the scent of rose relaxed her. She’d opened the shutters, although she could see little beyond a helmet of grey skies.
In Dunvegan the locals would be getting ready for Samhuinn, in a yearly ritual that never changed. Groups of men would build bonfires on the hills around the keep. Adaira loved the festival, even if it heralded the arrival of winter. She’d always taken her turn at apple bobbing, although she’d never been good at it. Unlike Rhona, who nearly drowned herself while grabbing hold of the apple with her teeth, Adaira hated getting water up her nose. The taste of roasted hazel nuts and salty oaten bannock were Samhuinn to her.
Although from this year, the festival would take on a different reminder.
Adaira loosed another deep sigh and tried to push thoughts of her impending handfasting from her mind. She glanced down at her nakedness. Her skin had turned pink from the hot water. Her breasts bobbed on the surface, their nipples pebbled from the cold air inside the chamber; the lump of peat burning in the hearth barely took the chill off. She’d regained the weight she’d lost during her first days here.
In a day’s time Morgan Fraser would see her naked, would put his hands on her. Would he hurt her?
Adaira squeezed her eyes shut. She must not think of it. She had to remain strong.
She stayed in the tub until the water cooled, making sure to wash her hair and rinse it thoroughly. Then she climbed out, dried herself off, and dressed. The maid had left her a soft cream-colored léine and a deep blue kirtle. Adaira fingered the fine material before lacing up the front of the kirtle. She wondered if these clothes had once belonged to Una before she ran away. She and Una were of a similar stature and build so it was possible.
When the maid re-entered the chamber, flinging open the door without knocking and striding in, she found Adaira seated on her sleeping pallet, combing out her wet hair.
The girl’s mouth thinned, and she halted, her gaze sweeping over Adaira from head to foot. Then her lip curled.
Something in that gaze made Adaira’s temper flare. She welcomed the heat in her belly, for it consumed the dread. How dare this woman look at her as if she was some lowly wretch.
“Do I pass yer inspection?” she asked coldly
The maid’s gaze widened. For a moment she stared at Adaira, before her cheeks flushed. Adaira’s gaze didn’t waver. She stared back until the maid looked away. “At least ye are presentable now,” the girl muttered.
Lachlann was lowering himself onto the bench at the chieftain’s table when an explosion of voices in the hall made him glance up.
His father’s retainers, who were also taking their places at the long tables below the dais, were talking excitedly. Their gazes followed the slight figure who entered the hall, flanked by two male servants.
Dressed in flowing blue, her long brown hair curling in heavy waves over her shoulders, Adaira walked proudly into the Great Hall.
Like the lady she was.
Lachlann’s gaze devoured her, taking in the slight sway of her hips and the way the kirtle hugged her supple body.
She held her head high, looking straight ahead. Only the tension in her neck, in her unsmiling face, gave her away. Her stoic behavior was impressive, especially after the raw desperation he’d witnessed in her eyes last time he’d seen her.
Lachlann had deliberately avoided returning to the tower chamber since that day, and yet the look on her face still haunted him, as did her words.
I thought ye were a good man, an honorable one.
He shouldn’t have spent so long in her company. The wine and the companionship over games of Ard-ri had lowered both their defenses. Still, her plea for help, which he had so harshly denied, had shadowed him ever since. Seeing her now made his chest ache.
Lachlann tore his gaze from Adaira, to where his father sat next to him. Morgan Fraser also watched his betrothed approach.
With each passing day, the chieftain grew stronger. He still couldn't wield a sword, and the healer warned him that he might never be able to, but outwardly at least he appeared as if he would regain his former strength.
His father tracked Adaira across the floor as if she was a lamb and he was a wolf. It was a cold, predatory look that made Lachlann’s hackles rise.
Careful, he cautioned himself. What do ye care how he looks at her?
But the truth was he did.
The look on his father's face made Lachlann want to grab him by the neck and slam his face into the table.
Morgan Fraser would ruin Adaira. He would destroy her.
Adaira walked toward the dais, running the gauntlet of hard male stares, and paused before the table. Despite that he sat to his father’s right, her gaze never strayed to Lachlann, not once. He was invisible to her. She bowed her head and made a curtsy. It was a brisk, neat gesture.
“Lady Adaira,” Morgan Fraser greeted her. “How graceful ye look this eve.”
Adaira raised her chin and met his eye briefly before dropping her gaze. She gave the merest nod in response but did not speak.
“What's the matter with her, Da?” Niall spoke up. Lachlann glanced at his brother to see him smirking at Adaira. “Did ye cut out her tongue?”
Morgan cut his son a humorless smile. “Her time in the tower has taught the lass the virtue of silence it seems.”
His comment caused laughter to ripple down the table. Lachlann didn’t join in.
“Lady Adaira.” Morgan Fraser picked up a goblet of wine and turned his attention back to his betrothed. “Come sit next to me. We shall break
bread together and speak a little.”
Lachlann’s mouth thinned. Only his father could make a request sound like a threat.
Adaira tensed but obliged. She walked to the edge of the dais, stepped up, and made her way to the chieftain’s side. There she sank gracefully down onto the smaller chair to the chieftain's left.
Around them the Great Hall was still silent. Every gaze was riveted upon the dais, upon Morgan Fraser and his young wife-to-be. This was the first time many of them had laid eyes upon Adaira. News of her had circulated the fortress for weeks now.
With a click of his fingers, the chieftain motioned to the line of servants that stood, backs ramrod straight, against the wall next to the entrance to the kitchen. “Serve the meal now,” he commanded.
Conversation resumed once more: a low rumble, like surf breaking upon a shingle shore. The noise filled the hall, rising up to the blackened rafters above.
This was a special supper indeed, Lachlann noted. The servants brought out swan roasted in butter and herbs, a rich venison stew, tureens of braised leek and kale, wheels of aged cheese, and loaves of fresh bread studded with hazelnuts.
Under other circumstances Lachlann's mouth would have watered at the sight. But tonight the feast that was set before him didn’t appeal. His stomach felt as if a boulder had lodged in the pit of it.
None of his three brothers shared his sentiments though. With grins and laughter they fell upon the meal as if they hadn't been fed in a week. Wine flowed, and they teased and ribbed each other.
In their midst Lachlann remained quiet.
Next to him, his father was serving up some swan to his betrothed.
It was a rare thing to see Morgan Fraser wait upon a woman. Even with Una he hadn't done so. But this was an occasion for ceremony. He was putting on a show for the folk of Talasgair. Tomorrow there would be a handfasting, and they wanted something to celebrate.
Chapter Seventeen
Ill-Tidings
ADAIRA CHOKED DOWN a mouthful of swan.
The meat was rich and smothered in butter. She’d had it once before, at her father and Una’s handfasting feast. She’d enjoyed it then, but the taste sickened her now.
Morgan Fraser was not a garrulous man. He said very little as the meal stretched out, yet his silence made the tension within her grow. He watched her with a vulturine look that made her heart race, her palms grow clammy. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been on his sickbed, recovering from a terrible wound. He’d been frightening then, yet the full force of his personality had been checked.
This evening he appeared completely healed. Clad in plaid and leather, his grey streaked red hair pulled back at the nape, he watched her with hard eyes.
“Malcolm MacLeod took a jewel from me,” he said after a long while.
The comment was unexpected, and Adaira tensed. She glanced at him, and he snared her gaze, holding it fast. Adaira swallowed. She wanted to look away but found she couldn’t.
“My first wife was sweet tempered but plain-faced,” the Fraser chieftain said, his voice barely above a whisper so that none but Adaira could hear him. “She bore me four sons, but I found her company irksome. I was relieved when she died.”
Adaira drew in a sharp breath. She didn’t want to know all this. She wished he’d cease this tale, but he did not.
“But then Una came into my life. She was Una Campbell then: small, dark-haired, and wild.” He paused, his eyes turning a murderous shade of green. “We had barely a year together before yer father stole her from me.”
Adaira’s pulse fluttered in the base of her throat. He made Una sound like the passive recipient of her father’s affections, when in fact it had been her step-mother who’d taken the initiative and fled.
She wasn’t about to point this out to Morgan Fraser though. He’d likely draw that dirk at his side and stab her through the throat with it.
She saw the promise of vengeance, of violence, in his eyes, and a shudder went through her. She knew then with certainty that he’d never treat her gently.
He would make her suffer.
Adaira tore her gaze away, breathing quickly, and stared down at the platter of food before her.
“Ye are afraid,” Fraser noted. “Good. I want to see fear in yer eyes every time ye look at me.”
Heaven knows what would have happened then, what more he might have said. But at that moment, the sound of a commotion from the far end of the hall drew the chieftain’s eye.
A tall man clad in leather armor, a travel stained cloak billowing behind him, strode down the aisle between tables. He wore a weary, hard expression. His dark eyes were riveted upon Morgan Fraser.
“Marcas,” Morgan greeted him. Adaira forgotten, he rose to his feet. “What news from the mainland.”
The man, who had dark-auburn hair and a chiseled jaw that reminded Adaira of Lachlann’s, pursed his lips, his eyes glittering. “Ill-tidings.”
A hush settled over the Great Hall.
“Tell it then,” Morgan Fraser commanded.
“The battle,” the newcomer spoke once more, his gaze never leaving the chieftain’s face. “The English crushed us.”
The silence grew chill. Adaira glanced across at her betrothed’s profile and saw that his face had turned hawkish. “What happened?” he demanded, his voice cracking like a bull-whip across the hall.
“Twelve thousand of us crossed the border,” Marcas replied. “We marched south to Durham and faced them there.” He broke off, a nerve flickering in his cheek, before pressing on. “And though their army numbered only half the size of ours, they bested us.”
The news, humiliating for their people, echoed across the silent hall. However, Marcas wasn’t finished.
“We had no choice but to retreat.” His face turned stony. Adaira could see that he was a proud man, and each word cost him. “Scotland has lost many men, including a number of clan-chiefs and chieftains. Yer brother Seumas was among them.”
Morgan Fraser’s face showed no emotion, no reaction to the news. After a heartbeat he leaned forward, his fingers clenching around the handle of a bone-handled knife before him. “And the king?”
The warrior held his gaze. “David was injured in the fighting. He and a few others were taken prisoner. I know not if any of them still live.”
Adaira stood within the tower chamber that had been her prison for over the past two moons, and stared at the kirtle the maid had just hung on the wall.
It was exquisite, made of a shimmering lilac material. It glowed in the light of the lantern that burned on the table.
“The handfasting will take place mid-morning tomorrow,” the maid told her. She’d brought up jeweled slippers and a gauzy shawl that Adaira would wear for the ceremony.
Adaira tore her gaze from the kirtle, focusing upon the scowling girl.
The maid boldly looked Adaira up and down, her eyes cold. “I will come up shortly after dawn to get ye ready. It’s not enough time to make a MacLeod slut presentable though.”
“Get out,” Adaira said softly.
The maid huffed. “When I’m ready.”
Adaira swung round, grabbed a pitcher of water off the table, and threw it at the maid.
The girl squealed and ducked, but it was too late. The earthen jug shattered against the wall, drenching her.
“Get out!” Adaira shouted. “And when I see ye tomorrow, I want to see that sneer wiped off yer face.”
The maid backed up, eyes brimming with tears. Adaira advanced toward her, hands balling into fists. The girl gave a squeal of terror, turned, and fled from the room.
Breathing fast, Adaira listened to the key turning in the lock.
It felt a cowardly thing to do, to take the rage she felt toward Morgan Fraser and unleash it upon a servant, yet the maid’s rudeness toward her seemed to grow with each passing day.
Her situation here was bad enough without the servants turning on her. She had to start as she meant to go on, or they would think her weak and torm
ent her.
Morgan would bully her, but they wouldn’t.
Adaira ran a hand over her face, relieved to finally be alone once more. Ever since Marcas Fraser had delivered the news of Scotland’s bitter defeat against the English, the mood at Talasgair had turned grim. The cursing that had followed the initial shock shook the rafters.
Men had leaped to their feet roaring with rage. Morgan Fraser’s sons were the loudest of them. All except Lachlann.
He alone had remained silent, hunched over his goblet of wine. His face had been stone-hewn, his gaze shuttered.
Although Adaira had pretended to ignore him throughout the feast, she’d been painfully aware of Lachlann’s presence, just a few feet away.
Had he heard the things his father had said to her?
Crossing to her sleeping pallet, Adaira lowered herself down. Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together and rested them upon her knees.
“Courage, Adaira,” she whispered. “What would Rhona do?”
A wry smile twisted her face then. Her sister would have slapped that girl’s face weeks ago.
Adaira inhaled a ragged breath as Morgan Fraser’s softly spoken threats returned to her. He’d said them to scare her. He wanted her to be a trembling wreck by tomorrow night. He wanted her to weep and cringe, before he took her maiden-head.
He’s mad, twisted by hate.
Her belly cramped with fear. She just hoped she was strong enough to endure him.
Adaira couldn’t sleep that night.
She lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the rafters and listening to the silence. It was quiet up in the tower; the noise in the rest of the fortress didn’t reach here.
Adaira’s thoughts circled, fear pressing down upon her chest. The wedding loomed like a hangman’s noose before her. She didn’t want to think of it, yet she couldn’t stop herself.
