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

by Jayne Castel

Lachlann stared at Caitrin, shock filtering through him. “We have yer blessing?”

  Caitrin loosed a sigh before nodding. “Adaira and I have spoken … at length … and although I still don’t fully understand her choice, I will respect it—for her sake.”

  The evening was drawing out, and the three of them sat at the table in Caitrin’s solar. A simple supper of bread, cheese, salted pork, and apples lay before them. Lachlann had warily taken his seat at the table, expecting another attack from the Lady of Duntulm. But instead, she’d informed him that he could stay on, and that she no longer opposed their marriage.

  Lachlann cast Adaira a look of disbelief. What magic had she woven here?

  In response, Adaira flashed Lachlann a small smile before reaching across and placing her hand over his. Lachlann turned his hand over and laced his fingers through Adaira’s. Then he turned his attention back to Caitrin, meeting her eye. “I do love yer sister.”

  Caitrin pursed her lips. “So she says.”

  “I will make her my wife.”

  A groove formed between Caitrin’s delicately drawn brows. “Aye, on that we are both agreed. The sooner ye wed the better.”

  Lachlann raised his eyebrows before glancing at Adaira. Seeing her pink cheeks, he realized Caitrin knew what had passed between them. Adaira’s sister would be worried he’d planted a bairn in her womb.

  The thought had crossed his mind as well.

  Lachlann met Caitrin’s eye, favoring her with a wry smile. If she wanted them to wed in haste, he wasn’t going to discourage her. “Do ye have a date in mind, Lady Caitrin?”

  She nodded. “The day after tomorrow. Ye can be wed in Duntulm village kirk. I shall call for the priest.”

  “That went better than I thought,” Lachlann admitted as he escorted Adaira to her chamber later that evening. “I expected Lady Caitrin to have me stoned out of Duntulm.”

  “I just needed to have a quiet word with her.” Adaira glanced up at him, smiling. “Caitrin isn’t unreasonable.”

  Lachlann raised an eyebrow. “She glared at me all through supper. I think she expects I’ll abandon ye at the altar.”

  Adaira huffed. “No, she doesn’t … she’ll warm to ye eventually.”

  “Aye, perhaps—but not any day soon.”

  They reached a wooden door framed by a stone arch, and Adaira halted. She turned to Lachlann, raising her chin so she could meet his eye. He gazed down at her before reaching out and caressing her cheek. His thumb slid along her plump lower lip and desire quickened his breath. Adaira had a lush mouth that was made for kissing.

  “Would ye mind if I shared yer bed tonight?” he murmured, his gaze still riveted upon her mouth.

  “Best not,” Adaira replied, her voice husky. “Caitrin’s had a chamber prepared for ye … downstairs.”

  “What about a goodnight kiss then?”

  “Very well,” Adaira breathed, “just one.”

  Lachlann’s mouth curved. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over Adaira’s—once, twice—and then he parted her lips with his tongue. Her answering gasp inflamed him. He loved how responsive Adaira was. Her soft moans and gasps excited him beyond measure, as did the way she melted under his touch.

  God, how he longed to carry her into that chamber and tear her clothes off. Last night he’d been frustrated by the layers of wool, leather, and linen that separated their bodies. It had been too cold to strip, but he ached to see her naked.

  Just two more nights, he reminded himself as he tore his mouth from Adaira’s, and then she’s mine.

  “Wicked temptress.” Lachlann braced himself against the door and pushed back. Adaira stared up at him from within the cage of his arms. Her hazel eyes were luminous, her lips slightly parted. He stifled a groan. When she looked at him like that it was difficult to keep a leash on his self-control. “I should go then.”

  “Good night, Lachlann.” The hoarse edge to her voice made him ache to take her right there up against the door.

  The thought sobered him. Lady Caitrin would definitely cast him out of Duntulm for such an act.

  “Sleep well, Aingeal,” he replied, stepping away from her. “I shall see ye in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ill-timing

  ADAIRA PICKED UP Eoghan from his crib. “How he’s grown,” she murmured, holding the bairn against her breast as she turned to Caitrin. “What are ye feeding the lad?”

  Caitrin huffed. “Just milk for now, but he’s a hungry bairn.”

  Adaira glanced down at Eoghan’s thick thatch of dark hair. Not for the first time, she felt a jolt. Even though he was still a babe, Eoghan MacDonald looked so much like his father it was eerie. Baltair MacDonald had been very handsome to look upon, and Adaira could see that one day his son would rival him in looks. A shadow of misgiving fell over her then, as she stared down at the bairn’s chubby face. His sea-blue eyes were his mother’s. But would he inherit her or his father’s character?

  Adaira carried Eoghan over to where a large log burned in the hearth. After the drama of the day before, it now felt peaceful inside the solar. Caitrin was seated at the table, bent over a huge leather-bound ledger as she went through Duntulm’s accounts. Alban MacLean, the castle’s steward, sat at her side, looking over the chatelaine’s shoulder as she copied down the sums he read to her from scrappy leafs of parchment.

  “No, milady,” he corrected her quietly. “It was thirty sacks of oats we bought from MacLeod this year, not forty.”

  Muttering an oath under her breath, Caitrin dipped her quill into the pot of ink beside her and corrected the ledger.

  Oblivious to Caitrin and Alban’s discussion, Lachlann perched on a window seat. It was early afternoon, and although the chill wind had died outside, the sky was grey. Even so, Lachlann seemed content to sit there and gaze upon the view to the south, across the hills that stretched over MacDonald lands. His expression was pensive, his gaze veiled.

  Adaira could see he was deep in thought so she didn’t disturb him. Instead, she allowed herself to study the man who’d soon become her husband.

  Dressed in clean braies and a loose léine belted at the waist, his red hair brushed out over his shoulders, Lachlann entranced her. He’d shaved, and she admired now the clean, strong line of his jaw.

  Her belly fluttered as she imagined trailing her lips along it.

  This time tomorrow she’d be his wife.

  Eoghan squirmed in her arms, his tiny chubby hands reaching up and tangling in her hair. Distracted, Adaira gently pried his fingers free before placing a kiss on the top of his head. His hair was downy and sweet-smelling.

  Adaira closed her eyes a moment. Happiness flowed through her, its warmth suffusing her like a hot bath on a cold winter’s day. One day, she’d hold her and Lachlann’s bairn in her arms. One day, they’d have a family together. She could hardly believe this was real, that soon he’d be her husband.

  A tremor of misgiving curled in the base of her belly. After the events of the past months, she wasn’t used to things working in her favor. She worried that this happiness would somehow be ripped from her grasp.

  At the window, Lachlann shifted.

  Adaira yanked her thoughts back to the present and saw that he was frowning. “What is it?”

  He tore his gaze from the view, to where Duntulm’s chatelaine sat, her brow furrowed as she scratched out sums onto the ledger. “Lady Caitrin, ye have visitors.”

  “Really?” Caitrin placed the quill in its pot and rose gracefully to her feet. “I’m not expecting anyone.” She moved toward the window, Alban and Adaira following her.

  Adaira stopped by Lachlann’s shoulder, her gaze moving past him to the rumpled blanket of green hills beyond. Sure enough, a large company of riders approached. From this distance, they were tiny, appearing like a column of marching ants. As the four of them watched, Adaira made out the outlines of banners.

  Her breathing faltered. What if Morgan Fraser had tracked them north after all?
<
br />   Beside her, Caitrin drew in a sharp breath. “It’s Da.”

  Cold washed over Adaira, while Lachlann tensed. He tore his gaze from the approaching riders and met Caitrin’s eye. “Are ye sure?”

  Caitrin nodded, her jaw firming. “The standards bear the MacLeod plaid.”

  Adaira stared out across the hills, her own gaze narrowing. A moment later she too recognized the gold, grey, and black of her family’s plaid.

  The warmth of wellbeing that had cocooned her since the day before fell away, and a wave of panic rose. “We can’t stay here,” she choked. “We have to go … now.”

  Caitrin shook her head. “It’s too late. They’ll see.” She reached out and took Eoghan from Adaira. The bairn squawked, sensing the shift in mood. “Ye are going to have to hide while he’s here.” Caitrin turned her attention briefly to Alban. “Warn Darron and the others not to breathe a word.”

  “Aye, milady,” the steward replied, his heavy featured face creasing with consternation.

  Caitrin nodded her thanks and moved away from the window. She then motioned to Adaira and Lachlann. “Follow me.”

  Caitrin smoothed her damp palms upon the skirts of her black kirtle. She hoped her nervousness didn’t show on her face, that her father wouldn’t see through her brittle smile of welcome.

  Malcolm MacLeod was the last person she wished to see right now.

  Standing in the bailey, she watched her father’s banner-men ride in through the gate, their horses’ hooves thundering over the drawbridge. Suddenly, Duntulm’s bailey was filled with them. Alban stood at Caitrin’s right shoulder, while Darron flanked her left side. Their silent, stoic presence calmed her, reminded her that she was in charge here.

  Her father would not intimidate her.

  Clan-chief MacLeod was easy to spot: a broad, thick-legged figure with a wild mane of greying auburn hair and a beard to match. He rode a heavy-set destrier, a beast strong enough to carry his weight.

  Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. It was nearly two moons since she’d seen her father last, and he’d grown even fatter than she remembered. Una rode into the keep behind him, dark and fey-looking, her blue-eyed gaze sharp.

  Caitrin’s breath caught when she spotted two familiar faces behind them.

  A big man with short blond hair and a scarred face rode through the archway, with a fire-haired beauty at his side: Taran and Rhona.

  Joy exploded within Caitrin’s breast, and she realized how lonely she’d been of late. Her nervousness forgotten, she hurried forward to greet them.

  Rhona reached her first. Her sister swung down off her chestnut mare and rushed at Caitrin. They hugged, and when Rhona pulled away, her grey eyes were shining.

  “I’ve missed ye,” she greeted her. “With both ye and Adaira gone, the keep feels so empty.”

  At the mention of their youngest sister, Rhona’s joy dimmed. Caitrin hadn’t spoken to Rhona since Adaira’s disappearance. But since Adaira had explained everything, Caitrin now knew that Rhona and Taran had helped her escape.

  Rhona would be wondering why they’d never arrived in Argyle.

  “Ye look well, daughter,” Malcolm MacLeod boomed as he lumbered over to them. “Although black washes ye out.”

  Caitrin’s mouth thinned. She would have to wear black for a while yet.

  “Good day, Da,” she greeted him with a kiss. His whiskers tickled her cheek. “What brings ye all to Duntulm? Had I known, I’d have had a feast prepared for this evening.”

  “Can’t a man pay his daughter a surprise visit?” he rumbled.

  “We’ve all missed ye,” Rhona spoke up with a smile.

  Taran had stepped up next to her, acknowledging Caitrin with a nod. “We thought a visit north was in order,” he added. “Before the bitter weather sets in.”

  “Ye are all welcome,” Caitrin replied, keeping a smile plastered on her face. However, inwardly she cursed their ill-timing. Duntulm wasn’t as big as Dunvegan; it wouldn’t be easy to keep Adaira and Lachlann hidden. She’d found them lodgings next to the kitchens, in two tiny chambers usually occupied by servants.

  It was away from the main keep, and somewhere that Malcolm MacLeod was unlikely to go without good reason.

  “Good to hear, lass,” MacLeod boomed. “Now, enough chatter. Lead the way to the Great Hall, and open a barrel of yer finest ale. I’ve got a plague of a thirst.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Soft-hearted

  “STILL NO WORD of Adaira?” Caitrin took a sip of wine and surveyed her father over the rim of her goblet. She was reluctant to bring her sister up, but thought her family might get suspicious if she did not.

  “No.” Malcolm MacLeod was onto his third cup of ale and was showing no sign of slowing. His face turned thunderous. “I’ve sent men out far and wide,” he growled, “but it’s as if she was taken by fairies. The only place we haven’t searched is Talasgair itself. If I ever find Lachlann Fraser, I’ll rip his head off with my bare hands.”

  Caitrin nodded, schooling her face into a grave expression. Her father’s blustering and threats were commonplace whenever he mentioned his escaped prisoner; only, he had no idea that the man he hunted was hiding in this very keep.

  Trying not to think of the chaos that would ensue if her father ever found out, Caitrin glanced across at where Rhona sat. Her sister looked so sad that Caitrin’s chest constricted. Rhona needed to know Adaira was safe. Somehow, she had to find a way to tell her.

  They sat upon the raised dais at the far end of the Great Hall, a spread of food before them. The servants had pulled what they could from the larder, while cook was furiously preparing some apple and bramble tarts to serve later with thick cream.

  “Excellent drop this.” Her father wiped his mouth with a meaty hand. “The MacDonalds know how to brew a good ale.”

  Caitrin frowned. Her father had deliberately changed the subject. He wasn’t here to talk about Adaira it seemed. Malcolm MacLeod did nothing by chance. She didn’t doubt that Rhona had missed her, but there would be something behind her father’s visit.

  As if sensing her suspicions, MacLeod fixed her with that level iron-grey stare she knew so well.

  “We need to speak of yer future, Caitrin.”

  Her heart sinking, Caitrin held his eye. “Aye, and what of it?” She knew her tone was surly, yet she didn’t care. She was getting used to being the chatelaine of Duntulm and didn’t wish for things to change.

  “Ye are young and fair, daughter. In time, ye must wed again.”

  Caitrin drew in a long, steadying breath. Next to Caitrin, Rhona cast her a sympathetic look. They both knew what Malcolm MacLeod was like when it came to finding his daughters husbands. An unwed daughter was a millstone around his neck, a burden he had to rid himself of.

  “And in time, I might,” she replied. It was a lie. As she felt right now, she never wished to be shackled to another man.

  “Have ye heard of our defeat against the English?” MacLeod’s face screwed up as he asked this, as if the subject was deeply distasteful—but necessary.

  “Aye,” Caitrin replied. She doubted there was a soul upon the isle who’d not heard. He must think her a hermit.

  “Many Scots died in that battle,” her father continued, still scowling. “None of the MacLeods who joined King David have returned yet … few will.”

  Caitrin frowned. He was leading up to something.

  “Baltair’s younger brother joined the king, did he not?” Una spoke up. She sat at Malcolm’s side, a goblet of wine in hand. She wore a sanguine expression. However, her blue eyes were assessing.

  “Alasdair,” Caitrin replied. “He joined the army before Baltair and I wed, and hasn’t been back to Skye since. I know not where he is.”

  “I sent word to him after Baltair’s death,” her father rumbled. He was watching Caitrin with a penetrating look now. “If he lives, he will return to claim his rightful role as chieftain. He will no longer need yer services as chatelaine. Ye will have to retu
rn to Dunvegan.”

  Caitrin swallowed. “And if Alasdair MacDonald never returns? There are no other heirs.”

  “Then ye remain Lady of Duntulm,” Rhona piped up with a grin. She raised her chalice to her sister. “Here’s to that, dear sister.”

  Malcolm MacLeod glowered at them. “No, she won’t. One of the MacDonalds of Sleat will step into the breach. Like it or not, Caitrin, ye will still have to wed again.”

  “Don’t worry.” Una favored Caitrin with a sweet smile. “We’ll begin a search for a suitable husband for ye upon our return to Dunvegan.”

  Caitrin swallowed a cutting reply. It wouldn’t do her any good to start an argument with Una or her father; Malcolm had a fiery temper, and when riled wouldn’t let a subject drop. Best to be quietly defiant, as she’d always been.

  “Apple and bramble tarts, milady.” A servant appeared at Caitrin’s elbow, bearing a huge platter of fragrant sweets.

  Thank ye, Galiene,” Caitrin responded with a smile. Never had she been so grateful to have a conversation interrupted. “Please, serve them.”

  Galiene, an older woman who helped Duntulm’s cook prepare meals, began to circuit the table, serving Malcolm first.

  Seeing her father was distracted, Caitrin leaned toward her sister. “I need to speak to ye,” she whispered. “As soon as supper’s over, meet me outside the kitchen.”

  Adaira walked into the kitchen to find Caitrin, Rhona, and Taran waiting. Her step faltered at the sight of them, joy exploding within her.

  “Rhona!”

  She flew across the kitchen and crushed her elder sister in a fierce hug.

  Pulling back from the embrace, Adaira saw that Rhona’s eyes glittered with tears. However, her face appeared frozen in surprise. “Adi … what are ye doing here?” she gasped.

  Likewise, Taran appeared floored. His ice-blue gaze searched Adaira’s face, before it shifted to where Lachlann had stepped up behind her. Taran’s expression then hardened.