by Jayne Castel
It was warm in the kitchen, the air fragrant with the aroma of baking. The old cook had stepped outside with her assistants, leaving the party alone. It had been a nervous wait in their chambers. Caitrin had told Adaira and Lachlann she would meet them in the kitchen after supper. They had waited a long while before the cook knocked on the door and whispered that it was safe to come out.
Sensing the shift in mood, the sudden tension in the air, Adaira stepped back so that she and Lachlann stood shoulder to shoulder. She glanced up at him, and their gazes fused for a moment.
Lachlann then swung his attention back to Rhona and Taran. “After Adaira and I left Dunvegan we made our way to Kiltaraglen, where I stole a boat,” he began without preamble. “However, instead of taking her to Argyle, I brought her back home with me … to Talasgair.” Lachlann paused here, drew in a deep breath, and plowed on. “I wanted to get home fast, in case my father died and one of my brothers took his place as chieftain. At the time I didn’t spare a thought for Adaira. It was only later—when my father announced he planned to wed Adaira at Samhuinn—that I began to realize what a grave mistake I’d made. On the eve of their wedding, I helped her escape … and here we are.”
Silence followed his words. Eventually, Taran finally broke it, his voice wintry. “Ye swore a promise to see Adaira safely to Gylen Castle … upon yer life. Don’t deny it, for I heard ye speak the words.”
“I don’t deny it,” Lachlann replied, “I swore an oath … and I broke it.”
“I told ye what would happen if ye failed to uphold yer end of the bargain, Fraser.”
Lachlann frowned. “Aye, and I warned ye not to threaten me.”
“Dog!”
In an instant, Taran was on him. A large hand clamped over Lachlann’s throat. Taran slammed him backward, and they crashed onto the large scrubbed oaken table that dominated the heart of the kitchen.
“Taran!” Adaira cried out, lunging toward where the two men now wrestled. “Stop it!”
She never reached him, for Rhona grabbed her and hauled her back. “Leave them,” she bit out. “That Fraser bastard deserves it.”
“No, he doesn’t! He—”
The sound of shattering pottery echoed through the kitchen. Lachlann had just grabbed a jug and broken it over Taran’s head.
Taran roared and punched Lachlann in the face. An instant later Lachlann arched up under him and drove his knee into Taran’s belly. Fists flew as the two men rolled down the table, sending cups and bowls flying.
In the midst of the chaos, Caitrin approached them and threw a pail of water over the brawlers.
“Enough!” she shouted. “Ye will not destroy my kitchen!”
Dripping wet, Taran pushed himself up off the table and wiped water out of his eyes. Next to him, Lachlann sat up and massaged his jaw, his expression murderous.
Taran cast Adaira a despairing look. “Ye are far too softhearted, lass. Lachlann Fraser can’t be trusted.”
Adaira glared back at him. She yanked against Rhona’s grip, but her sister held her fast. “Lachlann Fraser and I are to be wed tomorrow.”
Rhona let go of her so suddenly that Adaira nearly toppled over. She caught herself on the table edge and turned to face her sister. Rhona’s face had gone pale, her features taut. “Have ye lost yer wits?”
Adaira clenched her jaw, refusing to answer. However, she could feel anger rising within her like steam off a boiling cauldron of water.
Rhona’s attention snapped to her elder sister. “Did ye know about this?”
“Aye,” Caitrin replied, her face pained. “I’ve organized for the priest to wed them in the village kirk tomorrow morning.”
Rhona’s gaze narrowed. “Ye have been helping them?”
Caitrin nodded.
Rhona cast Caitrin a look of disgust, before she rounded on Adaira. “I don’t understand.”
“Ye don’t need to.” Lachlann had climbed off the table and now stepped up next to Adaira. He took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers tenderly; yet his face was hard. “This isn’t yer life, or yer choice to make. If Adaira doesn’t want to wed me then let that be her decision.”
Silence fell in the kitchen.
Rhona swallowed before shifting her gaze to Adaira. Staring into her elder sister’s storm-grey eyes, Adaira glimpsed her hurt, her confusion. Rhona wasn’t being malicious. She truly was at a loss. “Is this really what ye want?” Rhona asked finally, her voice catching.
Adaira leaned into Lachlann, finding solace in the warm heat of his body pressed into her side. However, her gaze never left Rhona’s. “Aye,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Blood of My Blood
“WHAT ARE YE doing today, daughter?”
Caitrin glanced up from buttering a piece of bannock and favored her father with what she hoped was a serene smile. “I always take bread and sweet buns down to the villagers on Wednesdays,” she replied.
He huffed. “Can’t they make their own bread?”
Caitrin’s smile widened. “Aye, Da … but it’s a tradition that Baltair’s father began years ago. I like to continue it. It’s good for me to talk with the folk here, to learn what they need from me.”
Una gave a soft snort. She’d been daintily nibbling a bannock, but now lowered it. She viewed Caitrin with a shrewd look. “Ye think yerself a chieftain now, do ye, Caitrin?”
Malcolm MacLeod chortled at this, although Caitrin stiffened. “No … I’m chatelaine.”
“Aye, that’s right,” her father rumbled, his grey eyes still shining with mirth. “And soon Duntulm will have a new chieftain, and ye will be wed again.”
Caitrin’s pulse quickened. She hated her father discussing her future like this. She’d thought once she became Baltair’s wife that her father’s interference in her affairs was over, but now she was a widow he’d made her his business once more.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife she was using. She was so tired of men deciding her fate.
Glancing right, she caught Rhona’s eye. Her sister watched her with a knowing look. Few understood how she felt, but Rhona and Adaira did, for both their lives had nearly been ruined by Malcolm MacLeod’s controlling ways.
“Taran and I are taking a ride along the coast this morning,” Rhona announced lightly. “We thought we’d make the most of the sun before it leaves us again.”
“Ye are all abandoning me,” Malcolm MacLeod grumbled. “What am I supposed to do this morning while ye are out?”
It was Caitrin’s turn to utter a soft laugh. “Ye will hardly notice our absence, father. Put yer feet up in Baltair’s solar and take a well-earned rest. I’m sure Una can entertain ye.” She cast her step-mother a look as she spoke, enjoying the way Una’s mouth pursed, before continuing. “Later, we’ll eat together.”
Duntulm village kirk was a stone building with a steep gable roof and a tiny belfry. Constructed of local basalt, the kirk squatted at the southern edge of the village.
Its silhouette, set against a cornflower-blue sky, was a welcoming sight to Adaira. She and Lachlann hurried toward it, cutting through the windswept kirk-yard and the rows of tombstones that surrounded the building.
Lachlann squeezed her hand as they approached the heavy wooden doors. “Nervous?”
“Aye,” she admitted, glancing across at his hooded face. He’d pulled the cowl forward so his face was cast completely in shadow; it was impossible to read his expression. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she murmured. “What about ye?”
He gave her hand another squeeze before reaching out to push open the door. “My guts are in knots.”
Adaira smiled. It gave her solace to know he was as nervous as she was.
The awful scene with Rhona and Taran yesterday evening had put her on edge. The conflict had been resolved, but the memory of it had cast a shadow over Adaira’s mood. There had been a moment when Adaira had felt despair touch her heart. She didn’t want her union with Lachlann to c
ause a rift between her and her sisters.
And not only that, but her father perched up in Duntulm keep like a giant vulture ready to swoop.
Adaira hadn’t been able to sleep for the worry that he’d ruin everything.
But he hadn’t. Here they were, entering Dunvegan kirk, and beginning a new life together. The worst was behind them.
Stepping inside the kirk, Lachlann heaved his shoulder against the heavy door and pushed it shut at his back.
A gentle silence greeted the couple, as did the scent of incense and the faint whiff of tallow from the banks of candles lining the walls. Two rows of wooden benches led up to a raised altar. A small party stood beneath it: Caitrin, Rhona, and Taran—and a man Adaira had never seen before. Small and balding, and wearing dark robes, the priest watched them approach.
Adaira’s slippered feet whispered on the flagstones. Above her rose a ceiling of wooden beams, and at each end of the kirk, high tear-drop-shaped windows let in the morning sun.
Adaira and Lachlann stopped before the altar and pushed back their hoods. Meeting Caitrin’s eye, Adaira flashed her a smile. She had much to thank her eldest sister for. Caitrin was still dressed in mourning black, although her expression was soft this morning; she almost looked like the girl she’d once been. Back before Baltair MacDonald wed her.
Adaira’s attention shifted to Rhona. She hadn’t been sure her sister—or Taran—would attend the handfasting. Yet they’d both promised, and here they were. And unlike the day before, Adaira could see no anger in their faces or wariness in their eyes.
Dressed in flowing green, her fiery hair pulled back in a long braid, Rhona favored Adaira with a soft smile. Beside her, Taran nodded at Adaira. However, he cast Lachlann a cool, assessing look.
Adaira suppressed a sigh. Lachlann and Taran weren’t likely to be fast-friends, but at least they were no longer enemies.
Wordlessly, Adaira and Lachlann shrugged off the heavy cloaks they’d worn for the walk down from the castle. The clothing they wore underneath was quite plain for a handfasting. Lachlann wore leather braies and a clean white léine and Adaira a simple green kirtle. However, this morning Caitrin had woven some wild-flowers into her hair.
Lachlann looked down at her, favoring her with a soft smile. “Ye look bonny, Adaira.”
She smiled back, suddenly shy.
“Are ye ready?” The priest’s gentle voice interrupted them.
Adaira shifted her attention to him, studying the man who would wed them. He had a harried yet kind face, and a heavy wooden crucifix hung around his neck.
“Aye, Father,” Lachlann spoke up. “Je suis prest.” He broke off here and winked at Adaira. “We’re both ready.”
“Please step forward then and join hands.”
Adaira and Lachlann did as bid. The feel of Lachlann’s fingers entwining through hers, the heat and strength of his touch, caused the thudding of her heart to calm slightly.
The priest stepped close. He held a length of plaid in his hands, MacDonald colors: green and blue threaded with white and red. He began to wind the plaid around their joined hands while he spoke the words that would join them.
Adaira’s vision misted as she listened to him. And when it came to the part where they had to recite their vows to each other, she gave up trying to stem her tears. They flowed silently down her cheeks, as Lachlann recited the words, his gaze upon hers.
“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.
I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.
I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.”
When the vows were completed, the priest unwrapped the plaid that joined them. “Ye are now man and wife,” he said with a smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “May yer union be blessed.”
Lachlann pulled Adaira into his arms and kissed her soundly. When they drew apart, they were both breathless, and Adaira’s pulse beat like a drum in her ears. Still in the cradle of Lachlann’s arms, she turned her head back to where her sisters stood. She hadn’t looked at them once since the ceremony had begun, for her entire attention had been upon Lachlann.
Rhona was weeping openly, tears streaming down her face. She clutched Taran’s arm, as if for support. Caitrin stood quietly next to her. She too wept, but in a gentle, reserved way.
When Adaira and Caitrin’s gazes met, her sister’s mouth curved in a tremulous smile. “That was beautiful,” Caitrin said huskily. “Thank ye for letting me be part—"
Boom.
The kirk doors flew open, crashing against the wall. The entire building shuddered in the impact.
Adaira gasped. She went rigid in Lachlann’s arms. His embrace tightened as their gazes swung back to the doors.
A heavy-set figure with wild auburn hair, and an even wilder expression, limped into the kirk, followed by four burly warriors. Una hurried into the kirk behind them.
“Stop this handfasting!” Malcolm MacLeod roared, his voice echoing high into the rafters. “I forbid it!”
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Heart Decides
“YE CAN’T FORBID it,” Lachlann replied, his voice ringing out across the kirk. “It’s already done. We’re now husband and wife.”
The sight of Malcolm MacLeod, the man who’d thrown him down into the dungeon to die, and who was now trying to ruin his life once more, made fury rise within Lachlann. How had MacLeod learned of this ceremony?
However, it didn’t matter—he was too late.
“Bastard Fraser whelp!” MacLeod limped up to the altar and stopped before them, meaty hands clenched at his side. “How dare ye. No Fraser is wedding one of my daughters—not now, not ever.”
“I’m sorry … but they are wed in the sight of God,” the priest spoke up timidly. “Ye cannot undo it.”
The look the MacLeod clan-chief bestowed upon the priest was so venomous that the small man wilted. His throat bobbed, and he cast Lachlann a pleading look.
Lachlann kept his arm firmly around Adaira as he faced her father. He could feel her fear, the rigidity of her body.
“Da,” Rhona spoke up. “Please don’t—”
“Silence!” Spittle flew as MacLeod roared. “I’ll deal with ye and Taran later. Do ye think the windows of Duntulm keep are blind? Una saw ye two ride off earlier. Only ye didn’t take the coast road as ye said. Instead, ye rode directly here.” His gaze swiveled to Caitrin, pinning her to the spot. “And ye, lying vixen. Ye carry no basket of bread. Ye hurried straight through the village to the kirk. Una saw it all.”
Lachlann drew in a long breath. So, it was his former step-mother who had betrayed them.
Una MacLeod was staring at him, a look of naked victory upon her face. He hadn’t seen her in a few years. There were no signs of age upon her; she looked exactly as she had when she’d lived at Talasgair. She was small and dark, with elfin looks. Her eyes were just as sly as he remembered too.
“Stop it, Da,” Adaira finally gasped. “None of this matters. Lachlann and I have pledged our lives to each other. Ye can’t change it now.”
Adaira’s words impressed Lachlann. The lass had courage. She was terrified of her father, and yet she faced him.
Malcolm MacLeod hadn’t been expecting such a proclamation. He jerked back, as if she’d just struck him across the face. Even Una’s smirk faded. However, the shock only lasted a moment. MacLeod recovered swiftly.
“Lachlann Fraser is my prisoner,” he snarled, his neck stretching out as he glared at her. “And ye are my daughter and will do as ye are bid. Both of ye are coming back to Dunvegan.”
Lachlann let go of Adaira and stepped forward, going toe-to-toe with MacLeod. “Yer daughter freed me because she was desperate,” he growled. “What kind of father promises a lass like Adaira to the likes of Aonghus Budge?”
MacLeod’s heavy-featured face screwed up. “Don’t tell me what—”
“I’ll tell ye what kind,” Lachlann cut in savagely. How he longed to lash out at this man. They were stand
ing so close he could smell the wine on the clan-chief’s breath. “A tyrant who thinks nothing of sacrificing his youngest daughter.”
The clan-chief roared and lunged for him.
Lachlann had been anticipating the attack. Even so, he hadn’t expected such an overweight man to move so fast.
MacLeod’s knuckles grazed Lachlann’s ear as he ducked.
Lachlann brought up his arm and caught the chieftain’s wrist, holding him fast. He barely managed; the man had fearsome strength. He had wrists twice the width of Lachlann’s own.
MacLeod snarled a curse and threw his entire weight at Lachlann, slamming into him. They went down on the flagstone floor of the kirk.
Adaira’s scream echoed through the building, but neither man paid her any attention. Lachlann was locked in a fight for his life; he didn’t dare spare her a glance. Yesterday, when Taran had attacked him, Lachlann had been impressed by the warrior’s brute strength. Yet it appeared insignificant to that of Malcolm MacLeod.
Incensed, MacLeod pummeled at him with huge fists, his bulk pinning Lachlann to the floor.
“Stop this,” the priest cried, panicked. “This is a house of God. There can be no violence here!”
MacLeod ignored him. Bellowing curses, he slammed his fist into Lachlann’s jaw.
Lachlann managed to get his legs free. He drove his knee up into MacLeod’s gut. The big man gave a choking gasp and fell sideways. It was an instant’s distraction, but all Lachlann needed. He reared up and head-butted the clan-chief in the nose.
MacLeod roared, blood spurting. But instead of quieting him, the blow seemed to drive him to madness. He came at Lachlann, grabbed him round the throat, and threw him backward.
The back of Lachlann’s skull hit the flagstones with a crack. His vision darkened for an instant. But when MacLeod’s fingers started to tighten around his throat, Lachlann fought him. The madness in the clan-chief’s grey eyes, as he loomed above Lachlann, warned him that MacLeod was intent on killing him.
