Page 14 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A fter leaving Lyra’s chamber, Tòrr spent the rest of the morning in his study attending to various matters that demanded his immediate attention.

An urgent tapping at the door interrupted his work and he lifted his eyes. “Come.”

It was Claray. “Edmund has news from yer men who rode in just before noon. He sent word fer them to meet wi’ ye both here.”

Her words sent a ripple of foreboding through his gut. He nodded, wiped his quill pen clean and closed the bottle of ink. He was hopeful there was news that would put an end to all the speculation about what had caused Laird MacDougall to pursue Lyra so relentlessly. What she’d told him the night before now had him thinking it was possible Lyra had been a witness to MacDougall’s murder of her father. If that were so, mayhap his purpose was to end her life to prevent her from accusing him.

But why would he have murdered Lyra’s father?

Edmund joined him then to await the four men who had returned from their mission to seek the gallowglasses. Moments later, Claray knocked again and opened the door. The men to filed in.

Tòrr gestured for them to be seated. He signaled to Claray and asked for a noontime meal to be served for all.

They sat, and Tòrr greeted each man separately. “I thank ye fer yer efforts these past days and I am anxious tae hear what ye’ve discovered, once we have eaten.”

Once the maids had brought the food and they had eaten their fill of chicken pie, bannocks, and cheese, Tòrr rose to his feet to address the men. Edmund, quill and ink in front of him, began to write on the parchment stacked on the table.

“We must ensure we have a record of yer news.” Tòrr explained. “As it concerns the laird of another clan, we must carefully record the details of what ye say.” He did not add that should there be any kind of violent skirmish between their clans, King Robert would demand to know everything that had transpired, leading to the fighting.

The men nodded solemnly as they lowered their spoons and took long draughts of ale.

“Now, I wish tae hear from ye first Jaimie MacKinnon, as ye are the oldest of the group.”

Jaimie was a distant cousin of Tòrr’s, a stalwart lad he trusted to bring him the plain truth without embellishing it.

“All up, we found at least twenty of the company of gallowglasses. Some were newly arrived and others had been here even before ye arrived wi’ the lass.”

This was startling news to Tòrr, who had figured the presence of the mercenaries would number four or five at most. It was clear from this information that MacDougall was planning something dire.

“I only spoke tae some of the men. The other lads can tell ye what they learned from speaking with the others.”

“And what did ye learn, apart from the number of men assembling? What are they intending?”

“All I could glean from the lads I spoke with was that they’d been placed near Dùn Ara, should they be needed.” He glanced at Tòrr and Edmund, who was scribbling furiously on his parchment. “I questioned what they believed they were needed fer. They were vague, speaking of a possible skirmish. I asked who they fancied they’d be skirmishing wi’ but they said naught further.”

Tòrr huffed and folded his arms. It seemed obvious to him that such a large company of MacDougall’s paid men could have only one purpose in assembling so close to the castle. They intended an attack.

Each of the other men had similar stories to tell. MacDougall’s men were being placed in position ready to be called on to fight.

It was only when he came to the youngest, a lad by the name of Matheus, who was hardly more than a wean, that MacDougall’s motives were more fully revealed.

“I learned they were tae stay alert fer the presence of a lass.”

Tòrr nodded, his heart sinking as he waited to hear what was next.

“The lass’s name is Lady Lyra MacInnes.”

Both Edmund and Tòrr could not contain a gasp at this revelation.

“They said she is the daughter of the old laird, Alasdair MacInnes, murdered years afore. She is the last of the laird’s family.”

“And they wish tae murder her, as they did her faither?” His blood boiled at the evil of it.

“Nay, ‘tis nae murder Laird Alexander has in mind. He wishes tae wed the lass and rule the MacInnes lands as their laird. Once he is married tae the heiress, naught can prevent him from ruling.”

Tòrr’s head was spinning. The MacInnes seat, Kinlochaline Castle, was the center of the clan lands in Morvern. By marrying Lyra, a vast swathe of country would be under the control of MacDougall and there’d be nobody to stand in his way.

He knew with a quiet certainty that he’d never hand Lyra into MacDougall’s clutches.

Edmund laid down his quill. “In all this talk, did ye learn aught of MacDougall’s whereabouts. Is he with the men?

Each of the assembly shook their head. It was Jaimie who spoke again. “From what I gleaned, the laird remains in Duart Castle, awaiting news of the lady’s capture. Seems likely they’ll take her tae him.”

Tòrr took this news with apparent calm, yet inside he seethed with an awful rage. He took out his leather pouch and paid the men their gold coins for their effort.

He held in his fury until the last of the men had filed out and the door closed behind them. His hands were curled into tight fists as he turned to Edmund.

“That swine MacDougall…” Tòrr took a deep breath, working hard to bring himself under control.

Edmund was already pouring two fingers of whisky into two glasses. He handed one to Tòrr.

“Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte mhath.”

They clinked their glasses and retired to the fireside. Tòrr remained on his feet, his gut roiling with a combination of fear for Lyra and rage at MacDougall’s arrogant audacity.

Edmund took a sip of the whisky. “So, it’s plain enough. MacDougall intends tae fight if ye dinnae hand over the lady.”

Tòrr gritted his teeth, his blood boiling and his breath high in his chest.

“We’ve nae heard from him yet. Nay doubt the messengers are heading tae Duart Castle even as we speak. Once he is informed, he’ll make his demand of us.”

“Och. Ye’re right. Now we must summon the Council. This is a matter we cannae resolve without their input.”

“And dae ye think we should comply?” Tòrr snorted. “Ye believe we should simply hand the lass tae him wi’out a fight? Me chief concern is her fate.”

“Hold on. ‘Tis nae what I’m saying. But it’s nae our decision tae make without consulting the elders and the other clan leaders. If this leads tae war wi’ a powerful clan, we must tread carefully. There are many considerations tae be made. Nae least of these is that the Lady Lyra, as it turns out, is the only heiress to the MacInnes castle and lands. I ken the Council will nae be inclined tae see MacDougall taking so much power and control of the western Highlands. I think we should contact Clan MacInnes and let them ken she is with us and safe, but that if we are tae keep her that way, we need their help.”

“Aye. I agree, ‘tis good thinkin’. The man already has far too much sway across the islands. The Council will surely agree tae that.”

Edmund gave him a penetrating look. “Ye ken the Council will care naught fer the lass’s mishandling at MacDougall’s hands. She is a mere pawn in the game being played out between clans. Their decision will be based on whether it best benefits the MacKinnon clan tae hand her over, or whether tae refuse him, and risk warfare.”

Tòrr groaned. His blood was pounding in his ears. “Me temper is fraying and threatening tae break.” He took the last gulp of his whisky. “I need tae wield me claymore and feel me strength. I cannae sit idly in me study scribbling on bits of parchment. Come wi’ me tae train in the courtyard.”

“Only if ye swear nae tae take me head off in yer rage.” Edmund grinned.

“Well, ye’d best make sure ye have yer stoutest targe wi’ ye, if ye wish tae keep yer head on yer shoulders.”

Edmund saluted. “Aye, ‘tis time we honed our skills. It seems we’ll be in sore need of them before long”.

Tòrr wasted no time in exchanging his kilt for britches and a worn shirt. He pulled on his chainmail hood and hauberk, hefted his claymore and torge and headed to the courtyard, eager to vent his rage. Edmund, who was clad similarly, appeared moments later wielding his claymore and lance.

“I’ll pretend yer handsome features are MacDougall’s ugly visage.” Tòrr gave a grim laugh.

A sizeable group of members of the guard, two young lads training as knights, along with the stable hands and grooms, gathered to watch the bout between the two noblemen.

It was an evenly matched fight, with each of them giving as good as he got. But as the bout wore on, Tòrr had the edge over Edmund. His fury and horror at the prospect of MacDougall claiming Lyra burned the brighter.

By the time they’d had enough, both were sweating, their muscles were aching, and their energy was depleted.

The effort they’d put into their fighting had served Tòrr’s purpose.

Although his rage had not diminished, it was no longer red hot, gnawing at his limbs like a giant rat. Instead it had settled into a cold resolve.

By all the saints in heaven, while I live and breathe, MacDougall willnae claim the lady as his bride.

He called past the kitchen on his way back into the keep and requested hot water for a wash. One of the serving lads trailed behind him up the stairs carrying a large ewer filled with water.

Tòrr lowered his claymore and removed off his hood and hauberk while the lad scuttled across to fill his washbowl with steaming water. Once the lad had left the room, he stripped off his shirt, his boots and his britches and took his time washing, cooling himself with soaked linen cloths. By the time he was dry, both his body and his mind had calmed.

He about to don clean clothes when there was a firm knock at his door.

Assuming it was either a servant or Edmund with further news, and not giving a jot for his state of undress he called, “Come”.

The door opened and Lyra marched in with his great kilt folded over her arms.

He froze.

She took two steps through the doorway before she caught sight of him.

He studied her face as she registered his nakedness. First there was a jolt of shock, her mouth fell open and her eyes widened. She blinked twice, closed her eyes briefly, but he was still standing there naked before her when she opened them.

As her eyes darted over him, her chest rose with a sharply indrawn breath.

That delicious flush he’d come to enjoy turned her face deep pink. She looked down, then looked up at him through her long, dark, lashes.

The shock drained from her sweet face and a shy smile curled her luscious pink lips as she walked across the chamber and draped the folded kilt over the fireside chair.

He followed her graceful movements hungrily, the sway of her hips as she walked heating his desire. She kept her gaze averted yet she seemed to vibrate with awareness. And something else. A streak of wantonness that kept her in the room.

He threw back his head, giving a great bellow of a laugh. He was more than amused. Her insouciance aroused his desire. He could have sworn he heard a giggle, but she’d put a hand to her mouth and the sound may have simply been the movement of a log on the fire.

“Claray took advantage of yer absence in the training yard tae see tae cleaning yer kilt,” she said primly.

“I’m much obliged.”

“I’ve sponged it, in the same way I was taught tae clean the woolen robes of the nuns at the Priory. Only yer kilt is ten times the size of what a nun would wear.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

She had somehow gathered herself and was looking utterly unfazed by his nakedness.

So, that was how she was playing this scene. Refusing to succumb to embarrassment. He couldn’t help but admire her composure, even as he did his best to provoke and unsettle her.

He stepped forward and claimed the long length of fabric from the chair, wrapping himself quickly to hide the unruly action of his shaft before it sprang fully erect. His thoughts flew in the direction of both himself and Lyra, naked on his bed, her light curls cascading over the pillow, her plump breasts… He tried and failed to shake the image from his head.

“Now, little convent lass, please dinnae tell me ye’ve nae seen a naked lad afore.”

He reached for the recently discarded britches and pulled them on, tossing aside the length of plaid.

She huffed indignantly. “How dare ye. Of course, I’ve nae seen a lad wi’out his clothes. Why, as ye ken I’ve been leading a chaste life at the Priory on Iona.”

“Well, in case ye have forgotten the time when we were caught in the storm, I can refresh yer memory of already seein’ me naked. I was soaked to the skin and to save meself from a death from cold, I pulled off me shirt and unbelted me kilt and stood before ye in only me boots.” He couldn’t contain a wicked grin. “I can assure ye, yer gaze burned every inch of me with a heated fire that day.”

Her eyes were lit with outrage, yet she still did not turn away.

He covered his desire and the wildness in his blood with wry humor, teasing her because he wanted her aroused and blazing. The blood roared in his temples. She was glorious, her head high, her hair tumbling in fragrant waves over her shoulders, her emerald eyes on fire.

He pushed, again, to see if she would break under his taunts.

“If I didnae ken better, I’d almost consider ye liked what ye saw of me.”

That was the moment he saw her temper snap. She flung herself around and stalked toward the door.