Page 15 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

H e was too fast. With two strides he was beside her, seizing her wrist, turning her to him so that she could feel his heart beating against her chest. His musky scent of leather and soap flooded her senses.

The air between them thickened as he held her for brief seconds, pressing her to his bare chest so that she registered the rise and fall of his breathing, heavy and short. She longed to run her shaking fingers over that hard, muscular body, to feel if the dark hair growing there was soft or coarse.

His lips were so close it would take only a slight movement, if she were to stand on tiptoe, to raise her head and claim his mouth.

Eilidh’s words rang in her mind.

Am I falling in love?

That was a puzzle still to be solved.

But oh, how badly she wanted his kiss.

Closing her eyes she swayed against him, breathing in his scent, imagining how his lips would taste. A hint of whisky? Would his lips be soft and mold to hers, or hard and fierce?

She found a tiny bubble of wildness beating in her pulse and she reached a hand to touch his arm and trawled her fingers across his chest.

“D’ye nae ken what ye dae tae me, Lyra?” His voice was a growl emanating from somewhere deep in his throat. “Ye’re naught but a torment that turns me inside out and upside down.”

She laughed softly. “What dae I dae tae ye, Laird Tòrr? What is it that torments ye so?”

“Ah lass. Ye’re an innocent who daesnae ken how ye can make a lad feel when ye touch his hand, when ye brush his leg, when ye stand close enough fer him tae breathe in the scent of ye.” He sighed, a long deep, heartfelt sound. “And when ye ask a man tae stay beside ye while ye sleep, all warm and soft in the bed beside him, when all he wants is tae lie wi’ ye. All that can send a lad wild wi’ wanting.”

Reaching up, she brushed her finger slowly over his lower lip, her breath hitching in her throat, so desperate was she at that moment for his kiss.

He moaned, wrapping her in his arms so that she could feel the hardness in his britches against her. “Ye’ll drive me mad, lass.”

“And then what will ye dae, when I have driven ye mad?”

He looked on her, his grey eyes soot-dark. “I wish tae take ye, lass, and make ye me own. I want yer kisses, and I want all of ye. I want tae lie naked wi’ ye.”

He looked down at her, his eyes wild. Then he cupped her chin and brushed her lips with his, as light as a butterfly’s kiss. Then he jolted back. “Yet ye can ne’er be mine. Ye belong tae another place.”

He released her. “Go now, before I lose meself in ye, and ye’ll ken I am the mad beast ye fear.”

He turned away, leaving her hollow and wanting. Without another word, she slammed out of the chamber, tears burning behind her eyes in a turmoil of passionate remorse, cursing herself for failing to curb her own longing.

She rushed down the passageway to her own bedchamber, flung open the door and flew to the bed where she threw herself down, biting her lip to stop the threatening tears.

What a foolish child I am. I’ve nae sense of how a lass should behave wi’ a lad.

If only she’d asked Eilidh what she should do about those strange feelings that rushed through her. Instead, she had followed her heart without a thought about the consequences.

Now she’d shamed the Laird. She should have run from the room when she saw he was naked, instead she’d been brazen and wanton without the slightest knowledge of what she was doing.

She groaned. Her head throbbed painfully as she went over every detail of her conversation with Tòrr.

There were still many things she did not understand. He’d said the words “take ye,” and a tiny thrill rippled through her as she considered what that might mean. Did he intend to take her in the way of a man and woman, the way Eilidh had told her was not at all disgusting?

Suddenly, that made sense. And what had she done? Only behaved as if that was what she was angling for. To be taken.

She shivered. He’d also boldly expressed his desire to lie naked with her.

And, in the depths of her heart, she wanted that too.

Her cheeks burned at the very memory of their confrontation. She needed to talk with him, to explain, to apologize. She had no intention of driving him mad with wanting.

Or dae I ?

A hidden part of her had reveled in the darkness in his eyes when he looked at her and the husky growl in his voice. She’d had no idea that driving a man mad with longing for her could be so pleasurable.

Of course, the problem was, the longing was not all one way. She went back to the feel of his strong arms around her and the way he’d shivered when her fingers roamed across his broad chest. Even thinking of their few moments of closeness caused streaks of sensation to scorch her all the way to the mysterious place between her thighs she had only just become aware of.

Their encounter, although it had ended in a most unsatisfactory manner was, nevertheless, capable of making her pulse quicken and her hands turn clammy at the memory.

She moaned into her pillow, asking herself over and over why she had behaved so foolishly. There was no doubt, Laird Tòrr would look on her with disdain after she’d shown him what a feckless and wayward lass she really was. A knife was twisting in her heart.

The angry tears came. First, she raged at herself, then the tears turned into self-pitying sobs. She was alone in the world, unloved, the only people who had ever cared a jot for her were her friend Davina and Mother Una at the Priory. Now they were both lost to her.

She sat up suddenly. This would not do. It was time for her to take charge of her own misery.

She must go to Laird Tòrr and apologize for her unseemly actions.

With her mind made up she soaked a linen cloth in cold water from the ewer on the table and pressed it to her face.

She lay with the wet cloth on her face until she was satisfied the aftermath of her tears had been blotted away. Then she brushed out the tangles in her hair until it hung in a silken curtain down her back. She straightened her kirtle, slipped her feet in the embroidered slippers beside the bed, and, with head held high she walked with determined steps to the door.

She stopped. Inside she was quaking, fearful of the laird’s anger, imagining him sending her away, refusing his protection any further.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she squared her shoulders, undid the latch and opened the door.

To her relief there was no one in the passageway as she tiptoed, heart in her mouth, towards Tòrr’s adjacent bedchamber.

As she approached, she heard the rumble of men’s voices and noted that the door was slightly ajar.

She froze, about to turn back when she thought she heard the sound of her name from one of the voices. She crept toward the open door, intent on eavesdropping. If her name was being bandied about, she wished to hear exactly what was being said.

Tòrr and Edmund were involved in a discussion, their voices low, as if they didn’t wish to be overhead.

Ha. If ye didnae wish fer a lass tae overhear ye lads, ye should have made sure tae close the door properly.

From the stern quality of their voices, she deduced the matter for discussion was of great importance. She held her breath, a painful knot forming in her belly. If they were discussing her, then it did not bode well.

She crept closer, placing her straining ears as near to the door as she dared.

Tòrr was speaking but the crackling of the fire prevented her from make out every softly spoken word. She heard “…the day after tomorrow, nae later…”.

Then Edmund, “Ye must make yer decision… then…”

Tòrr spoke again. “MacDougall wants us tae…”

The knot in her stomach tightened and she sucked in a frightened breath. MacDougall. They must have heard from their men who were searching for the gallowglasses.

She strained her ears to pick up the next words. They were Edmund’s. “…if the Council insists, we hand over the Lady MacInnes…”

Holding her breath, she waited for Tòrr’s response.

“I cannae say…”

Grasping her belly, she was almost doubled over with the pain.

The laird intends tae hand me over tae me family’s sworn enemy.”

Turning on her heel she dashed back to the sanctuary of her own bedchamber, her mind reeling with this new revelation. Laird Tòrr would betray her if his Council demanded it.

Of course, they’ll demand I be given tae MacDougall, like a chicken trussed fer the pot, with nay possible escape.

Once her breathing had almost returned to normal, and her heart was no longer hammering in her chest like a war-drum, she slumped into the chair in front of the fire.

I must leave taenight.

She jumped to her feet, her eyes looking around for what she might take with her. She harrumphed. With so few possessions, save for her precious wooden box, she would travel light. After taking down the box from behind the bedstand, she took the small gold key she wore on a fine chain around her neck and unlocked the box for the first time.

She knew it contained the few items of importance her mother had left. Nestled inside she found a gold amulet, an old crucifix, a locket, and underneath these items, a felt pouch. She pulled open the ribbons and shook out the contents of the purse. There were a number of gold and silver coins there, a ring and a pair of emerald earbobs.

Her mother’s silver coins would be enough to see her across the Sound of Mull to Lochaline. The distance was not great. If she could find a fisherman to take her across, she could be back in her Clan lands by morning.

Once there she knew she could find help to guide her to Kinlochaline Castle.

If only MacDougall daesnae find me first.

She was holding in check the pain that came from the knowledge that the Laird Tòrr was prepared to give her into MacDougall’s clutches.

Cold logic told her that the MacKinnon Clan would not wish to bring down MacDougall’s wrath on all their heads. It was but a simple arrangement to give her up and avoid war with a powerful clan.

Tòrr, as the laird, would never risk the safety and lives of his people.

Yet, though that logic made sense, she couldn’t help a crack opening up in her heart. The warm and trusting piece of it that had believed herself falling in love with Tòrr broke away, leaving behind a dark, hollow, space filled with unshed tears.

But there was no time now to dwell on a shattered heart. She was only thankful that she had been jolted into awareness and not allowed her feelings to mislead her into believing the Laird Tòrr would keep her safe.

She slipped on her mother’s earbobs. Then after exchanging her slippers for woolen socks and pulling on her boots and lacing them, she gathered her few items – a linen cloth, clean stockings and chemise, and the precious little carved wooden box, and piled them into a small cloth bag. She slung the bag around her neck and across herself for safekeeping, slipped on her tunic and shrugged on her cloak.

Then, with a soft and silent tread she made her way along the passage, past Laird Tòrr’s door – which was now shut tight – and continued down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

It was almost pitch dark, with only a sliver of moon hanging in a velvet sky to light her way. She slipped unnoticed across the bailey and past the guard at the gate.

Following the track to the shoreline below the castle, the track was rough going, slippery and rocky as she felt her way, following the faint glimmer of the ocean to her right. The noost was nestled into the foot of the hill in a small cove and was home to Tòrr’s birlinns and several lighter sailing craft as well as a scattering of fishermen’s boats.

Along further were three small cottages which she guessed were where the fishermen and their families stayed. Approaching the first of these with a light in the window, she rapped on the old timber door.

By now the soft breeze she’d enjoyed at Eilidh’s place had turned into a strong wind. Howling through the trees behind the cottage it almost drowned out the sound of her knuckles against the door.

No-one appeared in response to her knock. Growing impatient and needing to be on her way, she knocked again, harder this time.

“Stop yer knocking. I’m coming,” came a gruff voice.

She waited until finally the door was thrown open and a burly, older man, holding a candle aloft, appeared in front of her.

There was a distinctly bitter smell of ale surrounding him.

“What in the name of all that’s holy is a lass daeing here in the night?” He scratched his head, peering at her.

“I’m seeking a passage across tae the mainland taenight. It’s a matter of great urgency. Can ye ferry me across?”

The man was shaking his head when Lyra pulled out her purse and showed him a glint of silver in the candlelight.

“I can offer ye two silver coins fer yer service.”

“Aye.” He began to nod. “If ye make it three, I’ll take ye.”

Suddenly afraid that he could take the purse and throw her overboard and no one would any the wiser, she hesitated. But her need to flee was greater than her trepidation at setting off with the man. She nodded.

“I’ll pay ye one silver coin now and the rest when ye put me ashore at Lochaline.”

He grunted his assent as she handed him the coin. He grabbed a woolen cloak from a peg in the wall by the door and walked out.

“Follow me, I ken where me feet should go.”

By now the wind had reached an alarming pitch, causing Lyra to question whether attempting the crossing tonight was a good idea, but all it took was for the Laird Alexander MacDougall to flash into her mind and she headed off, following the fisherman down to the noost.

The man stumbled several times on the path, and it occurred to Lyra that he might be suffering from a surfeit of ale.

They arrived at the noost where his small craft lay on the sandy shore. She waited fretfully while he adjusted the single sail and placed his oars in the metal oarlocks on the side of the boat, while she took off her boots and placed them in the bag slung over her shoulder. The fisherman rolled up his britches and pushed the boat into the water.

He held up his hand, gesturing for her to wade over to the bobbing boat. Once she was on board, he scrambled over the side and, taking up the oars, began to row.

“’Tis nae good weather fer rowing, lass.” He gestured toward the surging water beyond the noost. “If the wind turns the sail, we might just end up going the wrong way. Mayhap ‘tis best fer ye tae wait until the wind drops.”

There was a catch in his voice that made her believe he was fearful. Her stomach lurched. But her fear of capture by MacDougall asserted itself and she shook her head.

“I’ll make it four silver coins.”

He bent his back to the oars again. But once they were beyond the safe haven of the noost and out in the Sound of Mull, where the wind blew twice as hard, the waves rose up over the sides of the boat. Within minutes Lyra was soaked to the skin.

The fisherman shook his head. “Lass, this isnae right. I’m turning back, silver coins or nae. I’d rather be poor and alive than drowned wi’ me hand filled wi’ silver.”

With that he plunged in one oar, striving against the pull of the tide to turn the boat.

There was nothing Lyra could do but hold on tight and pray they made it back to safety.