Page 16 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T he cold wind from the sea blew harsh and strong on the battlements where Tòrr paced. He pulled his cloak closer around himself.

Tomorrow the members of his Council would begin to gather at Dùn Ara and he would be forced to seek their decision about Lyra’s fate.

All he knew was that he would fight for her.

His reverie was interrupted as a figure emerged from the stairs and came toward him.

For a moment his heart lifted as the notion crossed his mind that this was Lyra approaching, but as she drew near, he recognized his housekeeper, Claray. At once a sense of grim foreboding rattled through him. This was one part of the castle Claray almost never visited.

He turned toward her, the wind catching his hair and whipping it about his face. “What is it, Claray?”

The light was dim, but he could make out the frown drawing Claray’s brows together.

“The wee lass, Elspaith, Lady Lyra’s maid, came tae me a while ago. She was somewhat concerned about Lyra’s whereabouts.”

His heart jolted. “Concerned?”

“Aye, she went to the lady’s bedchamber tae help her prepare fer supper. She knocked fer several minutes, guessing that the lady was sleeping. When there was still nay answer she went tae the solar. But she wasnae there. So, she came tae me.”

A feeling of dread was blowing over him, even more fiercely than the wind.

“So, ye cannae find the lady? Is that the problem?” His voice betrayed the fear stalking him at the thought of what might have befallen Lyra.

Claray bobbed a curtsy. “I beg yer pardon me laird. It occurred to me that she might be here wi’ ye. I’ve looked all over and this was the last place I considered.”

His heart was jumping like a frightened frog. “As ye can see, she isnae here.” He turned and walked back toward the stairs, his arm at Claray’s elbow. “Did ye check with the guards at the gate?”

“Nae yet. I wished tae check wi’ ye before I raised the alarm with the men guarding the gate.”

“Never mind, I’ll speak wi’ them.”

On reaching the foot of the stairs he set off at a run, down the steps to the courtyard and across the bailey to the outside wall.

“Who goes?” came the call when he reached the gate.

“’Tis yer laird. I am seeking a lady who may have passed through the gate earlier.”

He was groaning inwardly, wracked with impatience, tapping his foot, as the men conversed among themselves.

Finally, one of them spoke. “Me laird, there was a lass who slipped through the small gate some time ago. We’ve seen naybody since then.”

“She was alone?”

“Aye. There was nae a soul wi’ her.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding.

So he was nae a prisoner of MacDougall’s men.

“Did ye see where this lass went after she’d slipped out of the gate?”

The night was dark and it would have been near impossible to see someone once they were further than a few steps beyond the gate. The response was a negative sounding grunt and a “Nay,” that sent Tòrr hurtling through the small, unlocked side gate, and tearing down the track.

There was only one direction she would have gone and that was toward the noost on the rocky shore below the castle.

Racing down the path with a sure-footedness that came from a lifetime of navigating the steep, perilous slope, he could scarce believe she was gone.

He groaned loudly. Had he scared her so with his coarse, lusty behavior that she’d fled into the night to escape him? Was he as abhorrent in her eyes as the monstrous MacDougall?

He had to find her. He had to reassure her he’d meant her no harm. He had to explain – even without fully understanding it himself – that her very nearness aroused in him a deep, burning, need to hold her, to kiss her lips and take her to his bed.

God’s blood. How could I have been such a clumsy oaf as tae toy with such an innocent lass?

He had no answers for his own question.

With the wind howling in his ears and no moonlight to guide him, it was slow-going down the path, despite his familiarity with every slippery rock and hidden crevice.

He kept calling, “Lyra, are ye there?” but the words were flung back at him by the wind, which was now gusting so fiercely that every other sound was lost in the caterwauling.

When he finally reached the sandy shore, his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He looked around him, desperately hoping he’d spy her small figure on the beach. But, except for the small fishing boats that had been pulled high on the sand, the long stretch along the shore was empty.

He ran down the beach, frantically calling her name. The sea was pounding high on the shoreline and his heart was in his mouth.

Where is she?

It was only when he ventured closer to the relentless waves that he was able to make out a dark shape in the water. He hauled off his boots, tossed them, and raced into the water. There was a muffled cry as he drew closer and realized there was a man struggling to the shore.

He raced in and dragged the man a few steps onto the strand.

“The lass…” the man waved a sodden arm.

Tòrr waded a few steps, screwing his eyes to peer into the darkness. It was then he heard the faint scream and saw the upturned boat further out.

His blood ran fast and cold in his veins at the sight.

Without even an instant of hesitation, he dived into the sea. Managing, somehow, to keep his head above the angry, choppy waves, he swam close to the little boat being tossed about so cruelly by the vicious swell.

Above the howling of the wind and the roaring sea, he heard a scream. The breath caught in his throat at the sound.

Lyra!

He could see her now, clinging tightly to the broken hull.

With one hand he grabbed the boat and pulled himself alongside, reaching for her with the other.

She seized his extended hand in a frantic grip. “Tòrr… thank the Good Lord…”

“Let go of the boat and put yer arms around me neck. I’ll hold ye.”

Whimpering, she still clung tightly to the plank with one hand.

“Trust me, Lyra.” He kept the terror out of his voice, holding steady and calm.

There was another whimper, then, suddenly, she was with him, clinging to his back, her arms around his neck. He released his hold on the side of the boat and the churning water swept them away.

“Hold tight,” he ground out.

She held fast to him as he struck out for the shore. It was not far, but, battling the waves, it seemed an insurmountable distance away. He struggled, using all his strength against the foaming tide, each stroke more tortuous than the one before.

He hardly dared to think of what would happen should her grip on him falter. She’d surely be swept away and, if need be, he would drown in the attempt to save her.

Then, at last, it was solid underfoot. He took a step, and then another. As he stumbled into the shallower water, the man he’d helped came to their aid, guiding Tòrr’s last few steps onto the beach.

He lowered Lyra and she crumpled, gasping, onto the sand at his feet. He waited while she gulped in enough air to return her ragged breathing to something close to even, and helped her to stand. Her little fabric bag was still slung around her neck.

By now they were both shivering, their teeth chattering loudly. He embraced her half-frozen body, holding her against him as he regained some of his own lost body-warmth.

The man beckoned briskly. “Hasten wi’ me tae me cottage ‘Tis warm there.” He gestured toward a dim shape across from the rocks at the end of the beach.

“What is yer name, lad,” Tòrr asked.

“Name’s George, but most folk call me Doddie,” came the gruff response.

Tòrr hoisted Lyra into his arms and followed the man along the path to the cottage, collecting his discarded cloak and boots along the way.

At the door, Doddie and Tòrr wrung out the seawater from their shirts while Lyra hauled off her soaking tunic and twisted her dripping skirt, shaking off the droplets off.

Once they were inside, Doddie lit a candle and held it up, peering into the faces of his visitors. When his eyes came to rest on Tòrr he gave a start. Stepping back a pace, he tugged at his damp forelock.

“Begging yer pardon, me laird. In the darkness I didnae ken it was ye.”

“Never mind, Doddie, ye helped me.” He turned to Lyra who was shivering beside him. “I have yet tae discover what it was that ye were thinking of tae brave a sea voyage on such a night as this.”

She lifted her chin, glaring at him. “I shall tell ye everything as soon as I am able tae gather me wits.”

Doddie stoked the still-warm embers remaining in his hearth and added another log. Within minutes, the flames were dancing and the smoke was whirling up the chimney.

Lyra hung her sodden cloak and tunic over the rope strung above the fire and all three of them stood at the fireside, rubbing their frozen hands back to life.

Although Tòrr was more than impatient to learn the details of what had driven Lyra to take such a deathly risk, he held his tongue. Once she was back safely in the castle and sufficiently recovered from her ordeal there would come a time for the questions and answers he desired.

Doddie bustled off and returned with a rough flax towel and handed it to Lyra. “Here lass, this might be of help.”

“I thank ye, Doddie.” She took the towel, blotted and rubbed her hair.

Warmed by the fire they were quickly drying off as Doddie poured them each a bowl of ale and handed it to them.

“Thank ye, lad, I’ll see tae it that ye’re rewarded fer yer kindness.”

The man shook his head. “Nay bother, me laird. ‘Twas me foolish greed that led me tae agree tae the lady’s request.” He glanced at Lyra. “She seemed most desperate tae be on her way.”

He dug into his pocket and proffered the silver coin Lyra had given him.

Tòrr shook his hand. “Nay need, lad. ‘Twas nae fault of yers that the weather turned bad and the lass insisted on being taken tae— Where, exactly?”

He cast a quizzical glance at Lyra who was gazing into the fire. Doddie answered in her stead.

“The lady asked me tae take her across the sound and along the mainland tae Morvern.”

Tòrr nodded. That made sense. Morvern was MacInnes land. So, that could only mean she was attempting to return to her people. He felt a lessening of the tightness in his shoulders at this knowledge, reassured she was not going to MacDougall.

Furthermore, he would see to it that she would never become MacDougall’s plaything. So, the sooner they were back safely within the castle walls the better it would be.

He wished for nothing more at that moment than to fold her into his arms and tell her that his life had meant nothing to him when he realized she was in danger.

But such a confession was little short of madness.

Once they were warmed a little, Tòrr signaled to Lyra for them to be on their way.

“The path tae the castle is steep, Lady Lyra. D’ye think ye can walk it, or d’ye wish me tae carry ye?”

“I’ll walk. Thank ye.” She huffed as if his very presence aggravated her.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. Could she nae be a tad grateful tae him fer being rescued?

Fer the second time?

Yet she hadnae a word of thanks.

Why did she insist on placing herself in danger? In the name of all-the-devils-in-hell, she was a willful lass, hell-bent on causing him trouble since the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

Why, once they were safely back inside the castle, he should turn her over his lap and give her the spanking she deserved.

He smiled grimly.

Now there was a pleasant thought.

They struggled on up the hill, the rain soaking them all over again. Occasionally he took her elbow to help her over a slippery, rocky section of the path and she was quick to wrench her arm away once they reached steadier ground.

Whatever had got into the lass? Despite the freezing weather, it was clear she was burning with rage. There was much for them to discuss.

At last, the dim, reassuring, light at the castle gate came into view and they hastened their steps. The gate was locked and they waited for the guard to descend and unlock it. The burly man looked questioningly at Tòrr, then at Lyra, saying nothing.

No doubt the strange behavior of his laird, and he and the Lady Lyra returning to the castle like a pair of bedraggled cats, would be the cause of a great deal of comment among the guard. They could wonder all they liked, Tòrr had no intention of enlightening them as to the night’s happenings. He was still bemused by them himself.

“Good night, me laird. Lady Lyra.” The guard saw them on their way.

They were only halfway across the courtyard when Claray and Elspaith rushed to greet them.

“Yer wee hands are frozen.” Claray immediately took Lyra’s hands chaffing them to bring them back to life. She signalled to Elspaith. “Make sure there’s hot water in the lady’s room, lass. She’ll need tae warm herself before she catches a death of cold.

She threw Tòrr a baleful look.

He shook his head. “’Tis nae me fault, Claray, that this headstrong lass decided tae try and drown herself in the Sound of Mull.”

Claray flung a woolen plaid around Lyra’s shoulders. “Come lass. I’ve a fire set in yer chamber. Ye need tae be out of those wet clothes at once.” She hurried her into the keep without another glance at the chagrined laird.

Edmund, who had been waiting at the stairs, greeted him.

“Good tae see ye’re still alive, lad. Although, by the looks of ye, it seems ye’ve been giving death a good gamble this night.

Tòrr strode up the stairs heading for his bedchamber. “Bring the whisky and I’ll tell ye what transpired this night.”

The candles burned low into the night as Tòrr, now warmly clad in his night shift and woolen plaid, related the story of his night’s adventures.

“Whatever was the lass thinking?” Edmund mused, pouring them each another splash of whisky. “Did she nae understand that she would have been easy prey fer MacDougall out in the sound, and once she’d made it tae Morvern? If Laird Alexander has any sense he’d have had men posted, looking out fer her there.”

Tòrr shrugged. “She’s angry, yet I dinnae ken why. I’ll question her tomorrow.”

Edmund finished his dram. “And, dinnae forget, the Council members will be here before tomorrow nightfall. Ye need tae think hard about the choices ye must put before them.”

Tòrr nodded wearily. He was not looking forward to dealing with the Council.

“I ken the Council’s inclination will be tae insist the lass be handed tae MacDougall. Avoiding a war with the MacDougalls will be uppermost. Yet I willnae give up the lass. And they dinnae want MacDougall obtaining more power.”

Edmund shook his head. “In that case, there’ll be nay choice but tae fight. And that is where the letter to Lyra’s clan becomes essential.”

Tòrr gave a grim smile. “What I must dae is find a solution that will satisfy the Council.”

Edmund raised a dark brow. “Aye. That may be nay small task.”

He patted Tòrr’s shoulder. “’Tis clear tae me ye’ve been captivated by the lass’s considerable charms. I ken ye’ve been lusting after her since the first moment ye set eyes on her dressed as a nun at the Priory gate.”

This brought a spluttering of the whisky Tòrr was sipping.

“By God, Edmund Sinclair, ye’re an observant lad.” He laughed.

“Och, lad.” Edmund wiped the smile from his lips. “I’ve ne’er seen ye so bewitched by a lass. And I’ve kent ye a long while.”

Tòrr gulped the last of his whisky and looked up at Edmund shaking his head. “Trust me. I’ll find a way tae resolve the dilemma.”

Raising his whisky, Edmund laughed. “Here’s tae the joining of two willful, headstrong, impulsive, stubborn, souls. “Tis surely a match made in heaven.”

“Slàinte mhath!”