Page 17 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

B athing the previous night when she was at last in her bedchamber was, to Lyra’s mind, only a tad short of heaven. She’d warmed her bones in the hot water, and washed the salt water from her hair with lavender soap.

That morning, after having slept the sleep of the blameless and innocent, she was seated by the fire and Elspaith was brushing her hair.

On waking, her thoughts had flown to Laird Tòrr. She suspected he’d not taken kindly to her frantic attempts to escape that had almost ended in disaster.

Going over the events of the night she felt a flash of the anger that had driven her to take such a terrible risk on the wild waters of the Sound of Mull.

He wishes tae hand me intae the Laird Alexander’s cruel hands.

There was a soft tap on the door. Elspaith put down the brush and hurried across to open it. “Tis Claray, me lady.”

“Come.” She’d been dreading it would be Laird Tòrr demanding an explanation for her impulsive flight. But, then again, he would more than likely storm in without so much as a single knock.

Claray entered, carrying another gown that Purdie had only just completed.

“Lady Lyra,” Claray curtsied and addressed her formally, “Laird Tòrr has asked me tae convey the message that he wishes tae meet wi’ ye in the solar so that ye may break yer fast wi’ him.”

Lyra gave a reluctant nod. She was by no means ready for a meeting with Tòrr, but it was impossible to avoid. Thanks to Purdie, at least she wouldn’t be appearing before him in the now sadly somewhat ruined saffron gown.

“Aye, Claray, could ye please tell the Laird I shall meet him when I have finished dressing.”

Elspaith helped her into the forest-green dress.

It was then she thought of the little carved wooden box containing her mother’s things.

“Can ye bring me the box ye’ll find in the wee cloth bag?”

She opened the box and took out the emerald ear bobs. This morning she needed to look her best.

“Why ye’re a picture, milady.” The little maid was filled with admiration. “The kirtle matches the green of yer eyes and the ear bobs are perfect. I’m certain Laird Tòrr will take pleasure in yer appearance.”

Lyra nodded in thanks for the sweet compliment, telling herself she cared not a fig whether the laird approved or nay.

He was seated before the fire, contemplating a bowl of porridge, when she flounced into the solar, quite ready to do battle with him. She’d given a great deal of thought to the overheard conversation that had prompted her flight and she had no intention of allowing him to slide over it without calling him to task.

She waited by his chair for him to look up. He took a mouthful of porridge, turned back to the fire and, without meeting her gaze, gestured for her to sit.

Despite her wish to confront him, she took the seat next to his, somewhat discomfited by his aloof demeanor. She’d been expecting anger, not this coldness.

Once she was settled, he rang the bell and instructed the maid to bring food to break Lyra’s fast. Still he said nothing. Her impatience was fit to breaking by the time the maid entered with a platter bearing porridge and eggs. He turned to Lyra as the maid laid the tray on the small table by the fire

“I am pleased tae see ye recovered from the exertions of last night.”

“Exertions?” she snapped. “Is that what ye call being half-drowned and practically freezing tae death?”

“Mayhap I could call it ‘yer misguided adventure’. Would that suit ye?”

“Nay, Laird Tòrr. Adventure it may have been, but it was certainly nae misguided. I kent exactly what I was daeing and the risk I took.”

He offered her a haughty, unsmiling look. “And did ye nae think or care that yer impulsive actions could have caused the death of Doddie the fisherman?” His voice had the edge of a growl to it. “And, meself fer that matter.

“I didnae ask ye tae come after me.” She sulked.

“How many times have I had to rescue ye now? I’ve surely lost count.”

She huffed. This was not all the conversation she wished to have. “I believe the number ye seek is four.” She held up four fingers. “One at the Priory gate. Two when ye dragged me from the Sound of Iona. Three when ye carried me on Paden’s back all the way from Fionnphort to Dùn Ara.” She sighed loudly. “And yes, four, when ye rescued me from the sea last night.”

“’Tis a habit I sorely wish tae break.”

She shrugged. He had the upper hand and there was naught she could do about it. Curse the lad. He had come to her rescue more than once, a fact that rankled most painfully.

She spooned in the porridge, lost in thought, composing what she would say.

When she finally laid down her spoon, she turned to him and took a deep breath.

“I should tell ye at once, Laird Tòrr, that I was privy tae yer conversation last night with yer advisor.”

“Ye heard me speaking wi’ Edmund?” He looked puzzled for a moment as if attempting to recall the conversation. “Where was that?”

She huffed. “Why… in yer… chamber. I was in the passage. The door was ajar.” She felt that vexing burn in her cheeks as she recalled the reason she was standing outside his room. She had intended to apologize for her unseemly forward behavior.

Why, I was even such a fool as tae even imagine kissing him.

He stood and poked at the already roaring fire with the iron rod standing beside the fireplace and turned to face her, stern-faced, his hands behind his back.

She looked up at his frowning face and quailed. This stern, grim face was what she remembered from that first terrible day. Since then, she’d come to know that there was a softness there too. But not today.

“And what were the contents of this conversation, Lady Lyra?”

This was proving far more difficult that she’d imagined. She cleared her throat.

“I heard ye two discussing me. Ye spoke coldly, weighing up whether I should be given tae Laird Alexander MacDougall or remain under yer protection. From the sounds of it, ye were considering me as a pawn in a game tae be played between two clans.”

She sucked in a breath, biting down on her trembling lower lip blinking away the tears brewing behind her eyes, refusing to let him see how deeply his words had cut her. Now was not the time to display her misery.

Especially in front of such a heartless brute...

He nodded slowly. “And what did ye conclude from this sojourn intae eavesdropping?”

Rising to her feet with as much grace as she could muster, Lyra stood, facing him, fixing him with a glare.

“I learned that ye intended tae hand me tae the MacDougall if yer Clan Council should wish it, and that ye’ll meet wi’ them taenight.” Her voice shook and she swallowed, attempting to steady herself. She pressed her hands to her sides to hide their shaking. Every part of her was in an uproar as she went over that deadly conversation.

“I had nay choice but tae chance me luck wi’ the sea and strive tae find me homelands. I thought naught of me death, fer it would be better fer me tae die than tae be given over tae MacDougall.” She sniffed. “I didnae wish tae cause harm tae Doddie. Or tae ye, fer that matter. I didnae stop tae think I was taking others intae danger.”

The laird’s expression did not change, dashing an almost lost sliver of hope that he would change his mind. Yet, she knew – she’d always known – that as the laird, his first duty must always be to his clan.

He gazed, unmoving, as she trembled in front of him. Despite her every effort, a tear trickled down her cheek. Then another. Before many moments had passed, a veritable waterfall was pouring from her eyes.

She lifted her head and squared her shoulders, sniffing back the tears as best she could, holding her breath against a threatening sob.

“I ken I have nay role in yer life. That ye might nae spare a thought at giving me up tae the man who murdered me faither if it endangers yer people.” A sob broke free.

Her voice broke. Now there was no stemming the torrent of sobs.

He stepped forward and clasped her in his arms, holding her tight. “Hush lass. Dinnae take on so. ‘Tis all right. Ye dinnae understand.”

She sobbed against his chest, his words hardly making an impression against her heartfelt anguish.

He held her, stroking her hair, whispering all sorts of consolations. “Never mind, all will be well, dinnae be afeared, I’ll keep ye safe.”

When at last there were no sobs left, she lifted her tear-stained face.

“What did ye say?”

“I was saying that if ye were nae such an impetuous, headstrong, lass…” he turned her and held her at arm’s length looking directly into her gaze with his storm-cloud eyes. “… if ye’d had a moment’s patience to stay where ye were and listened to what was said next in our conversation, ye’d have heard different.”

She looked up at him, striving to discern if he spoke the truth.

“What more did ye say?” Another sniff. She held her head high, not liking his remonstrance one little bit. Impetuous? Headstrong?

“Ye’d have heard me say that I would decide on the words I would put tae the Council before the meeting - that nae matter what, I’d nae turn ye over tae the Laird MacDougall.”

Straightening her spine, she stood tall before him, her eyes narrowed with disbelief. “D’ye speak truth? Can I trust that ye’ll nay betray me if yer Council insists I’m nay longer welcome at Dùn Ara?

He cast her a rueful grin and shook his head. “Dinnae fear, Lyra, I will nae betray ye, but neither will I go against the wishes of me Clan.”

She tilted her head and looked at him askance. “But I dinnae follow. Is such a thing possible?”

He pulled her close and held her still, although she went to push him away.

“Aye, it is possible, because I will turn them tae me view. They’ll nae defy their laird when they hear what I propose.”

“And what is that?” Her face was against his chest and her voice came out muffled.

“Now is nae the time fer me tae speak of it. Ye must have patience and trust that I ken what I am about.” He gave a soft laugh. “Although I ken that requesting ye tae have patience may be a tall order.”

He moved to his chair by the fire, still with her wrapped in his arms.

She managed a dubious, half-smile, but when he sat and tugged her arm she went as easily as a child onto his lap.

He held her tight, and she lifted her arms and twined them around his neck.

“I’m asking ye tae put yer trust in me, lass. I ken there have been few enough ye could trust in yer life, but ye are safe here.”

Seated as she was, close enough to feel his breath in her hair, to feel the rise and fall of his chest, her heart racing, her entire body melting into his large frame, her soul told her that he was honest and true and that he was a man who stood by his word.

She made her mind up that she would believe him, no matter what he said

She gave a slight nod. “I dae believe ye will nae betray me.”

“Good.” He brushed the last of her tears from her cheek. “I kent that despite all indications tae the contrary, at the bottom ye were a sensible lass.”

She huffed at that and playfully swatted his arm. “How could ye ever think otherwise?”

He laughed, a warm, deep sound that turned her limbs to liquid.

Then, without even needing the urging of the devil who had surely crept into the room and was seated on her shoulder, she leaned up and pressed her lips to Tòrr ’s generous mouth.

He hesitated for a heartbeat, and for the briefest of instants Lyra feared she may have been far too bold for her own good. But before she could take another breath, he moaned softly into her mouth and opened to her. He plied his tongue so softly to her lips that, with a sigh, she gave him entry and melted entirely into the dizzying heights of their kiss.

She lay back in his arms and he leaned to her, cupping her head in his hand as she wound her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair.

The kissing was everything she’d imagined. But so much more as well. Holding him and being held brought her the compelling need for connection she’d yearned for. She’d dreamed sometimes about reliving the closeness she’d felt when they rode on Paden’s back, jolted and sometimes sleepy, two bodies almost joined.

There was comfort in it but, all the same, a fierceness that caught her by surprise.

But it was also the feel of his arms around her, breathing his breath, inhaling his earthy scents of whisky and leather and fresh grass, and the sensuous delight of feeling his warm skin under her fingertips

It made her thankful she had had no idea what bliss being kissed by the Laird Mackinnon would be. For, had she known about the sensations of delight that were flooding her now – the playful and serious, the sweet and spicy, the hard and soft, the gentle and wild, the melting and hardening, she would never have been able to wait.

And when at last they broke apart needing air, she found herself gasping like a newly caught fish, yet wanting another kiss and then another.

And it seemed that the laird was of the same mind, for he bent his head and kissed her again, hard and long, as soon as he’d caught his breath.

He buried his head in the hollow place where her throat turned into her shoulder and traced kisses on her skin and up her throat to nibble on her ear, causing ripples of molten heat to course through her.

It was only a sharp rap at the door of the solar that brought this sweet bliss to a halt.

Groaning, Tòrr lifted his head. “Wait a moment,” he called gruffly.

Lyra, hauled in a deep breath and leapt to her feet smoothing her hair, while Tòrr straightened his kilt, failing to conceal the gigantic bulge below his belt.

He shrugged, offering Lyra a rueful grin, seized her hand and pressed it to his lips. Then he strode to the door and flung it open. Edmund was waiting there.

He glanced at Tòrr, and then took in Lyra’s figure standing before the fire.

“I trust I’m nae interrupting something private between ye two.”

Tòrr cleared his throat. “As private as two can be while seated in the solar.”

“Ah. Nae at all then.” He grinned knowingly. “Me regrets me laird, but it seems there is a birlinn nosing into the cove. The first of the Council members has arrived.”

Tòrr gave a reluctant nod. “Begging yer pardon me lady. But I must be off. That will be me cousin Willie, who sails from Ulva. Always the first tae arrive and make the most of our whisky.”

He turned to Edmund. “Please make sure Claray has the kitchen on notice. He’ll nay doubt be ravenously hungry as well as desperate with thirst.”

They walked off chuckling, leaving Lyra feeling like she’d just been visiting a perfectly soft, fluffy, cloud and had now landed back on earth with a thud.

Claray came fussing in. “The Council will begin their meeting after supper and a feast is being prepared. ‘Tis fortunate ye have the blue velvet gown tae wear fer yer presence is required at the high table in the refectory.”

Before Lyra could open her mouth to complain, Claray raised a hand.

“’Tis the laird’s wish that ye should be clad in the finest gown. And I darenae argue wi’ the laird.”

Lyra blew up her cheeks with indignation, but Claray shook her head.

“And the same must be said fer ye Lady Lyra. Nae one argues when our laird gives an order.” She fluffed up the cushions on the chair Lyra had been sharing with Tòrr and turned to go. “Please excuse me, I have much tae see tae. Elspaith will dae yer bidding and provide all ye require fer the evening.”

She left Lyra half in a daze at the sudden turn of events.

I must summon me wits again. Taenight I will dine with men who hold me fate in their hands.