Page 22 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
L yra was in tumult as she watched Tòrr’s tall figure leaving the solar. Why, in the name of all the holiest of saints had she not been able to immediately jump at what he had offered?
Surely, the decision was straightforward? Of course, she wanted nothing more than to return to Morvern. That had been what she’d longed for all the years at the Priory and everything she’d intended once she’d escaped the gallowglasses on that day when Tòrr and Edmund had come to her rescue.
Wasn’t that why she’d risked her life and the life of a poor fisherman to make her escape?
Dwelling on this, she paced before the fire, screwing the hem of her kirtle into a tiny ball. A tiny voice was whispering to her, and she raised both hands to her ears to block what it was saying.
Werenae ye fleeing Dùn Ara because ye’d been eavesdropping? Ye believed the laird didnae care a jot fer ye and would hand ye over tae MacDougall. ”
She shook her head vehemently. Of course not. She had run away because... well... because she wished to go home.
The tiny voice persisted.
That wasnae what sent ye helter-skelter down the path tae the sea. Ye wanted him and ye thought he didnae want ye and ye couldnae bear it.
“ Are ye all right, me lady?” It was Claray’s soft voice jolting her out of her reverie.
It was only as she turned to greet the Seneschal that she became aware of the silent tears coursing down her cheeks.
She hastily wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Thank ye, Claray. I am only puzzling over a matter that has me bedeviled.”
“I hope it is soon resolved and ye’re smiling again. Shall I bring ye some bites? Ye’ve nae broken yer fast this morning.”
Lyra sniffed but managed a watery smile. “Thank ye. Naught more than a small morsel and some ale. I have little appetite.”
After Claray had bustled off to the kitchen, Lyra returned to the seat in front of the fire, trying and failing to make sense of the swirling thoughts rattling in her brain.
After she’d nibbled on a boiled egg and an oatcake and quaffed half a tankard of the ale, there was still little sign of the clarity she so desperately needed.
Tòrr’s offer to take her back to Morvern had taken her by surprise and left her in a maelstrom of confusion.
After the maid had cleared away her platters Lyra got to her feet, intending to return to her chamber. She hoped that sitting in solitude and calm could help her find a way through the jumble of shadowy notions jostling for space.
She had only traced a few steps when it occurred to her that she might draw on Eilidh’s wisdom. Mayhap she could help to make sense of her strange, conflicted emotions, and aid her to a decision.
After entering the bailey, she spied Eilidh tending a patch of herbs along the path. The Healer looked up as Lyra approached. A smile spreading across her lean features.
“Good morrow, me lady. What is it that brings ye tae the bailey wi’ such a troubled expression on yer bonny face?”
Despite her misery, Lyra found herself smiling. Eilidh’s warmth was reassuring.
The healer rubbed her back as she stood and then reached for Lyra’s hand. “Come, we’ll sit and enjoy a chamomile tisane and ye shall tell me what ails ye.”
Her thoughts seemed to make more sense to her, as she relayed them under Eilidh’s careful questioning.
“So, ye wish tae travel tae yer home, yet at the same time, ‘tis nae what ye wish?”
“Aye. Those are me thoughts, yet they make little sense tae me.”
“And yer heart lies... where?”
Lyra’s cheeks were burning as she confessed her longings and yearnings to Eilidh.
“The laird will abide by yer wishes, he will take ye tae yer clan if that is what ye desire above all else.
Lyra nodded.
“Let me get this clear in me mind. Ye believe that because he has offered tae escort ye, he daesnae care fer ye.”
“Aye,” Lyra blurted out. “He daesnae wish tae wed me but tae rid himself of me troublesome company.”
Eilidh laughed. “One minute ye tell me he daesnae care fer ye, only wishes tae wed ye fer yer lands. But then ye say he daesnae care fer ye when he offers tae give ye what ye wish fer most of all.”
Lyra nodded. “I see more clearly. Both things cannae be true. If it were only me lands he wished fer, he’d nae grant what I wish.”
“And that can only mean...?”
“That mayhap he daes care. A little.”
Eilidh squeezed her hand. “And is returning tae yer clan yer most fervent desire.”
“Aye. I wish most fervently tae be returned tae me home. ‘Tis true. But I quail at the prospect of returning alone. I dinnae ken if I am remembered.”
“And what of yer clan? Are they ready tae dae battle wi’ the Laird Alexander MacDougall? Fer ye must be aware that he will hunt ye down and seize ye when he can. Are ye prepared tae bring down his wrath on yer unsuspecting clan?”
Lyra clutched her hands around her belly and uttered a tiny moan of anguish. “Why, I’d nae thought it through. I was selfish, only considering meself. I didnae wish tae create trouble fer the MacKinnons, yet...”
“Yet, Laird Tòrr is prepared tae risk war fer yer sake?”
“I thought it was because of me lands. Yet he’s fought fer me and saved me four times.” This realization struck home and Lyra clutched at Eilidh’s hand, the tears flowing again. “Nay,” she said, recalling the events from only two nights ago. “He’s saved me five times, and each time he has risked his life fer me.”
“Ah.” Eilidh said, nodding. “Mayhap ye are beginning tae see yer way through the clouds in yer head.”
She got to her feet with the empty mugs. “Now, I have work tae dae. There is time enough to allow yerself tae dream awhile and the right decision will come tae ye.
Lyra thought this through. She understood herself a little better now and the decision she would make was becoming clearer.
“Thank ye, Eilidh. May I assist ye wi’ yer tasks?”
Eilidh nodded, pointing to a bowl of herbs on the table next to her mortar and pestle.
“I’d be glad fer someone to grind all these intae a paste so I can get on with making me salves.”
Lyra rolled up her sleeves and began the task. The air was soon filled with the aroma of mint and thyme as she crushed the leaves so that Eilidh could mixed them with an assortment of oils to make her elixirs.
As she added each of the oils, she named it and its magical properties of healing. Lyra was entranced. “I think it a privilege that ye teach me more of healing. I learned a little at the nunnery, but I wish tae ken more.”
Eilidh was happy to oblige and for the remainder of the morning and into the afternoon the two of them worked side-by-side. Eilidh instructing Lyra to make tisanes from dried herbs, and poultices for bruises and pain, explaining, as she went, the healing properties contained within each plant and herb, whether roots, leaves or flowers.
The hours passed quickly and by the time the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were lengthening, Lyra discovered her problems had shrunk and her head was clearer.
Eilidh took the last of the potions from the fire to cool and untied her apron. “If ye wish tae come and lend a hand ye’re welcome any time. I await whatever news will come from the decision ye make.”
She accompanied Lyra to the door. “Blessings go wi’ ye, me lady."
Lyra returned to the keep with a confident step. It was good to be useful, days of idleness in the solar or strolling aimlessly in the garden did not sit well with her. She made up her mind to spend more time with Eilidh being instructed in the arts of healing and to ask Claray to find wool for her to spin and dye so she could begin to embroider a tapestry.
That is, if she decided to stay at Castle Dùn Ara.
She was halfway up the stairs when Claray called to her.
“ D’ye wish me to serve yer supper in the solar and nae the refectory, me lady?”
“ I would appreciate that, thank ye, Claray.” Her appetite had returned and she was famished after only eating a couple of Eilidh’s dainty offerings at noontime. “Is no one dining in the hall this evening?”
Claray shook her head. “I thought ye would have kent. The Laird along wi’ Edmund and a company of guards left the castle this morning. I dinnae ken when they will return, for they’ve gone tae deal wi’ the remaining troop of gallowglasses.”
Lyra’s hand shot to her mouth. “I didnae ken. I’ve nae been privy tae the war talk between the laird and his advisor.”
“It seems the prisoners in the dungeon have revealed the rascals’ hiding place. Our laird and his men will wait until well after nightfall and make a surprise attack. They plan tae rout them out and tae send those that survive tae Duart with the laird’s message of defiance.”
Hearing this, Lyra was nonplussed, yet hardly surprised that Tòrr had not seen fit to confide in her after their last conversation. Mayhap he was already drawing away from her, believing that she would refuse his offer to wed in preference to returning to an unknown fate at Castle Kinlochaline.
“Thank ye, Claray. I’ll go and wash and return tae the solar.”
Clary curtsied. “I see the concern on yer face. The laird and his men are seasoned warriors, able tae best any who should challenge them. Dinnae fash. They will return in good time.”
Lyra nodded, grateful for the kind words. Claray had been at the castle all her life, she well knew and trusted the laird.
“Is Laird Tòrr a man of his word?”
Claray threw her a puzzled look. “Aye, lass. He daes as he says.”
Lyra continued up the steps, her tread heavier. Again, Tòrr’s life was at risk because of her. This time, his men were also in peril. If only things were different… yet it was impossible to roll back time to the moments before he and Edmund had first intervened on her behalf.
Whether she wished it or not, from the instant Tòrr first tangled with the gallowglasses outside the Priory, her fate had been irredeemably entwined with his. She could only pray that Tòrr and his men would prevail against MacDougall’s hired men and return to Dùn Ara unscathed.
Later, after enjoying a solitary meal in the solar, she again allowed her thoughts to roam back. Tòrr had protected her in many ways. Her resentment of his arrogance had ruled her at first. But she’d come to secretly admire his strength, despite his gruffness.
Yet, as much as she admired him and longed for his kiss, her entire being rebelled against being used as a pawn by any clan wishing to take what was hers, by right of inheritance, and make it their own.
Settling by the fire in her chamber after Elspaith had been in to turn down her bed and brush her hair, Lyra, allowed her thoughts to stray behind the castle walls. They were out on a glen or in the lee of a hill, in the dark, forbidding night, with Tòrr and his men.
Her heart beat a drumbeat against her ribs as she pictured them waiting their chance to strike and the bloody battle that would ensue.