Page 26 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

L yra was still tingling the next morning as Elspaith plaited her hair into a myriad of tiny braids with her nimble fingers and wove it into a golden crown ready for Sunday service in the chapel.

She could scarcely believe that on that day, Father Pádraig would read the banns pronouncing her betrothal to the Laird Tòrr and calling on all those who might have a reason for the marriage not to go ahead to make themselves known.

That would happen on three consecutive Sundays, and after the third, Father Pádraig would perform the marriage ceremony and she would become the wife of her laird.

In some ways, it was dreamlike, almost unreal, for she’d never have conjured such a thing in her mind on the day she departed from the nunnery. Although, even on that day, she was struck with admiration for Laird Tòrr ’s form and for the chiseled planes of his lean face. She’d been reminded then of drawings of statues from the pagan days of the ancient Greeks she had once glimpsed in one of the dusty tomes in the library.

However, marriage had never entered her head.

Yet, beneath her dreams of joys-to-come, seethed a dark undercurrent. Something unseen, a slimy, sinister, ooze that threatened danger. She shivered as cold, bony fingers slithered up her spine.

Would the Laird MacDougall leave her alone? Or would he view the banns as a challenge to come forward and make a claim against her marriage to Tòrr?

Elspaith held up her cloak and she shrugged it on. Adjusting her skirt, she attempted to force aside her sense of foreboding.

Tòrr and Edmund were waiting outside the chapel as she arrived. The day was crisp with the scent of winter in the air despite the sunshine and the clear blue sky. Smiling, Tòrr reached for her hand and pressed it with a kiss.

“What is wrong, Lyra? I see from yer eyes that nae all is well wi’ ye.”

She shook her head, not wanting to spoil the moment. This was a special day, when their plans to wed would be promulgated to all.

That was the problem.

They went into the little chapel to meet with Father Pádraig before the mass. He was a small, gentle-faced man, who greeted them with deference. Quite different to the priests she’d known at Iona. In comparison with Father Pádraig, they were overbearing, always displaying their dominance and superiority to the meek nuns. Many of the novices were quite afraid of them.

Father Pádraig, contrarily, spoke quietly and seemed humble.

Yet, when he asked, “Dae ye give yer consent freely tae this marriage” she stumbled over the words, suddenly afraid. Even now, with Tòrr by her side her thoughts flew to the Laird Alexander and the eruption of his rage that was certain to greet the news of his plans being thwarted.

The priest’s voice was concerned. “Ye’re trembling lass. Are ye certain ye’re under nay duress tae marry? That ye’re freely giving yer hand?”

Lyra’s heart stuttered.

Would I be contemplating marriage if nae fer the threat posed tae me by the MacDougall?

“Aye,” she said, her voice cracking with uncertainty.

She caught Tòrr ’s expression, his brows drawn in a frown, his jaw tight. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, determined to pay no heed to her own fears and to draw confidence from the firmness of Tòrr ’s hold on her hand.

If anyone had asked her, after the ceremony, what was said, she would have had great difficulty in recalling. Yet, afterwards, as they left the chapel there were many hearty words of approval and well-wishing from all who were in attendance.

Eilidh was there, smiling. Mayhap her calm wisdom would set some of Lyra’s doubts to rights. She decided to slip away as soon as she could to express her disquiet in front of the healer. She needed to soothe away her growing fears.

Before she was whisked away to the refectory by Tòrr to partake of a special noontime repast to which all the castle servants and the local fisherfolk and their wives had been invited, she caught sight of Purdie and Claray among the will-wishers, both of them with broad smiles, nodding their approval.

But then a burly figure shouldered his way through the crowd to stand before herself and Tòrr. It was Doddie, the fisherman, who had almost perished with her the night she’d made her ill-fated attempt to flee to the mainland.

He doffed his cap and tugged a tuft of hair above his forehead.

“Me laird, and me ady, I pledge meself tae ye. Daes me heart good tae see ye’ve resolved yer... er... differences.” He looked up and grinned.

“I thank ye fer yer good wishes,” Tòrr said, with a wink at Doddie before he wandered off to join the throng.

Fortunately, the joyous mood of all those celebrating the betrothal of their laird and his lady filled the hall with an infectious sense of wellbeing. There were many cries of “Slàinte mhath,” glasses and tankards were held aloft and many voices called out their best wishes for a long and happy life to the couple. Before long, Lyra had shrugged aside her woes and was able to wholeheartedly enter into the festivities.

She smiled up at Tòrr, who had been looking at her with concern.

“Slàinte mhath.” She held up her goblet of wine and took a sip. He did the same with his tankard of ale.

“Tae ye, me wife, and tae our life together.”

The hands brushed, and a burst of heat flowed through her. “Tae our life together.”

She gazed at him. He made such an imposing figure in his jacket and great kilt, the kilt-shawl over his shoulder held by a gold brooch bearing the crest of the MacKinnon Clan. His eyes were sparkling, and he was smiling and greeting other clan members lining up to bid their laird a long life with his new bride.

Her spirits soared. Although the MacKinnons were not her people yet, they had welcomed her as if she’d long been a member of their Clan.

She would send up a silent prayer to heaven that none of them would be called on to take up arms on her behalf should MacDougall wage war on them.

Claray came bustling over. “We are all looking forward tae next week’s ceilidh. Bethia is already arranging the feasting.”

Lyra was puzzled. She turned to Tòrr. “Ceilidh?”

“Och, lass, we thought it would be a fine way to celebrate and take our minds off...” He trailed off and she deduced that he too, was troubled by the looming threat from MacDougall.

Hauling in a deep breath, she did her best to focus her thoughts on the ceilidh. She brightened. “Ye’d be aware that a ceilidh is something new tae me. The nuns on the holy Isle of Iona had nay knowledge of jigs and reels and wild Highland dancing. Another of the oblates who was with us for a short while spoke of such a thing.” She gave him a sideways look, full of mischief and then whispered. “I heard it was filled with wickedness.”

He laughed and squeezed her hand. “Aye. ‘Tis the wickedness methinks ye’ll enjoy.”

Her heart jumped, and there was that dart of heat in her veins. She nodded, her tongue on her lower lip as she smiled at him. She watched his eyes darken and the breath hitched in her throat. She wanted to be alone with him again, feeling his strong arms holding her, and his heated kiss on her mouth.

But her wish would not come about for many hours, as their betrothal feast continued long into the afternoon.

There was a rumbling through the crowd and a cheer went up. She craned to see what was going on and was delighted to see two of Tòrr ’s warriors helping young Angus MacGregor to take a seat at the end of the high table. Tòrr strode over to the lad and she got up to wish him well.

Eilidh was there, fussing over her patient.

“He insisted I bring him tae pay his respects tae ye and the laird.”

Although MacGregor’s face was pale, and he winced as he took his seat, making it clear he was still in great pain, he was much improved since Lyra had helped Eilidh attend to him the day before. He struggled to his feet as Tòrr walked up.

“Dinna fash, lad. I dinnae expect ye tae stand fer. I’m happy tae se ye improving.”

She saw the look of devotion in the lad’s eyes. Tòrr was a true warrior. He was not only a fierce fighter and a wise leader, but one who commanded the loyalty and admiration of his men. In turn, he protected them as he did all who were under his command and under his roof. Her heart swelled with pride. She was one to whom he had offered her his protection and had sworn on his life to keep her safe.

“So ye finally made yer decision, milady.” Eilidh was by her side speaking softly so that only Lyra could hear. “Ye followed the dictates of yer heart, in the end.”

Lyra gave a small laugh. “I thank ye fer yer guidance, Eilidh, I ken I am daeing what is right fer me. Even as I long fer me own land.”

Eilidh nodded. “The Laird Tòrr will make ye a fine husband.”

When the last of the guests had finally departed, Tòrr rose and helped Lyra to her feet.

“At last, they’ve left us,” he said grinning.

“I am tired, I’ve ne’er spoken tae so many folk in one day.” Lyra stifled a yawn. “Yet it was heartening that so many hold us in their thoughts.”

He escorted her from the hall and up the stairs. When they reached the door of her chamber, he folded her into his arms and she leaned her head against his chest.

“Eilidh has told me of it.” Her heart was beating fast.

“Told ye what?”

“She has told me what happens between a lass and a lad on their wedding night.”

“Oh,” he said with studied indifference, yet his arms tightened around her.

“I have learned what a kiss is like.” She smiled. “But I cannae imagine the rest of it.”

He groaned softly. “I’ll be happy tae show ye.”

He smelled of whisky and leather and the sweaty scent she’d come to savor, and she felt his breath in her hair. His words made her breath hitch and her limbs turn to liquid.

Behind her, he unlatched the door of her chamber and shoved it open with his knee. Then, in one powerful movement he hoisted her into his arms and carried her into the room, pushing the door closed behind them as they went.

“Are ye to show me now?” Her voice came out a little shrill with nervousness. “I’m nae certain I am ready. Should we nae wait until our vows are made before the priest?”

He gave a low laugh that, to her ears, sounded like a warm growl in his throat.

“Aye, we’ll wait. I’ll nay take yer maidenhood until we are wed, dinnae fear. But there are many ways of love I can yet savor wi’ ye.”

He stepped across to the bed with her in his arms and laid her on her back before him, taking care to undo every tiny braid and spread her hair on the pillow.

“Have ye bedded many lasses afore me?”

“Mayhap I have, but I dinnae remember anyone but ye.” He shook his head, his eyes soot-dark as they met her gaze. “Yer kisses last night erased everything from me head.”

She pouted, pulling him down beside her. “Are ye certain of that, me laird? That ye dinnae think of another lass?”

“Aye. Once yer precious lips touched mine, anything I’d ever kent was gone in a trice.”

He slid his long length along the bed and lay beside her. She raised a hand to toy with his hair.

“When we are wed, I shall take off yer clothes stitch by stitch.” He ran his fingers along the buttons at the front of her dress. “And then, when yer gown is undone, ye shall raise yer arms for me and I shall take it from ye so that I may see more of that soft skin.”

She gave a little gasp as his fingers trailed across the bare flesh at her shoulder and down, stroking over her chest.

He cupped the perfect mounds of her breasts, allowing his thumb to stray over the place where her nubs were puckering beneath the cloth of her gown. “And when these delicious globes are naked, I shall take the hard nubs in me mouth.”

She sucked in a breath, half with shock and half with pleasure.

“What? D’ye nae like that notion?”

“Mm.” She said, her body igniting under his forbidden touch. “Mayhap...”

He leaned over her so that she felt the hardness of his shaft pressing into her. A building excitement coursed through her limbs, burning its way to the place between her thighs where he rested.

Without thought she reflexively raised her hips to push against his shaft, rivulets of pleasure coursing through her from her core.

“Och, Tòrr,” she ground out, the delirious sensations robbing her breath as a new awareness thickened the air between them. Thoughts could no longer form coherently in her mind. She bit down on her lower lip and closed her eyes, surrendering to the fever sparking in her blood.

She heard his groan. “God’s hooks, lass, ye dinnae ken what wildness ye are tempting.”

He smashed her lips with his mouth, his tongue relentlessly seeking hers. She writhed under him, meeting his passion, clutching the fabric of his shirt and twisting it, a hand tangling his hair, thrusting her hips against his.

His kiss held none of the chasteness and forbearance she’d experienced the night before in the solar, this was something that stirred feelings in her she’d never dreamed of, a throbbing and vibrating that came from nowhere but compelled her to cling to him and to open her thighs with wanton longing.

Then, with no warning he stopped his kissing and jolted his head back, leaving her bereft, her head on the pillow, her chest heaving, and she struggled to draw breath.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet, shaking his head. His hair was disheveled, his kilt awry.

“I must apologize me lady.” There was a hint of wry humor in his deep voice as he ground out the words. “Ye’re as intoxicating as a fine French wine and I made meself drunk on ye.” He ran a hand through the tangled mess of his dark hair. “I could easily lose meself in ye, but it would nae be fair. Ye’re convent bred and I fear me rough ways might nay suit ye.”

She rolled over and gazed up at him from under the tumbling waterfall of her hair.

“I have yet tae fully taste yer rough ways, Tòrr. But what I ken of them so far they are tae me liking. I look forward tae discovering more.”

“In that case...” he punctuated his words with a loud guffaw, “...little nun, I shall continue yer education tomorrow night. Fer now, I must bid ye good night.”

He strode to the door, leaving her pulsing, wet, and swollen, already longing for the next evening to come.