Page 28 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A fter watching Tòrr’s tall figure disappear into the darkness near the stables Lyra requested Bethia to have her supper brought to her bedchamber and retreated to the comfort of her room. She had much to think on.

All week, during his and his men’s absence, everyone in the castle had busied themselves with preparations for the ceilidh. It was good to have a distraction from the possibilities swirling around them.

What if the men were captured or worse?

What if MacDougall’s men attacked the castle while Tor was gone?

As the days had worn on, Lyra’s worries had worsened, and her only confidant had been Eilidh, and to her she had been able to confess a small component of her worries. She longed for her dear friend Davina who, as Providence worked in her favor, and to her eternal amazement, was Tòrr’s half-sister. They had shared all their hopes and fears together at the Priory and she had missed her sorely when Davina had made her escape, as she missed her now.

In between helping out with the preparations that were turning the castle upside down, she had attended to the needs of the men remaining in the infirmary as best she could.

All of them were mending well. Angus MacGregor could use his arm with only the slightest wince of pain and his spirits were high. The other lads were all grateful for the help provided by Eilidh and herself, and she welcomed the opportunity to be of service.

As well, Eilidh was a good teacher and she had been learning more each day about the healing properties of the plants growing in the garden in the bailey. She was looking forward to learning how to make poultices, salves and tisanes.

She had helped Claray to beat woolen rugs and tapestries free of dust, strewing sweet, scented herbs on the freshly swept floors in all the bedchambers and spreading fresh rushes. She had helped Bethia in the kitchen where she could.

But despite all these distractions, as each day went by and the men were still absent, her fears had grown.

When she had heard the clatter of hooves on the cobbles and realized the men were back, she had run to the entrance to the keep, and there he was. Her spirits had soared with a heady mix of emotions as her promised husband had come toward her and swept her into his arms.

Yet, although the laird had returned, the shadow had deepened. They were to be married, but instead of the perfect wedding day she’d been imagining, the ceremony would be barely legal, performed in haste by an unwilling priest. All because one evil man threatened their lives with his greed and cruelty.

After consuming her supper, Lyra sat warming herself by the fire, waiting and hoping Tòrr would return. But, as the night wore on and he did not come, she gave up her vigil and retired to her bed, allowing sleep to finally close over her fears.

Her wedding day dawned at last. Not with the blue skies and sunshine she’d hoped for, but dark clouds and a misty curtain of smirr that dampened her mood with a cloying sense of foreboding.

Nevertheless, Elspaith greeted her with her usual smiles and a palpable excitement.

The new gown Purdie had made for her hung beside the garde robe, a glorious cloud of pale blue velvet with long drooping sleeves made of white Belgian lace, the waistline encircled by a silver girdle. The neckline – which Lyra considered to be far too low – and the hemline, were embroidered in gold and silver with swirling bands of laurel leaves signifying peace and harmony for the forthcoming marriage.

It was impossible not to be enchanted with such a beautiful garment.

After she’d bathed in the copper tub and washed her hair in the rose-scented water, Elspaith helped her dry off and, as she sat by the fire in her robe, the maid combed and brushed the shining mass of her hair and bound it into a thick braid which she coiled at her nape.

She donned the gown and Elspaith fussed over the girdle, making sure it was tied in a knot that would not unravel, and adjusted the sleeves so that the lace fell just so.

It was altogether grand, and something Lyra would never have allowed herself to dream of during the long, drab, days at the nunnery.

There were new silk slippers for her feet, and finally, Claray entered carrying a small velvet pouch.

“A gift from Laird Tòrr, me lady, fer yer wedding day. They belonged tae his maither, the Lady Sorcha.”

Lyra drew in a breath. A precious gift from Tòrr?

Her hands shook a little as she pulled the purse strings and opened it. The purse contained an exquisite necklace of deep blue sapphires interspersed with florets of tiny seed pearls while the earbobs were a matched pair of pearl and sapphire drops.

She could scarcely breathe at their loveliness. “Thank ye Claray, please convey me thanks tae the laird fer such a wonderful gift.”

Claray nodded approvingly, smiling broadly. “He would have brought them tae ye himself, but he was warned it was bad luck fer the groom tae see his bride before the ceremony.”

Lyra gave a delighted laugh as Elspaith fastened the sparkling necklace at her throat and threaded the earbobs.

“We understand this isnae the wedding we were all planning, Lady Lyra.” Claray said, “But all of us will dae what we can tae make it as beautiful as it should be. Taenight the ceilidh will be yer wedding ball, and the feast shall be fer yer marriage.”

She curtsied before she left the chamber. “All of us are wishing ye and Laird Tòrr the best fer yer future happiness.”

Finally, Elspaith arranged the filmy veil over Lyra’s head and shoulders, keeping in place with a delicate silver fillet.

The maid stood back and gazed admiringly at Lyra.

“Why, Lady Lyra, I’ve ne’er seen such a beautiful bride as ye.”

Lyra’s mood had lifted and she was aglow with happiness. “I thank ye Elspaith. It is ye who has made me beautiful, along with Purdie’s sewing, and Lord Tòrr’s gift.”

She was ready at last, when there was a knock at the door.

It was Edmund, looking handsome in his kilt and jacket, his hair neatly combed and tied with a leather thong.

“Allow me tae escort ye tae the chapel, me lady, ‘tis nae fitting fer a bride tae walk alone.”

Although Lyra guessed Tòrr had instructed Edmund to keep her safe, she was charmed by his chivalric gesture as she took the arm he proffered and they made their way down the stairs and across to the chapel.

The usual morning mass was over by the time she entered, but the chapel remained packed with well-wishers as Edmund walked with her to the altar where Tòrr waited with Father Pádraig.

Every nook in the chapel was filled with briar roses tied with pink ribbons, and a large bunch of roses and lavender had been placed on a small table near the altar. Lyra marveled at the care Claray and all the servants had taken to ensure the day would be as memorable as possible, even with the shortest notice.

“Yer beauty dazzles me eyes,” Tòrr said softly as she took her place beside him.

She flashed him a smile, suddenly shy. She would have liked to tell him how he dazzled her in his finery, standing proud with his head high, his classical Grecian profile and the gloss of his dark hair.

Her heart was pounding, her fingers damp. As Father Padraig intoned the holy Latin words of the service, she felt herself drifting, a jumble of terrors appearing in her mind.

She gave her head a tiny shake, wanting to dislodge MacDougall from her thoughts at this divine and irrevocable moment in her life. But, try as she might, his shadow loomed like an insidious and unstoppable threat to her happiness.

A quiet huff from Tòrr jolted her away from her strange, uncharted thoughts to find herself surrounded by silence.

Tòrr provided her with a gentle nudge.

“I’ll ask again,” Father Padraig muttered. “Dae ye, take this man...?”

“I dae.” Her voice rang out, loud enough for all to hear, and a collective sigh rippled through the congregation.

She smiled up at the man beside her, and melted at the sparkle in his gray eyes as he repeated his vows.

Then he was authorized to kiss his bride and he swept her into his arms for a brief, heart-stopping kiss.

As they left the chapel, stopping every few paces to briefly clasp an extended hand and to nod their thanks for the folks’ good wishes, Lyra felt her spirits rise. Her heart was full. She was married to Tòrr and she was surrounded by love and the affection of all.

Once they were finally seated at the high table in the refectory hall in front of the noisy, jovial, crowd, Tòrr bent his head, whispering, “I thought I’d lost ye tae the fae back there in the chapel. Ye didnae respond tae poor Faither Padraig, when he had tae ask ye three times fer yer vow.”

She bit her lower lip and shot him a rueful look from under her lashes.

“I am sorry. Me thoughts were far away. I hardly heard the good Faither speaking.” She grinned. “Did ye think I had changed me mind and didnae want ye?”

He nodded, returning her grin. “Aye. I was beginning tae think it.”

She reached for his big hand and looked into his eyes. “Nay, I didnae change me mind Tòrr. I am happy tae be yer wife.”

He leaned in and kissed her soulfully on the lips, to the rousing and jubilant cheers of the assembled guests. Laughing, she clasped his hand, dipping her head in acknowledgment of the affection that was being displayed.

Bethia and her kitchen staff provided a lavish, sumptuous, feast. They dined on spit-roasted venison, baked salmon, and chicken pies, taking their time, constantly interrupted as different folk came to the table to pay their respects.

They spoke with several members of the Council that she’d previously met. She smiled to herself at them imagining they had made a fortuitous marriage for their laird. Little did they understand that this was a match of two lovers.

During the meal they were entertained by a bard playing the clarsach and reciting tales of ancient battles and tragic loves. Then, as last the musicians assembled, the crowd held their breath in anticipation.

The rollicking music of the piper, the fiddler, a lad playing the Irish drum and another with a clay whistle, got feet tapping.

Tòrr rose as the bard called them all to the dancing. He took Lyra’s hand and led her into the center of the room where the tables had been pushed back and the timber floor swept free of rushes.

“Ye ken I’ve ne’er danced before?” Her voice was a tad wistful. “I dinnae ken how ‘tis done.”

He smiled and squeezed her hand. “Dinnae fret, the bard will call out the steps fer us tae follow and yer feet will catch it soon enough.”

She frowned, still uncertain.

‘Tis fer enjoyment, nae fer terrors. I’ll guide ye.”

A cheer greeted them as they walked to the center of the room. Many other smiling couples joined them as the musicians began to play and the bard called out mysterious instructions that everyone but her seemed to recognize at once. “Join hands,” “Circle,” “turn yer partner,” “up and down.”

Tòrr was right, of course, it only took a few moments for her hesitancy to turn into being utterly beguiled by the musicians’ wild rhythms and the noisy, jovial, dancers.

Before long she was twirling and bouncing and clapping her hands every bit as gleeful as the rest of them. Kilts and skirts went flying, as they swung and circled in riotous revelry. All fears and frets banished. At least for that night.

When the musicians finally brought the dancers to a standstill, both Lyra and Tòrr were breathless. She was enchanted by the sparkle in his eyes and his unaccustomed smiling good humor.

Thirsty, they returned hand-in-hand to their seats at the table, where Edmund was pouring them each a tankard of ale.

"The scouts have returned and they’ve found naething. There is nay sign of any strangers near the castle.”

Lyra’s heart jumped. Could it be possible that MacDougall had realized he had lost? The wedding had taken place and he could no longer force her into being wed to him.

Tòrr took up his tankard and quaffed the ale. “And the patrols will continue?”

“Aye.” Edmund nodded.

It seemed that neither Tòrr nor Edmund was convinced the danger had passed. She let this information sit. So, they shared her suspicions. She said nothing, yet it came as a great as a relief to know their men were patrolling.

Tòrr turned to her. “Are ye ready tae leave this party, me lady wife?”

She swelled with pride at hearing her name her his wife.

“Aye, I am ready.” She smiled, while her heart began pounding. It was time to leave the festivities and, at last, be alone together.

He took her hand and got to his feet. The crowd grew silent as he waited to speak.

Finally, the hall was hushed.

“I thank ye all fer sharing our celebration and honoring me new wife.” A ripple of approval ran through the assembly at this. “It is time fer us tae take our leave and savor the delights of our first night of marriage.”

A cheer went up and as they both walked through the throng to leave the hall, Lyra kept a smile on her face. No one could be allowed any hint of the strange combination of eagerness and trepidation that filled her heart.

Tòrr wound his arm around her waist and drew her close as they made their way to his bedchamber.

“If ye wish it, me new Lady MacKinnon, I will respect yer innocence and yer convent ways. Mayhap ye would prefer tae sleep taenight in yer own bed.”

Glancing up at him she saw the concern etched on his face.

She looked up shyly from beneath her lashes. “Is it yer wish tae sleep alone, me laird, on this first night of our married life?”

His hold on her waist tightened. “Nay. ‘Tis nae what I wish fer. I long to share the delights of lovemaking wi’ ye. But ye’ve kent little of the ways of lads. I wish ye tae come tae me with readiness, nae fer me tae force meself on ye simply because ‘tis the night we’ve wed.”

They were at the door of his chamber, and he paused waiting for her answer.

It was tempting to tease him by withholding her response. But one look into his storm-cloud gaze convinced her otherwise.

She reached up and brushed his cheek with her hand.

“I am ready fer ye, me husband. 'Tis true, I ken little of the ways of men, yet I ken enough tae wish tae share every delight and every pleasure wi’ ye this night.”