Page 3 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)
CHAPTER THREE
T here was a squeal followed by a loud splash that caught Tòrr as he was about to make his way to shore. He hauled in a breath. That bothersome little nun had plunged herself into the water. Pausing, he waited for her to surface, and when there was no further sign of her and no further splashing, he reluctantly dived into the icy-cold shallows.
How could the lass manage tae drown herself in water that is barely covering me thighs?
Within seconds his hands caught the fabric of her robe, and without any further deliberation he seized her by the waist, ignoring her flailing arms and legs he turned her right-side up and dragged her to the surface.
The heavy weight of her woolen robes dragging through the water made it almost impossible to keep her above the surface. Holding her head above water with one hand he withdrew his dirk from his belt and slashed away the long, saturated robe floating around her that threatened to tug her under and made carrying her devilishly difficult. Slinging her over his shoulder he carried her in much the same way as the dead gallowglass had been doing when he first caught sight of her. Only now her little fists were not making a drum-beat on his back but her arms were hanging limply down his side.
Holding her still form, he strode through the water until he reached the rocky shore where Edmund stood, waiting with the two horses they’d left waiting nearby as they’d made their way across to the Isle of Iona in the early morning.
“God’s hooks, Tòrr, is she drowned?”
Tòrr snorted. “Near enough, lad. But she’ll live.” He lowered – the by now spluttering – Lyra to the ground. Her legs gave way and she would have fallen had he not been there to support her.
Edmund huffed and looked up as the sound of the approaching gallowglasses drew nearer. He shook his head. “Ye cannae leave the lass here. She’ll be taken by those uncivilized wretches before ye can count tae ten.”
“Ye’re right lad. I’ll stay wi’ her and seek out somewhere safe fer us tae take refuge in the village. Ye ride on, leading those barbarians away from their prey.”
Edmund handed the reins of his horse to Tòrr along with Lyra’s box and the bundle of clothing, which Tòrr placed in his saddle bag.
“If ye mount yer steed I’ll hand ye the lass. She can lie across yer saddle for the short distance to the village.” Edmund held Lyra upright. Her teeth were chattering and she was shivering mightily in the remains of her cold, wet, habit.
Tòrr placed his foot in the stirrup and, with one quick move, threw his leg over the horse and settled into the saddle. Lyra made a feeble protest but then grew quiet as Edmund hoisted her up and Tòrr positioned her in front of him over the saddle where he could grip her with one hand.
The voices were now ominously close. Within minutes their pursuers would be upon them.
Edmund gave a loud shout and urged his horse forward, making sure the sound of the bridle rang out in the night. As he disappeared into the darkness, Tòrr, with his soaking wet burden slung over his saddle, spluttering and gasping, set out, walking his horse in silence in the opposite direction, heading for the flickering lights coming from the string of houses further along the shore.
He could only pray that their adversaries were foiled by the ruse and would hurriedly set off in pursuit of Edmund. No doubt Edmund would enjoy the chase and, ultimately, leave his pursuers in the dust. He couldn’t help but envy his friend. Far better to be racing with the wind, outpacing his foe than plodding here, burdened with this pitiful, sodden, bundle of a lass.
They passed the straggling cottages, all of them small with one room only where the family slept and ate their meals, until he came to a larger, stone-built sturdy cottage. This was a place he’d stayed many times, where travelers could find a night’s rest. A lantern hung from a hook above the door, guiding the way.
Tòrr dismounted and lifted Lyra from his saddle.
She wavered unsteadily and he reached a hand to hold her upright. “Can ye stand, lass?”
Her only response was a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a sob. He took her arm to support her as her legs almost went from under her.
“I see. Ye cannae.” With that he hoisted her in his arms and proceeded to the cottage door where he lowered her, keeping one arm at her back to prevent her falling. With his other hand he rapped on the timber door.
At first there was silence, then came the sound of hurrying footsteps and the door creaked open. A small face looked up at him.
“Hello wee lad. Is yer faither at home?”
The lad shook his head. “He’s gone up tae Craignure.” He puffed out his chest. “Me name is Colban and I am in charge of me sister until Da comes home again.”
Tòrr chuckled. “He was here last night when I stayed wi’ me friend. He said naught about leaving fer Craignure.”
“His mam is sick. The word came this morning.”
“Ah, I see.” Tòrr nodded. “I was tae bide here this night. Did yer Da leave ye instructions?”
Colban nodded. “If ye’re the Laird MacKinnon, me sister Ailsa has made bannocks and soup fer yer supper and yer bed fer the night is ready.” He squinted into the darkness at Lyra. “This is yer friend?”
Tòrr ignored the question and stepped over the door stoop and entered the cottage, half lifting Lyra with him.
“Take down the lantern, lad. There are men who might wish us ill. Gallowglasses if I’m nae mistaken. If they come in the night ye must nae answer the door.”
The lad quickly took down the lantern. “I’ll nae open the door tae any wicked gallowglass. Da would nae wish it.”
In the cottage’s dim light, Davina’s half-naked state was obvious. Tòrr tucked his cloak around her damp, cold shoulders. She was shivering uncontrollably and he led her across to sit in one of two small chairs before the fire that blazed merrily in the hearth. He took her hands in his, chafing them to warm them.
“This lady is half frozen, Colban. Can ye bring me a warm blanket tae wrap her in?”
The lad hastened up the adjacent staircase and hurried back with a plaid rug which Tòrr draped over Lyra’s shoulders.
“Thank ye, lad. Now can ye see tae me horse? I dinnae want the bad lads tae notice him tethered there.”
Colban nodded and disappeared out the door. At that moment a small girl emerged from the kitchen attached to the rear of the cottage, bearing a tray with bowls of fragrant vegetable soup, bannocks and tankards of ale. She placed them on a small table near the chair.
Tòrr took a spoonful of the soup and held it to Lyra’s lips. Once he had spooned in a sufficient amount, he set to eating his own meal. He offered her a tankard of ale and she drank greedily for a few mouthfuls before handing the tankard back. Her eyes drooped and she dozed in the warmth of the fire.
Tòrr sipped his ale thoughtfully, grateful for a moment’s respite to gather his wits. With any luck the men hunting Lyra would have been fooled by Edmund and, as they were all on foot, would have given up their chase. He assumed they too had horses waiting, but by the time they had saddled up and set off in pursuit, Edmund would have been too far ahead for them to catch.
He could only hope they would be long gone by the time the morning came before he set off. It seemed there was nothing for it, but for him to take Lyra with him. It was clear she had little knowledge of the world and she was in no fit state to be abandoned here to fend for herself.
He had only one horse and for a single horseman the ride from Fionnphort to Dùn Ara at the furthest end of the island would take at least two days but, he calculated, with two on his horse, the pace would be a good deal slower.
Cursing himself for having made the trip on horseback instead of coming south by sea, he had no choice but to make the best of things. Tomorrow, if there was no sign of their pursuers, he would head north.
Ailsa stepped forward and curtsied. “Milord, yer bed is ready fer ye.”
He gave a rueful grin. “There’s only one bed?”
She nodded as he got to his feet. By now Lyra was fast asleep, snoring gently. Rather than waking her to possible protests, he hoisted her into his arms and followed Ailsa up the stairs to the bedroom.
The sturdy oak bed was made up with linen sheets and woolen comforters. He eyed it enviously and gave a regretful sigh. He would be sleeping on the hard timber floor tonight.
After lowering Lyra’s sleeping figure onto the plush mattress, he managed to remove what was left of her black robe, leaving her in her long-sleeved undergarment. He covered her with one of the warm coverlets and left her to sleep – still with her modest nun’s cap tied under her chin – while he wrapped himself in the rug and his cloak and settled for the night.
He slept fitfully, one ear open for the sound of the gallowglasses, but all was quiet. It was almost light when he finally managed to fall into a deep sleep. After what seemed like only minutes –although from the window he could see the sun was shining – he was wakened by Lyra’s shrill, bewildered, voice.
“Where are we? Where have ye taken me?” She was standing by the bed, wrapped in the bedcover.
“Hush lass. Ye’ll wake the dead wi’ yer screeching.”
She huffed with loud indignation as he rolled over and sat up, scratching his head and yawning mightily.
“If this is the village of Fionnphort, I wish to be taken to the tavern to meet with… er… someone.”
He gave her a hooded glance. “I’ve nae intention of going anywhere near the tavern, lass. ‘Tis a hornets nest at the best of times and the very place where those tiresome gallowglasses will be.”
She huffed again. “Ye dinnae understand. The man I seek will help me on me way.”
He shrugged. “Ye can take yer chances if ye insist on going there, but I’ll nae escort ye intae
that hellish place.”
“Oh ye… savage.” She stamped her foot. “Ye’re nae better than those barbarians.” She looked around the room. “Yer friend Edmund? Is he nae with us?”
At that, Tòrr gave a dismissive snort. “I’m nae afeared of a collection of straggling ruffians, lass, but they smell so bad I’d rather enjoy the cool morning air without damage being done tae me nostrils.”
“And me habit and me veils,” she wailed, bending to pick up the still sodden bundle of what was left of her black robes. Holding up the tattered remnants she shot him a fierce, reproachful look. “What did ye dae tae them?”
He laughed. “Have ye forgotten?”
“Forgotten?” She screwed up her nose in puzzlement.
“Ye all but drowned in water hardly deeper than me bathtub.”
She blushed bright pink. “So ye… it was ye… who took…” Her words trailed off.
“Aye. It was meself who divested ye of what was left of yer nun’s black robes.” The pink turned to a deep red. “And, I must say, ye’ve a fine, long, smooth, pair of legs on ye.”
Her hand shot to her mouth and her eyes widened.
“Dinnae fash, lassie, it was too dark fer me tae see aught of ye. Those robes of yers were dragging ye to the bottom. If I’d nay been able to slash them I daresay ye’d be feeding the fish instead of standing here wi’ yer bothersome talk.”
His sobering words seemed to strike a note of remembrance, for she paused momentarily, before turning to him with a half-smile. “I dae recall believing I was breathing me last. I felt hands on me.” She tilted her head and he caught a flash of mischief in her green eyes. “So ye came tae me rescue twice yesterday?”
“At least that number.” He grinned. It occurred to him that even hiding behind her nun’s habit and with that ridiculous cap, she was a beauty to look upon.
He belted his kilt, flung the plaid over his shoulder and took up his cloak from the floor where it had served as his bed fer the night, and shook it out.
“I wish tae be on me way without delay. ‘Tis a long ride tae Dùn Ara. If ye decide ye wish tae come wi’ me I’ll dae me best tae keep ye safe from the gallowglasses. Ye can break yer fast wi’ me here.”
She tossed her head, glaring at him. “I wish tae go tae the tavern and meet with Thorlinn Comyn.”
He turned to go. “Very well. The weans will direct ye along the road tae the tavern if that is yer desire. I’ll be on me way as soon as I’ve washed up and broken me fast. I’ll say nae more about it.”
She huffed defiantly and shook her head. “A gentleman would see me safely tae the tavern.”
He gave a cold laugh. “Dinnae mistake me fer a gentleman, Lyra. I’ve rescued ye twice already and I’m in nay mind tae dae it another time because ye insist in putting yerself in harm’s way.” With that he was out the door and heading for the stairs, paying no heed to the angry retort following in his wake.
He smiled to himself as he took the stairs. The lass, Lyra, was a feisty one. Her imperious ways intrigued him. It seems she was used to being obeyed and her manner made him curious about who exactly she was. If she was an oblate, mayhap she’d been sent to the nunnery to protect her from some kind of trouble, like a clan skirmish or an ill-advised marriage. That seemed more likely than her learning to be submissive and gain an education. Mayhap she was the daughter of an important clan. If so, he needed to learn if her clan was friend or foe to the MacKinnons.
And who was the laird who had hired the gallowglasses to hunt for her with such urgency?
He shrugged. He had come to her aid without any knowledge of her kin, and if she chose to defy his warning there was naught he could do. Of course, if she made her mind up to relinquish her foolish idea of visiting the tavern and decided to travel with him, that was another matter altogether.