Page 5 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER FIVE

T òrr, wakened by the first morning birdsong, rolled over gently and got to his feet careful not to disturb the sleeping form snuggled in behind him.

He smiled to himself as he recalled drowsy, sleepy Lyra, curling herself into his back during the night.

Mayhap the lass hardly kent what she was about, but her soft, warm form, pressed so close stirred me in a manner that would have shocked the prudish nun to the core.

He stretched to relieve the crick in his back and strolled over to Paden. He gave the horse’s shoulder a rub and walked him down the slope to the burn for a long drink of the crisp, clear water. He washed his hands clean, splashed water on his face, and filled his leather water-pouch. Only when Paden had drunk his fill did he make his way back.

Lyra was already up. She’d unbound her braided hair and was combing it with her fingers. In the sunlight it shone bright gold as it tumbled down her back.

God’s hooks, she was fair to look upon with her bonny pink cheeks, her eyes green as emeralds, her long yellow hair and her rounded, womanly form. Recalling the softness of her breasts warming him in the night caused another troublesome twitch in his groin.

“Ah, yer ladyship, ‘tis good that ye’ve decided to grace us with yer presence.” He made her a mocking bow, all the better to hide the bulge thrusting itself under his kilt.

Head back, she stretched long, graceful arms above her head, letting her hair flow free, seemingly oblivious to the discomfort she was causing him.

He cleared his throat, stifling a threatening moan, reminding himself that this lass was not for dalliance, but to be brought to safety to Dùn Ara. Once there he would decide what should become of her.

They broke their fast with bannocks and hard-boiled eggs and were on their way while the sky was still streaked with a pink and grey sunrise.

Foregoing the shoreline, they followed the one taking them to the east. On the smoother road Paden kept up a steady pace, but when they came upon a rough patch where cartwheels had rutted the mud, Tòrr dismounted and walked beside the horse to ease his load, leaving Lyra to sit on the horse on her own.

“Ye’ll make a good rider, lass,” he admitted, looking on with admiration at the way she sat straight, holding the reins with one hand as if she’d been born to it. She flushed pink and looked sideways at him, grinning at the compliment. “I find I rather enjoy being on horseback after all.” She leaned over and patted Paden’s neck. His name suits him well, he is indeed noble.”

They stopped briefly to refresh themselves with a draft of water from his waterskin and the last of the bannocks with some cheese. When they continued on their way, with Tòrr once again in the saddle, it seemed she leaned a little more against his chest, her wild, fair curls tickling his chin.

It was strangely pleasant to trot along with her cradled against him.

Once or twice they passed a lumbering cart, also heading in their direction, but otherwise the road was clear.

Although he had no fear of the gallowglasses, he was concerned about Lyra. Paden was strong and could outrun any Highland pony, but with two on his back he would struggle to keep up the pace.

Before long, they arrived at the coast on the eastern side of the isle but Tòrr once again ignored the road along the shoreline and continued north.

“Ye dinnae wish tae continue by the sea?” Lyra had been enjoying the pleasant sea breeze, the wheeling gulls and the scent of salt in the air again.

He shook his head, his jaw set grimly. “Nay lass. I’ve good reason tae keep in a northerly direction.”

“Oh.” She was tempted to question him for his choice, but one look at his grimly set jaw dissuaded her.

Not long afterwards, they came to a crossroads. Tòrr shook his head, and continued on the course he’d set.

“The sign says ‘Duart’,” Lyra said, curious about his avoidance.

He snorted. “Aye, that is the road leading tae Duart Castle. A place I’ve nay taste fer. ‘Tis a castle claimed by the Laird Alexander MacDougall of Lorn.”

Lyra jolted against him, uttering a loud gasp. He felt her body tremble.

“What is it lass?”

She shook her head. “’Tis naught.” Her voice was shaking. “Ye say ye dinnae wish tae venture tae the castle?”

“Aye.” He paused, considering her reaction. “Are ye aware of this place?”

She shook her head again. “Nay. I’ve nay heard of it before.”

He rode on without questioning her. If she’d not heard of the castle, was it his mention of MacDougall’s name that caused her distress?

“I’m nay friend of MacDougall,” If she was afeared of MacDougall, he wished to reassure her.

As they continued on it seemed his word had soothed her, for he felt her trembling ease and her ragged breathing gradually return to its normal rhythm. He made a mental note to get to the bottom of this, once they were safely settled in his castle.

His dealings with MacDougall had always been somewhat fraught due to his own allegiances through marriage and kinship to MacDougall’s enemies, the MacNeill and MacLeod clans. Furthermore, it was widely believed that MacDougall had sworn allegiance to the English king, while Tòrr and his compatriots had pledged their loyalty to the true king of the Scots, Robert The Bruce. If that should prove to be true, it was further proof that avoiding MacDougall was a wise move.

By the time night was falling, they had drawn close to a village, Craignure.

“We’ll spend the night at an inn in the township tonight.”

She grunted at that but did not seem pleased.

“Is that nae tae yer liking, lass?”

“Aye. ‘The thought of a feather bed and a warm quilt is much tae me liking, Laird Tòrr. Yet I did fancy another night beneath the stars. I’d never felt freedom before and I find it suited me more than I thought proper.”

He laughed softly, for her words took him by surprise. She spoke sentiments that he’d long held dear. Sleeping in the wild warmed his soul, his spirit and his heart. Yet, for all that, he thought it safer for them to take refuge at the inn.

“And did that freedom include curling up to sleep wi’ a Scottish brute?”

Her sharply indrawn breath told him all he needed to know.

“And, pray tell, what would the good sisters of Iona have to say about ye bedding down wi’ me?”

She shook her head, the fair locks bouncing on her shoulders. She smelled of the forest, with a sweetness that was all her own, and he breathed deeply of her scent, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected pleasure of it.

“I think ye ken full well that the good sisters would disapprove most fiercely at the very thought of me lying wi’ ye.”

“And yet, it was Maither Una who insisted I take ye wi’ me,” he teased. “Did the Maither nay understand that I am a man?”

“Of course, she did. She may have been cloistered many years, but I have nay doubt she could recognize yer manliness.” She shifted against him and he felt her shoulders shaking with laughter. “But she thought ye would take me only across tae Mull and nae further.”

He chuckled. “And here ye are on the road tae Craignure of all places. Far from the Isle of Iona and the Priory of Saint Augustine.”

They came to a blacksmith’s forge, catching a blast of heat and a glow from his fire as they passed, thatched stone buildings with signs for a bakery and a cobbler, and a few scattered cottages, until they finally arrived at the inn. As they rode into the yard an ostler emerged from the shadow of the stables and offered his hand for the reins.

Tòrr remained on Paden’s back. “D’ye have other steeds tae care fer this night, lad?”

The ostler, a short, ginger-haired lad shook his head. “Nay, ye’re me only visitors.”

With that, Tòrr gave a sigh of relief. At least, for tonight, it seemed there’d be no risk of running afoul of the gallowglasses. He dismounted and reached a hand to assist Lyra down.

“Take good care of this lad.” He gave Paden’s shoulder a pat and rubbed his neck before passing over the reins. “We’ll be heading north in the morning.” He handed a gold coin to the ostler. “Give him a good rub-down and a feed of yer best hay.”

The man bowed and tugged the lock of hair at his forehead. “Indeed sir. I thank ye.”

As they approached the inn door it swung open and a shabbily-dressed man stumbled out, reeking of brandy, with another, stout man at his heels.

“Out wi’ ye, wretch. Ye’re nay welcome here if ye’ve nay coin tae pay fer yer drunkenness.”

The man pulled up with a start as he caught sight of Tòrr and Lyra.

“Beg pardon me lord. I’ll nay have riff-raff the likes of him in the place. I keep a decent lodging.” He threw them a grin. “Name’s John MacNaughton, at yer service.”

“I’m fair pleased tae hear that, as I’m after a room fer the night.”

The innkeeper’s smiles widened. “Nae many travelers this time of year.”

They followed him inside to a well-lit parlor. He gestured to a small table and two chairs. “Ye can wash up out the back and I’ll bring yer meal.”

They walked down the hall and out the back door to a small tub filled with fresh water. Beside the tub was a table with soap and coarse flax cloths. They both washed their hands and dried off with the cloth and headed back inside.

Tòrr looked around, giving a satisfied nod. “I think we’ll be safe here fer the night. Seems we’ve avoided our pursuers.”

The meal was a tasty salmon pie, which Tòrr washed down with a serving of ale. He offered a cup of warm mead to Lyra who was toying with her spoon, seeming reluctant. She shook her head.

“It seems strange. But now I’m afeared tae eat when I’m nay sure who has prepared the dish. What happened at the Priory is taking hold.”

He was puzzled. “Ye’ve said little tae me about that night.”

She shuddered as the memory came tumbling in. “At first I didnae have time tae think, but now, when I look at the meal, I cannae get Sister Morag’s pain out of me head.”

“Poison?”

“Aye. The dear sister’s started her meal afore me. I ne’er thought it would end in such a cruel way. She took the poison that was meant for me.”

Tòrr leaned back in his chair. “Who would wish tae dae such a thing, lass? We’ve said little about yer plight as I was waiting fer ye tae speak. But as I am traveling with ye and trying tae bring ye tae safety, I have many questions. Who was the cruel lord who would breach the sanctity of the Priory?”

A deep sigh issued from her lips and she closed her eyes. “I cannae speak of it yet.”

Studying her for downcast gaze and observing the tremble in her lips as she spoke it was clear to Tòrr that Lyra’s memories were distressing. He would let her be for now. For both their safety, he wished to know who had sent the gallowglasses on her trail. Only a wealthy laird could afford to pay a company of mercenaries and only a laird who wished to hide his identity would use such men to carry out his evil work. And finally, only a lass of some importance would be the quarry of such a man.

There was no doubt in Tòrr’s mind that he was up against a formidable foe that so far, they had evaded. But he was not fooled. Someone had invested in Lyra’s capture and that someone would not give up. The danger they were in was more pressing with every passing moment.

Which was why he had to find out exactly who Lyra was and why she was being hunted.

“Lass, I’ve eaten me meal with nae ill effects. Ye’re safe enough and ye need yer strength fer our ride tomorrow.”

She glanced up, her pretty lips managing a smile and took a spoonful of the pie. “Aye. Ye’re right. I shall dae me best tae finish what is on me plate.”

Several older men entered the inn and sat on the other side of the parlor nearer the fireplace, playing a game of dice, with many a raucous shout from around their table as they quaffed their ale.

Once Lyra had put down her spoon and could eat no more, Tòrr nodded to their landlord, who hurried across. “We’ll take tae our room now, thank ye.”

MacNaughton guided them up the stairs to a small but clean dormer room. Tòrr was dismayed to see there was only one narrow bed pushed against the wall under the window. He’d been looking forward to something cozier, even though he’d somehow managed to shut down all thoughts of a warm, soft, body, cuddling close.

“Tonight I shall sleep on the floor,” Lyra announced. “’Tis me turn. I’ve nay wish to be coddled. Ye slept on the hard floor at Fionnphort so ‘tis only fair fer ye te have the bed this night.”

Tòrr was taken aback. “I cannae let ye sleep on the floor. T’would nae be right. Ye’re a lass.”

“Ha. Ye’re wrong. D’ye nay ken how the nun’s sleep at the Priory? Why our dormitory would pass fer an icehouse and our hard pallets make this kindly oak floor seem like a feather bed.”

He laughed. “Of course. I was forgetting. Although ye’re a lady, ye’ve been cloistered with the nuns.”

“And I’ve learned the ways of the ascetic. So ye should pay nay mind tae me bedding down on the floor.”

It seemed there was no persuading her, so without any further argument he removed his boots. He unbelted his kilt and undid the long length of it. Then clad in his long-shirt he pulled back the coverlet on the small bed and made himself as comfortable as his large frame could manage in such a confined space.

Lyra watched him with far more interest than he considered seemly.

“So, as well as yer life of self-discipline and self-denial, I daresay ye ken little of the ways of men.”

She shrugged, her cheeks turning a most alluring, delicate shade of pink. “Of course nae. The only men I was used to were some old monks from the monastery or the wiry workmen who made repairs when the task was too hard fer the nuns.”

Regarding him thoughtfully for a moment, she added, “None of them were brutes like ye, wi’ yer big shoulders and yer broad chest. And that great head of soot-dark hair.”

Detecting a hint of admiration in her voice, he couldn’t help but grin. “And which kind of men d’ye prefer then, lass? Big brutes such as meself, or the wee priests and the skinny shanks?”

The pink deepened as she thought this through. “I havenae made me mind up yet.” She gave him a mischief-filled look. “I’ll need tae see more of ye before I decide.”

She looked up at him through long lashes, her green eyes glinting in the half-darkness, toying with her long hair and languidly running her fingers over a lock that lay across her shoulder. He groaned inwardly. She was maddeningly enticing, a wee coquette without the faintest idea of the effect she had on his poor addled senses. Or, indeed, the vexing way his shaft stirred when he looked too long into her eyes.

He waited until the sound of her slow, even, breathing signaled she was asleep. With a sigh that could have been disappointment, he rolled over and closed his eyes.