Page 6 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER SIX

N ext morning ominous, dark-grey clouds threatened rain as Lyra and Tòrr departed the inn, leaving Craignure behind.

Lyra, refreshed following a night of sound sleep, found she was quite looking forward to sharing Tòrr’s saddle for another day’s ride. She was nimbler than the first time she’d mounted Paden, and settled in comfortably on the saddle. The horse, after a load of fresh hay, his coat glossy from the ostler’s brushing, had a new spring in his step.

Tòrr turned his gaze to the forbidding clouds. “If the rain holds off, we should be in Dùn Ara this night.”

Lyra gave a wan smile in response. The thought of arriving at the laird’s castle held no exciting anticipation. Once there, she would have to face her future and make plans for her return to her clan. No matter how perilous that might prove to be.

For all her better judgment, she’d been actually enjoying their travels. After so many years in the nunnery, the sense of freedom she felt as they rode through the countryside and the forests was exhilarating. Everything was new and wondrous and, at times, she could forget herself and pretend she was naught but a simple peasant enjoying the ride, with no hint of danger or pursuit.

And, to her endless amazement, she was finding Tòrr’s company pleasing, despite his gruffness.

“I hope ye’ll find Dùn Ara tae yer liking, Lyra.” He said the words softly, next to her ear, and a tiny tremor rippled through her. “’Tis nay such a grand castle as Duart, but ‘tis a right bonny place. Ye can walk on the cliffs, with the salt breeze in yer hair. ‘Tis a place fer dreaming.”

She smiled at that. In her years at Iona she’d come to love being close to the water. Mayhap Dùn Ara castle would not turn out to be the forbidding prison she’d been dreading.

“’Tis a wee scrap on the edge of the ocean, yet as well-protected a fortress as ye’d find anywhere,” Tòrr proclaimed, his voice filled with pride. It was clear he loved his wild, windswept castle.

They had not travelled far before the weather turned against them. Dark clouds roiled above them, thunder and lightning disturbing the air.

Tòrr cast around for somewhere to shelter but within a short space of time the heavens opened with a downpour that caught them in the open.

“Hurry lass. Take off yer cloak and roll it up. Try tae keep it dry. Ye’ll need it later.”

They were soon drenched and shivering but, with no choice, they plodded on, the wind driving the rain into an almost impenetrable curtain.

“There,” Lyra waved a hand at a tumble-down ruin perched on an outcrop overlooking the sea.

Tòrr turned Paden around and within moments they were, at last, within shelter.

While the walls were still standing, the roof of the old thatched cottage had fallen inwards, save for one brave beam which held up a section of the thatch. He walked Paden in with them and all three huddled against the wall, out of the confounded rain.

Then, before Lyra’s astonished eyes, seemingly without a second’s thought, and quite unselfconscious of her presence, Tòrr removed his claymore from its leather sheath, unlaced his dripping shirt, pulled it over his head, and undid the belt holding his kilt, allowing the kilt and his shirt to fall to the broken stone floor at his feet.

Before she turned her gaze away, he bent to pick up the length of plaid and, in all his glorious nakedness – save for his boots – flung his discarded clothing over the beam. His cloak which he’d folded and kept dry, he shrugged over his shoulders.

Heat flushed her cheeks.

Is it possible tae die from such fierce embarrassment?

Even the nape of her neck was burning.

She stood, teeth chattering, still with her rolled up cloak under her arm, her kirtle and blouse soaked through. She was turning to ice, despite the heat in her cheeks.

Tòrr groaned loudly. “God’s blood. I’m a damned fool, forgetting ye’ll have ne’er set eyes on a naked man before.”

All that issued from Lyra’s mouth was a soft, gurgling sound.

He softened his tone. “Apologies, lass. But if ye dinnae take off those sodden clothes of yers, ye’ll risk catching yer death.”

Shock had all but robbed her of her voice. The vision of what she’d seen floated dizzyingly before her tightly closed eyes. His broad chest with its smattering of dark hair, the bulging muscles of his strong arms. His thighs… and… and… that mighty thing between them.

Surely he could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage like a tin drum. She huffed mightily, horrified at the very idea of stripping off her clothing. Yet her fingers were already turning blue.

There was little choice but to do as he said.

“I will, if ye promise ye’ll nae look at me until I’m covered.”

“Ye have me word I’ll nae catch so much as a glimpse of ye.”

Was that an infuriating hint of laughter in his voice?

Her half-frozen fingers fumbled with the fastenings on her clothes, and she slowly peeled them off one by one.

“Dinnae ye dare look at me.”

“I’m nae looking lass, I’m keeping me gaze on Paden.”

Once the last of her soaking-wet clothes had been removed, she flung them over the beam beside Tòrr’s. Still shivering, she gratefully, enclosed herself in the woolen cloak.

When at last she summoned the courage to face him, she was grateful his attention was directed elsewhere. He was scraping away a heaping of old peat and thatch lying on the stones close to where they stood.

“There’s a remnant of a fireplace here, and enough peat and kindling to make a bonny fire.”

Tòrr reached into his saddlebag and took out his flint. It was not long before there was a small fire chattering in the fireplace. Not a hearty blaze by any means, but, if they stood close enough, it granted them sufficient warmth to bring the life back to their half-frozen bodies. A broken beam was added as fuel, and before long the fire was both warming them and drying off their clothes hanging overhead.

Fortunately, with half the ceiling gone, the swirling smoke was whipped into the sky, joining the rain.

Lyra dipped her head, unfurled the loose braid hanging down her back and flipped her hair forward, running her fingers through it to catch the warmth and dry it off. As it dried, it floated around her shoulders in a golden cloud.

She glanced up to find Tòrr gazing at her intently, his eyes dark. In that moment their eyes met, and she felt something dart between them, a sudden stab of heat, straight to her heart. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Daes he feel it too?

Turning her head, she diverted her attention to seek a level spot on the floor where she could make herself as comfortable as possible. Sitting cross-legged, with the cloak firmly tucked around her, she basked in the glow of the fire, so acutely aware of Tòrr’s presence beside her that it was almost impossible to keep her breathing even.

Venturing a glance at Tòrr, he seemed oblivious to her.

It was some time before the rain eased and Tòrr unwound his long legs and rose to his feet. “’The fire’s almost out, ‘tis time fer us tae be on our way.”

She clutched her cloak tightly as he reached a hand and helped her up.

Although their clothing was still faintly damp, the fire had dried them well. She turned away as he dressed himself again.

“I’m decent. Now it’s yer turn. I’ll nae watch ye.”

Before she slipped off the cloak, she went to the saddle bag to fetch the clean, dry stockings and chemise from her bundle. He stood with his back to her and, after she’d donned the rest of her clothing, she stood close to the remnants of the fire to loosely braid her hair.

As they mounted Paden and turned him back onto the track, there was still a vexatious smirr drifting in the air , not as heavy as mist, yet with the power to wet a body to the bone if they were exposed to it long enough.

They set off into the fading light.

“I hoped we’d be at the castle before nightfall, but it seems we may need to travel the last few miles in darkness. Are ye up fer it, Lyra?”

“Aye. I’ve a few miles left in me yet.”

Once it was night, the clouds covering the moon, and a pitch black, velvety darkness enveloped them, Tòrr dismounted holding the reins, leading Paden.

“The way tae the castle is nae far now, but ‘tis rough. Even though Paden’s sure-footed, I’ll walk ahead in case there’s a loose rock or a burrow on the track.”

Lyra sighed as the lights of the castle at last came into view. This was the end of her respite from the everyday world and she was reluctant to bid it farewell.

The path to the castle was steep, and even without moonlight, she could see it perched high on an outcropping overlooking the sea. Tall, forbidding walls rose up before them as they paced the final mile to the gate.

As they approached, a harsh voice called down from the wall.

“Who goes? Name yerself.”

Tòrr laughed and called in response. “’Tis the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon who goes. Is it ye Davy, up there, keeping watch?”

The harshness was gone with an answering chuckle. “Why me laird, welcome home.”

With that, the vast oaken gate creaked open and, as they crossed a small timber bridge over the baily and entered the torchlit courtyard, another man stepped out to greet them.

“Edmund.” Tòrr’s voice rang out. ‘Tis good tae see ye, lad.”

The two men embraced as a groom raced forward to take Paden’s reins. Tòrr turned to Lyra and helped her down.

“I wasnae certain when ye’d arrive.” Edmund said, “Or if ye’d arrive. Things were nae pleasant when I saw the last of ye wi’ a party of ruffians on yer tail.”

“And I can say the same for ye. ‘Tis glad I am that ye escaped the gallowglasses and made it safely home.”

Edmund bowed from the waist. “Welcome Lady Lyra, tae Dùn Ara.”

She curtsied. “And I thank ye fer all ye’ve done fer me.”

Tòrr laughed. “And who was it who brought ye safely tae the castle?”

Edmund huffed. “But who was the lad who led the gallowglasses on a merry chase so yer road would be free of the rascals?”

Lyra gave a short laugh. “I thank ye both. Without yer bravery I’d nay be here now, but in the clutches of…”

Both men turned to look at her. “In the clutches of… who?”

Flustered, Lyra glanced from Tòrr to Edmund, both of them looking at her expectantly. Yet something held her back from naming the Laird Alexander MacDougall as her enemy. She was still without proof that he was behind this.

“Why… in the clutches of the mercenaries.”

“Come,” Edmund urged. “We’ve much tae talk of, but ‘tis time ye warmed yerselves by the fire, and seated yerselves before a meal in the refectory.”

“Och, I look forward tae hearing the news.”

Edmund shook his head. “There’s good and bad news. The good news is that ye’re here safely, as am I, yet now that I’ve learned who is behind the gallowglasses, I fear the news is nae so good.”

Lyra let out a gasp and Tòrr turned to her. “Are ye all right, lass, ye’ve turned as white as Paden’s mane?”

She shook her head. “I too, am anxious tae hear the name of me enemy.”

They walked up the stairs into the keep where they were met by a kindly faced older woman with a beaming smile, her grey hair in a bun at her nape, a kerchief at her neck, clad in a woolen tunic and a kirtle of blue linen. A jangle of keys fastened to a belt at her waist signaled that she was the castle seneschal.

Tòrr took the woman’s hand, pressed it to his lips and turned to Lyra.

“This is Claray. She has been here all me life and she’s cared fer me through many difficult times.”

Claray curtsied and turned her smile to Lyra.

“And this is the Lady Lyra.” Tòrr gave Lyra a smile that made her think he understood how awkward and strange she was feeling. “She isnae long from the Priory at Iona and will be sheltering wi’ us fer a while.”

Claray nodded. “The lord Edmund told us a little of yer troubles when he arrived here almost two days ago. I’ve prepared a bedchamber fer ye. One of our maids, Elspaith, will take care of ye. If there’s anything ye wish fer, hot water fer washing, fresh strewing herbs, candles, or something ye fancy from the kitchen, Elspaith will bring it. Ye’ve only tae ring the wee bell and she’ll come.

Lyra looked to Tòrr, unsure of what she was to do.

Tòrr hesitated. “What is ye wish, me lady?

Edmund nodded. “There’s nourishment ready fer ye both.”

“Mayhap I could wash first?” Lyra asked, all of a sudden feeling grimy after her travels.

“If ye follow Claray, she’ll show ye tae yer chamber. After ye wash she’ll guide ye tae the refectory, where ye may join us.”

As Lyra trotted up the stairs after Claray she overheard Edmund say to Tòrr. “Let us go tae yer study where we can speak in private. I’ve much news.”

Her stomach clenched. She had the strangest feeling that the news concerned her. And it was not good.

Claray unlocked the door to a bed chamber that seemed enormous to Lyra. All she could remember was the poky dormitory at the Priory that she’d shared with the other novices and her dear friend Davina.

To have a chamber to herself was daunting. On one hand it was exciting to think she would be on her own for practically the only time she could recall, but then, she was used to company at all times. Even at night, in the Priory, she was used to the sounds of the other novices, the gentle snores, the restless movements, now and then someone speaking unintelligible words. And tears. She’d contributed many of those herself over the years.

The chamber was filled with the scent of roses, a vase of late-blooming ones standing at the center of a small table by the wall. A bed far bigger than anything Lyra could have imagined was half concealed by a series of green velvet curtains. A fire blazed merrily in the grate.

She turned to Claray. “It’s quite lovely. Thank ye.”

Claray indicated a bowl and jug for washing, on another table. A cake of soap and several folded flaxen cloths lay beside the bowl.

“I’ll wait outside, me lady. Take as much time as ye wish and when ye’re ready I’ll guide ye tae the refectory, where ye’ll dine.”

After Claray had left the chamber Lyra looked around. The bed was covered in fur throws and sewn patchwork coverlets in different colored striped lines. There was a garde-robe, and behind the bed a series of carved oaken cupboards where, she supposed, if she had any items of clothing or special treasures, they would be kept. This would be where she would place her carved box once she’d retrieved it from Paden’s saddlebag.

She sighed, taking up the soap, and poured water into the washbowl, unsure of whether she should configure this charming bedchamber as a bigger and prettier prison than the Priory had provided or simply enjoy the unaccustomed opulence.

This would, no doubt, depend on Tòrr, who had yet to reveal whether he was her friend or her jailor.

She freshened up with the rose-scented soap, dried her face and hands, and combed out her hair with her fingers so that it hung loose down her back. There was very little that could be done about the somewhat bedraggled kirtle apart from smoothing out the skirt, but at least it was quite dry by now.

As Claray had promised, she was waiting patiently outside the door when Lyra emerged, ready to take the next step in her fateful journey.