Page 9 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER NINE

T òrr pulled the door of Lyra’s chamber shut behind them as they set off down the corridor. They’d only taken a few steps when Tòrr paused at the first door they came to.

“’Tis where I bide.”

Lyra tilted her head and gave him a look that seemed to say “too close,” but he smiled anyway. His blood ran thicker at the thought of her chamber only steps away. But that was of no concern. He had no intention of debauching a lass who’d known naught but nuns, prayer and a chaste existence. If only she wasn’t so beautiful… and that damned dress was surely made to incite a man’s passion. He would ask Claray to find something less provoking for the lass to wear. A nun’s robes mayhap?

They continued down the stairs and their first stop was the solar. It was a pretty room, favored by his mother, the walls hung with colorful tapestries depicting countryside scenes, flowers and animals. The painted furniture held comfortable needlepoint cushions and a cloth of rich fabric was spread on the table.

He recalled spending hours here while his mother embroidered and painted, playing with his sister in front of the fire. It was a warm-hearted room, and for too long had been unused.

“If ye wish tae use this room fer yer own pursuits, please feel free tae dae so.” He gestured to a timber chest standing in the corner. “If ye wish to take up embroidery or sewing, painting, or any other lady’s pursuits, ye’re most welcome tae whatever ye may find in there.”

Lyra looked around smiling with delight and unthinkingly placed her hand on his arm. Her careless gesture set his blood racing.

“I thank thee, Laird Tòrr. Tae have time fer me own pursuits is something I’ve nay experience of. I like reading, mayhap if there are books, I might come here and read awhile. I enjoy stitching and I’ve never tried me hand with a paintbrush but I’ve often wished tae.”

It pleased him that she might be satisfied spending time here and mayhap she would not chaff too much at being confined to life within the castle walls.

He took her to his study, and she looked up the bookshelves lining the wall. “Mayhap ye have books I could borrow?”

“Aye lass. Ye’d be more than welcome.”

After a quick glance into the kitchen, a room separate to the main part of the keep, where she was introduced to Bethia, the cook in charge, they made their way outside the keep, across the courtyard and into the bailey.

The bailey courtyard garden was in full bloom. Poppies and lavender, and briar roses climbing on wooden arches and trellises created a picture that Tòrr was pleased to see delighted Lyra. The sun was warm, protected from the chill autumn breeze by the outer walls, the buzzing of bees amongst the flowers filled the air.

They strolled past the infirmary, a small stone building, and beside it, the healer’s cottage.

“Eilidh, our healer, is off getting herbs and healing plants. Ye’ll meet her when she returns. A bonny lass.”

Lyra nodded. “I look forward tae that. There is scarce company here fer a lass who’s always been surrounded by other lasses.” She sighed. “I’m nae used tae the company of men.” She looked up at him and gave him a wicked grin. “Especially savage warriors such as yerself and Edmund.”

He laughed. This was something he was constantly reminding himself of. Most lasses of his acquaintance had grown up wi’ boisterous brothers and were never fazed by the sometimes-uncouth behavior of the lads. Why, young Malie MacKinnon, the daughter of one of his distant cousins, was every bit as unruly as her eight brothers.

“I understand. Yet I cannae say our manners will ever meet yer high standards, Lady Lyra.”

Together they strolled back to the keep, where Tòrr guided Lyra up the stairs so they could walk on the battlements.

They caste their eyes to the west, where the dim shape of another island was visible. The day was so clear, the sky so blue, that from their height they could look down the coast a long way to the south of where they stood. “That is where we came from yesterday.” Tòrr pointed to the narrow track leading up from the rocky shore. In the distance were a scattering of cottages by the sea. “That wee place is Tobermory, home tae only a few folk and a tavern.”

At the mention of the tavern, Tòrr’s thoughts immediately turned to the sighting of the gallowglasses there. Edmund’s men would likely return this evening, with news of what MacDougall’s men were seeking. He hoped this would settle the questions surrounding Lyra.

Lyra looked around eagerly. “It is very beautiful. I cannae wait tae walk along that path.” She indicated with a wave of her hand over the clifftop below.

He took a deep breath, knowing his next words would not be welcome.

“I’m sorry me lady. I cannae allow ye tae leave Dùn Ara Castle. It’s…”

Before he could explain to her that he was concerned for her safety, she rounded on him, frowning.

“Ye cannae tell me nay. If I wish tae walk than I shall dae so.” Her voice was shrill with indignation. “I am nae yer prisoner. Or is it that I have only escaped capture by one lot of ruffians tae be held as captive by another.”

Her cheeks had reddened and her eyes flashed fire.

He put up his hands, in an effort to quieten her.

She huffed angrily. “Dinnae try and silence me, Laird Tòrr.”

“Lyra. Lyra. Ye didnae give me a chance tae explain.”

She straightened her spine, drawing herself up in defiance. “Explain, then.”

“I have learned that the gallowglasses are near. Even as we speak, me men are in the village seeking out the truth of the matter. The gallowglasses must reveal what and who they seek. And if it is ye they wish tae imprison, then I want tae ken why.”

Her face paled and she shivered, pulling her cloak close around her as if she’d felt a sudden chill.

“What daes the Laird Alexander MacDougall want wi’ ye, Lyra?”

She gasped, her eyes widened and her fingers clutched at the fine gold cross she wore at her neck on a delicate gold chain.

“Why d’ye ask me such a thing?”

“I ask because I’ve learned the gallowglasses pursuing ye are in MacDougall’s pay.”

She moaned, closing her eyes, her teeth clenching her lower lip. She inhaled deeply before looking up again and speaking. Her green eyes shone bright with unshed tears.

“He was me faither’s enemy and was responsible fer his murder.” She stated this in a matter-of-fact tone as if to hide the pain that was certain to be there. “When I was little more than a bairn I was sent tae the Priory, in secret, tae keep me safe when me faither suspected our clan would be attacked by MacDougall.”

“And what is it he wants wi’ ye that he’s gone tae such trouble and expense tae hunt fer ye? Ye’ve nae told me yer full name Lady Lyra. Now it is time.”

She turned an anguished face to him, her fingers still holding the little gold cross. “I am of the MacInnes clan, Laird Tòrr, and I dinnae ken what it is he wishes wi’ me. I only ken his hatred fer me clan.”

Aware of the MacInnes lands to the east, Tòrr nodded. Mayhap there was more behind MacDougall’s hunt for Lyra than he’d thought.

He could see this turn of the conversation was painful for her, yet for all their sakes he needed to understand what was behind MacDougall’s determination to capture her. How far would that determination take him? Would he risk a war with the MacKinnons if she was kept safe within Dùn Ara?

“Think hard. When ye were at the Priory, what did ye understand? Did ye ken the reason why ye were secreted there?

She thought of this for a few moments, chewing on her lower lip.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, his lusty thoughts insisted on focusing on those white teeth and her plump lips. Feeling a twitch in his groin he silently admonished himself for his thinking. Yet, the thought of kissing those plush red lips was more than tempting. He gave his head a shake. Now was not the time.

He pulled himself into line as she spoke.

“I didnae question me presence at the Priory. As I grew older, I learned from Maither Una that I could be used in a deadly game played between clans, and it would be tae MacDougall’s advantage if he should take me. Such a notion was hateful tae me, yet I fully understood that if I were tae be captured I could be used as leverage over me faither and the clan.”

She pshawed, placing her hand on his arm. “I’m nae some mindless pawn in some men’s game of chess.”

“But when ye learned of yer faither’s death, what then?”

“Once me faither was nay more, and MacDougall had exacted his revenge, I didnae understand why I was tae remain at the Priory. Yet I felt safe there and the world outside made me afeared.”

“And now?”

“After so many years, MacDougall found me secret place. Ye saw what happened when his men stormed the Priory.” Her eyes misted at the memory. “Yet, since I came tae Dùn Ara, I have felt protected and safe.” She looked up at him with those piercing emerald eyes. “Am I wrong tae trust?”

Shaking his head, Tòrr tried to reassure her. “Nay, ye’re nae wrong, lass. I swear I will protect ye tae the best of me ability.” His heart stuttered as he spoke the words. He was true , but he was not at all certain that the Council of his elders and other clan leaders would be prepared to support him. Not if it meant going to war with the Laird Alexander.

Somehow he would have to convince them that protecting Lyra was in the best interests of the MacKinnons.

She was gazing forlornly somewhere into the distance, her eyes fixed on the horizon. His heart went out to her. She was like a beautiful, caged bird who had glimpsed the open door of her cage but was unable to fly away.

“Come Lyra. Let us make our way tae the solar. I am in need of refreshments and I daresay Claray will have some dainties tae tempt us wi’.

They headed back inside the keep and made their way to the solar, but not before Lyra hesitated, seeming reluctant to tear her gaze away from the distant vista of sea and sky.

Once they arrived at the solar, Tòrr stoked the fire and placed another log on the embers. Lyra sat in one of the expansive padded oak chairs, leaning back on the richly embroidered cushions. Soon the fire was blazing and the autumn chill in the air was replaced by cozy warmth.

He rang the bell for the kitchen and it was Claray who appeared moments later rather than one of the scullery maids. She carried a tray loaded with sweetmeats, candied walnuts, raspberries and honey-almond cakes.

Tòrr grinned. “Ye’ve read me mind, Claray.”

She gave a small laugh. “I saw ye and milady Lyra come down the stairs from the battlements and I kent ye’d be heading in here tae warm yerselves.”

She laid out the platter of sweet things and poured mead into two goblets on the side-table.

After she’d gone, Lyra eyed the spread, smiling. “I thank ye fer making me welcome, Laird Tòrr. I can see ye wish tae make me captivity as comfortable as can be.”

Leaning on the mantel he studied her for a moment. “It is me custom tae treat all me guests hospitably.”

“Of course,” she said, “I dinnae expect special treatment fer meself. But I am grateful.”

Her smile did not hold the brightness he’d been so enchanted by over the past days. He sighed. “I regret I am nae able tae allow ye tae walk freely, as ye’d wish, but I am concerned fer yer wellbeing. MacDougall is nae a man tae give up readily and I believe he may try tae take ye again as he did at the Priory.”

She shuddered, gazing into the fire. “I dinnae wish tae make trouble fer ye. If I could only return tae me own clan…”

He held up a hand. “If ye did so, ye’d be walking straight into MacDougall’s clutches.” He held out the tray as if to end that line of talk. “Here, enjoy one of these treats.”

She looked up with a grin, reaching for one of the honey-cakes he proffered. “These are, indeed, a rare treat.”

Taking one of the goblets of mead Claray had poured, she raised it in salute. “Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte Mhath.” He returned the toast. “Tae yer good health, lass, and just as importantly, yer safety.”

She heaved a sigh, gazing into the dancing flames. “Aye. Me safety.” Her voice held resignation, yet something in him did not altogether hold that she could be content to leave things as they were.

Claray came bustling in. She was accompanied by one of the scullery maids who at once set about collecting the empty dishes and the tray and hurried out.

Once the maid had left the room, Claray dipped her head to Tòrr.

“Beg pardon, Laird Tòrr. If ye wish it, our Seamstress Purdie is willing tae make some suitable gowns fer Lady Lyra. There are but two grand gowns yer sister left when she visited, and they are mayhap nae comfortable fer a lady’s daily attire.”

Tòrr nodded, turning his gaze to Lyra. He studied her for a moment too long and watched as her cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “While I consider the lady looks very well in this gown of me sister’s, I hear what ye say. This is nae everyday wear. Please ask the seamstress tae stitch whatever she thinks is suitable. What say ye, Lady Lyra. Four new gowns? Six?”

Lyra looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Oh, I couldnae consider…”

“Done,” he said. “Six gowns fer me lady. And please make sure they are made of the finest of fabrics, wool or linen whichever ye please. Mayhap there should be one in silk tae be worn on special occasions.”

Lyra burst out laughing. “Laird Tòrr, such largess is quite uncalled fer.”

“On the contrary, it’s time ye left the convent fer good. Yer life as an ascetic is over. Ye shall wear fine cloth. Enough of those scratchy, black, woolen robes that are only good fer a scarecrow.” He turned to Claray, who was watching this exchange with an expression of amusement.

“Please convey me message tae Mistress Purdie and tell her I expect tae start tae see the Lady Lyra in her new finery within a day.”

“Indeed, me laird, I will convey this message at once.” She glanced sideways at Lyra. “And if ye can part with the lady’s company, mayhap she can accompany me fer her tae take her measure.”

Tòrr rose to his feet. “Aye, I have business waiting in me study.”

As Lyra got to her feet, he bowed slightly. “I look forward tae dining with ye in the refectory this evening.”

He watched as Lyra followed Claray out of the solar, his lips quirked in a half-smile. Mayhap he was taking far too much enjoyment in teasing the lovely Lady Lyra and observing those delicate cheeks turn various shades of pink. But it was a pleasure he was hellbent on continuing.

He poured himself another goblet of mead, seated himself by the fire and savored a sip of the honeyed drink. There would be time enough, later, to meet with Edmund and discuss the unpleasant business of taking the matter of MacDougall and his pursuit of Lyra to the Clan Council.