The Outlaw's Bride (The Brides 0f Skye Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  Another silence fell, this one heavy. The prisoner was pondering her words.

  “And where do ye wish me to take ye?” he asked finally, an edge of wariness to his voice.

  “I must leave this isle,” she replied. “We shall travel to Kiltaraglen on the eastern coast and find a boat that will take us to the mainland. Ye must escort me to Gylen Castle in Argyle. Once I am safely delivered to my kin there, ye are discharged of any responsibility. Ye are then free to return to yer own kin.” Adaira drew in a long, steadying breath. “Do ye still agree?”

  Another beat of silence passed, before he answered. “Aye.”

  Relief swamped Adaira. However, when she glanced up and looked at Taran, she saw he was scowling. He wasn't happy about this. “Let’s hear ye swear it then,” he growled. “Upon yer life, upon everything ye hold dear, ye will protect this woman and see her safely delivered to her destination. Ye shall also promise never to tell a soul how ye escaped this place.”

  “I swear it.” The prisoner’s voice was low and steady. “Lady … I shall take ye wherever ye desire. I will protect ye with my last breath.” He paused here. “And I will tell no one how we got out … although I suggest we stop talking and start moving.”

  That was good enough for Adaira. She was keen to leave as soon as possible. However, she saw that Taran still hesitated. With a jolt she realized he didn't trust the prisoner. In truth she didn't either. But what choice did she have? He’d made an oath, and she would need to trust him to uphold it.

  “Come,” she murmured. “He's sworn to me; we can't wait any longer.”

  Taran gave a curt nod, rose to his feet, and took hold of a wooden ladder that was resting against the wall. He lowered it into the cell. “Climb up,” he ordered curtly.

  Moments later the scuff of boots on the wooden rungs echoed through the dungeon. And then a tousled head appeared.

  Adaira stared at the prisoner, momentarily transfixed. This was her first proper look at him. She'd seen Lachlann Fraser from afar when they’d brought him in unconscious. But then she’d just caught a flash of his bright auburn hair and little else.

  He was a few years older than her. Wild red hair framed a handsome, if pale, face. He had eyes the color of moss and beautifully drawn features that were set in a fierce expression. A dark auburn shadow of stubble covered a strong jaw. Adaira stared, mesmerized.

  Even stinking and disheveled, he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

  Likewise, the prisoner stared at her. His expression grew shrewd, those green eyes narrowing as he observed her. Then he drew a slow breath and inclined his head. “Evening, Lady …?”

  “Ye don't need to know her name,” Taran growled. “There will be time enough for that later.”

  Holding his torch aloft, Taran stepped back to allow the prisoner to climb from the cell.

  Lachlann Fraser did so. He stretched his long body, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the torchlight. He was dressed in braies and a loose léine. Both were filthy.

  Fraser’s gaze settled upon Adaira once more, unsettlingly direct. “Which direction is it then?”

  Adaira’s breathing quickened under his scrutiny, before she tore her attention from the prisoner and focused on Taran.

  Her brother-in-law was watching her, concern in his eyes. “Do ye remember the way?”

  She nodded her head, although her heart started to hammer against her ribs. It had finally come to this; she was escaping. “Aye,” she murmured. “Go back now, and thank ye. I'll never forget this.” She was careful not to use Taran’s name or to mention her sister’s. Once they were far from here, her escort would learn her name and identity. But not yet. Taran was right to be cautious.

  Taran nodded and stepped back. Yet he didn’t move away just yet. Instead, he turned his attention to Lachlann Fraser. The two men stared at each other for a heartbeat. Taran’s face was as hard as hewn granite. “If any harm comes to her … if ye fail to uphold yer end of the bargain, I'll come looking for ye, Fraser,” he growled. “I’ll hunt ye down to the ends of the earth. That’s a promise.”

  The ferocity of his words shocked Adaira; she stared at Taran, struck speechless.

  Lachlann Fraser sneered. “Don’t threaten me, Scar-face,” he growled.

  Tension rippled through the air. Taran’s jaw clenched, and he took a step toward Lachlann. Panic trembled inside Adaira as she realized the pair might come to blows.

  Without thinking, she stepped in between them, craning her neck to meet Taran’s eye. “We’re going now,” she said, her voice brittle with nerves. She then cast a glance over her shoulder at where Lachlann Fraser wore a murderous expression. “Follow me.”

  Lachlann couldn't believe it.

  He was free. Just like that. He’d been huddled in a corner of the cell, wondering how much longer he’d be able to keep his wits in this endless darkness, when he’d heard a man calling to him from above.

  That scar-faced warrior had looked as if he wanted to throw him back down the ladder into the cell and slam the grate shut. And he probably would have, if the choice had been his to make.

  But thanks to this young woman leading him down a series of increasingly small passageways, it wasn’t.

  The girl was quite lovely. She'd been the first thing he'd seen when he'd emerged from the cell. A mane of walnut-colored hair framed a pert face that contained the loveliest pair of hazel eyes he’d ever seen. She was small, her curves hidden by the heavy woolen mantle she wore. Across her front the young woman carried a bulging satchel. She looked like someone about to set out on a long journey.

  And I am to be her escort.

  A grim smile spread across Lachlann’s face. He’d have gladly made a pact with the devil himself if it meant escape from that putrid cell.

  “How did ye manage to get past the guards,” he asked casually. “Did yer scar-faced friend kill them?”

  “They’re drugged,” she replied, an edge to her voice. “They shouldn’t awaken for a long while.”

  Drugged. Disappointment flooded through Lachlann. For an instant, he was tempted to leave the lass here and go find those two. He had unfinished business with them both. However, freedom was more important to him right now than petty vengeance. He’d not risk it for the pleasure of killing two lack-wits.

  “A hidden passage, eh?” he murmured as they entered another corridor, this one so low they both had to stoop to avoid hitting their heads. “How did ye learn of it?”

  “Please save yer questions for later,” she replied, her tone sharpening. “I must concentrate now.”

  Lachlann’s smile turned hard. He would indeed, for he had plenty of them. She and her protector had been cagey upon letting him out of the cell, but it was clear to Lachlann that the maid was high-born. She spoke and dressed like a lady. He knew that MacLeod had three daughters. Two were wed apparently, but the youngest was not.

  Lachlann’s gaze settled upon the girl’s slender shoulders. He'd wager that this was Malcolm MacLeod's youngest daughter. He didn't recall her name, but he’d discover it soon enough.

  Eventually the passageway became so low they were virtually crawling through it. It was difficult going, for the girl insisted on carrying the torch with her. Lachlann’s back was beginning to ache when they came to a rusted iron grate, much like the ones that covered the cells.

  The girl sat back on her heels and looked Lachlann’s way for the first time since leaving her companion. She had a shy, hesitant gaze, although he noted the lines of determination on her face. Curiosity gnawed at Lachlann. He wanted to know why this young woman was fleeing in the dead of night and enlisting his help to do so.

  “This is the way out,” she announced. “Can ye open the grate and climb down. I’ll hand ye the torch.”

  Lachlann nodded, grabbing hold of the grate and pulling it upward. It wasn’t that heavy and, fortunately, the grate wasn’t locked, although the bars were covered with rust—almost entirely corroded in places. Lachlann wag
ered no one had come this way in a very long while.

  A hidden passage under Dunvegan … a secret well worth knowing.

  He climbed down, his boots hitting iron rungs, and took the torch the girl handed him. Moments later she was climbing down the ladder. Halfway down, she paused.

  “Wait … I need to close the grate.”

  He huffed. “Is there any point?”

  Her tone was clipped when she replied. “I’d rather leave no evidence of our passing.”

  Lachlann’s mouth quirked. She might appear as meek as a mouse, but the lass had a spine. He shouldn't be surprised, for a coward wouldn't have chosen such a daring escape as this.

  Down in the passageway, Lachlann kept hold of the torch. The roles were reversed now. He would lead the way, and she would follow.

  Nonetheless, he turned to her. “Straight ahead?”

  The lass nodded. “This tunnel is long … but it eventually comes to a dead-end.” She paused here, her brow furrowing. “It’s been years since I’ve been down here, but I remember there was an iron grate in the roof … and I saw daylight through it.”

  Lachlann nodded. “Was it locked?”

  Her face tensed. “I can’t remember.”

  Lachlann loosed a sigh. “Come on then … let’s hope it isn’t.”

  The tunnel was small and cramped, with wet stone walls and the ever-persistent sound of dripping water. It was an unpleasant space, but nothing compared to the festering cell Lachlann had left behind. He’d happily endure this place if it promised freedom. He longed for fresh air and daylight, things he would never take for granted again.

  As the girl had warned, they spent a long while in the tunnel. Shortly after beginning their journey, they ceased to speak. Instead, they shuffled along, bent double, step after step, toward freedom.

  By the time they reached the end of it, the torch was starting to die. Lachlann dropped it to the ground and craned his neck to the grate above them. No light of any kind shone through it.

  He cut his companion a glance. Her face, lit by the guttering torch on the ground, appeared strained. “I can’t see a lock,” she murmured, her face tilted up, her gaze narrowed as she peered at their escape route.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Lachlann replied. Climbing up the ladder, he grabbed hold of the iron bars. It wasn't easy to budge. At first he suspected the grate really was locked. But then after a moment he realized that it was merely a bit stuck; it was covered with rotting leaves and what smelt like pine needles. He gave a hard shove, and with a groan of metal, the grate shifted.

  They were through.

  Lachlann pushed the grate aside and climbed up and out of the tunnel. Rising to his full height for the first time in what felt like hours, Lachlann massaged his aching back. He stood amongst a growth of pines. Moonlight filtered through the trees, and he breathed in the pungent scent of sap.

  Freedom had never smelled so good.

  “Are ye going to help me out?” An irritated female voice intruded.

  Lachlann turned. He'd almost forgotten the woman; they weren’t off to a good start.

  Reaching down, Lachlann grasped a small, warm hand and pulled the lass up out of the tunnel. The touch of her skin caused a frisson of heat to ripple up his arm. Lachlann caught his breath, his fingers tightening around hers.

  The young woman stared at him, her eyes growing wide.

  Gently, she pulled back from him, tugging at his hand. Reluctantly, Lachlann let her go.

  “I know this place,” she observed, shifting her gaze from him. He caught the edge to her voice and knew the touch had affected her as it had him. “These woods lie north-east of the keep. Da and his men often hunt here.” She abruptly stopped speaking, realizing she’d unwittingly revealed her identity.

  The lass took a step back from him, drawing her mantle close.

  “Worry not, Lady MacLeod,” Lachlann drawled. “I guessed yer identity the first moment I set eyes on ye. It changes nothing of our agreement. However, I would like to know yer name … if I may?”

  She watched him, her face glowing pale in the moonlight. “Adaira,” she said softly.

  Lachlann held her gaze. He couldn’t believe his luck; this girl was his angel of mercy. What a reprieve—and now he was free, he intended to stay that way.

  “Can I ask how ye knew of such a passageway?” he asked. “The dungeon isn’t a place for high-born maids.”

  She swallowed. “My sisters and I discovered it years ago,” she replied softly. “We weren’t supposed to play in the dungeon. Da would have been furious if he’d known. We used to dare each other, to see who the bravest was … who could explore the farthest.”

  Lachlann smiled. “And who discovered the end of the tunnel?”

  She looked away. “My sister Rhona.”

  “Well, Lady Adaira,” he murmured. “Argyle is a long way off. I say we travel through the night and rest in daylight. Yer father will be after us come the dawn.”

  Chapter Six

  Aingeal

  “I KNEW YE were an angel … the moment I set eyes upon ye.”

  The words were muttered in-between large bites of bun, slathered in butter and jam.

  Watching Lachlann Fraser devour his second sweet bun, Adaira smiled. “Slow down, or ye will give yerself belly-ache.”

  He nodded but then proceeded to stuff half a bun into his mouth, chewing vigorously. “Ye have no idea how good these are,” he managed when he’d swallowed. “I’ve had nothing but weevil infested bread and rancid cheese since they threw me down in that hole.”

  Adaira’s smile faded, and she suppressed a shudder at this comment. She looked around her, noting that the sky was growing lighter by the moment. After emerging from the tunnel, they’d fled like hunted deer. Lachlann had led the way east, his long legs covering the ground easily until Adaira had called out to him, begging him to slow his pace. She couldn’t run great distances, especially wearing skirts and carrying a heavy satchel and cloak.

  Lachlann had relieved her of the satchel, and they’d set off once more, this time at a brisk walk.

  Dawn had stolen upon them quickly, arriving with startling swiftness. They now sat on the mossy bank of a creek, taking a much-needed rest. Adaira’s lungs still ached from exertion, as did her legs. She’d taken off her heavy cloak and now carried it. Her léine—a long ankle-length tunic she wore under her kirtle—now stuck uncomfortably to her back.

  “Ye should eat,” Lachlann said as he reached for a third bun. “Or I’ll end up finishing all of these.”

  “I brought them for ye,” she replied. “I can eat once we reach the coast. I’ve got some pennies with me. We’ll resupply when we find passage across the water.”

  Lachlann Fraser raised an eyebrow. “Going hungry on my account … ye truly are an aingeal.”

  Adaira looked away, her cheeks warming. “Not really,” she murmured. “I’m too nervous to eat.”

  “Well, I’ll leave the last bun for ye,” he said, his mouth curving. “For when ye get yer appetite back.”

  Their gazes met briefly, and Adaira returned his smile.

  She’d been wary of Lachlann Fraser at first, especially after his confrontation with Taran. Yet he’d behaved honorably so far. He’d carried her satchel and slowed his pace to accommodate her. When he’d taken her hand to help her out of the tunnel, heat had jolted up her arm. The feel of his strong fingers curling around hers, the warmth of his skin, had completely scattered her wits.

  She’d been acutely aware of him ever since.

  Adaira watched Lachlann now as he scanned their surroundings. The good humor faded from his face, and his moss-green gaze narrowed. “We can’t stay here much longer. Very soon, someone will notice we are missing.”

  Adaira nodded, her belly contracting. “My maid usually comes to my bower shortly after dawn. She’ll raise the alarm … if the dungeon guards don’t wake up first.”

  Lachlann ate his third bun, although not with the ferocity
of the first two. Around them the dawn chorus of birdsong echoed through the trees: blackbirds, song thrushes, and warblers. Their chirping took the edge off Adaira’s anxiety and soothed her ragged nerves.

  “I love the sound of the dawn chorus,” she said eventually, “but I can’t hear it from my bower. Sometimes I get up early and go to the gardens at dawn just to listen to the birds.”

  Lachlann’s mouth quirked, and Adaira wondered if her comment had amused him. Here they were, running for their lives, and she was admiring birdsong.

  Finishing his meal, Lachlann dusted crumbs off his filthy braies. He sat a couple of yards from Adaira, yet she could still smell him. The man was in need of a bath and fresh clothing. However, both would have to wait.

  Lachlann then met her eye once more. “Why were ye so desperate to flee Dunvegan?”

  Adaira had been expecting the question, but she still tensed when he asked it.

  He’s my protector now, she reminded herself. I need to trust him.

  “I’m to wed Aonghus Budge of Islay,” she murmured, dropping her gaze.

  Lachlann gave a low whistle. “Say no more … I know all about him.”

  Adaira’s head snapped up. “Aye … he killed his first wife—and he’d kill me too, I’m sure of it.”

  Lachlann Fraser’s eyes shadowed, before he nodded. Remaining silent, he packed away the remaining food, stuffed it into the satchel, and got up. Slinging the satchel across his front, his gaze met Adaira’s once more. “In that case, we’d better keep moving.”

  Adaira winced as she slipped upon a mossy rock and her ankle twisted.

  “Can’t we rest for a while,” she panted. Holding her skirts high, she splashed across the creek bed after Lachlann. Cold water soaked through the soft leather of her boots. Adaira glanced down at them with dismay. The boots were new and made of costly chamois, but they’d be ruined after this journey.

  They’d been traveling all morning, without respite. The sun beat down on them; it seemed that summer had returned after days of colder weather. The heat was both a blessing and a curse. It would make sleeping rough easier, but it also made the journey much harder work. Adaira’s cheeks glowed like two hot coals.