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

by Jayne Castel

  “Apologies,” he rasped. “I forgot myself.”

  Adaira drew in a shuddering breath. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribs, and her body pulsed with need.

  What just happened?

  One moment she’d been sitting there, enjoying the warmth of the wine in her belly, a languorousness in her limbs, and the next Lachlann Fraser was kissing her.

  And to her shock, she’d hadn’t wanted him to stop.

  Despite the embarrassing scene earlier that day, Adaira had enjoyed Lachlann’s company during the journey. He’d been caring and considerate of her. She’d found it easy to talk to him and had appreciated the way he’d taken charge.

  She felt safe with him.

  But underlying it all, there had been a growing tension between them, an awareness that made every interaction feel charged—like the air right before a storm.

  Lachlann’s kiss had been consuming, intoxicating.

  But Lachlann Fraser was an outlaw, the son of her father’s arch-enemy. They shouldn’t be kissing at all.

  And yet she couldn’t stop watching him. He observed her too, those moss-green eyes deepening to jade. She noted the sharp rise and fall of his chest, the slight flush across his high cheekbones. He dragged a hand through his shaggy dark-red mane—hair that Adaira longed to run her own fingers through.

  Mother Mary, what’s wrong with me?

  Perhaps she should go straight to a nunnery the moment she reached Argyle. If a man’s kiss unraveled her so quickly, she’d be easy prey in future.

  Adaira swallowed, reached for her cloak, and wrapped it about her. The evening, which had seemed mild earlier, now felt chill. Since leaving Dunvegan, she’d often felt overwhelmed by Lachlann’s presence, but now she felt completely lost.

  If he hadn’t pulled back, she’d have let him ravish her.

  Lachlann cleared his throat and moved back so that around two yards of pebbly beach separated them. “It grows late.” His voice was more subdued than usual and still carried a hoarse edge to it. “We should both get some sleep.”

  Lachlann pushed the boat out into the water and climbed in. Then he glanced Adaira’s way and caught her watching him. Her look was veiled, and she hurriedly averted her gaze, but he’d seen enough. He’d avoided a number of entanglements over the past few years and knew when a woman had gone soft on him.

  Dolt … ye shouldn’t have kissed her.

  He’d not cared at the time, for lust raged through his veins, demanding to be sated. But now, in the cool light of morning, he realized he’d unwittingly created a situation for himself.

  Suppressing a curse, Lachlann settled himself upon the plank and picked up the oars. However, before he did so, his gaze fell once more upon the young woman seated a couple of feet away. She was deliberately avoiding his eye now. This situation would only get more awkward if he didn’t address it.

  “Adaira,” he said softly. “Look at me a moment.”

  She turned her face, her gaze meeting his.

  “About last night,” he began, “let’s forget it ever happened.” Adaira’s hazel eyes widened. For an instant Lachlann could have sworn he saw hurt flare in their depths. However, he pressed on. “I overstepped the boundaries of our agreement … I won’t touch ye again.”

  “Very well,” she replied softly, although the edge to her voice warned Lachlann that he’d just offended her.

  Lachlann loosed a sigh. Great. He’d only succeeded in making things more uncomfortable than before. The easy rapport they’d developed during the journey had evaporated. It was just as well they wouldn’t be traveling companions for longer than today.

  Wisely, he decided to end the conversation there.

  Lachlann maneuvered the boat out into deeper water and began to row. His shoulder muscles protested, as did his back, but he clenched his jaw and rowed on. The first thing he’d do upon his return to Talasgair would be to have the servants prepare a hot bath for him. Then he’d soak in it with a tankard of ale at his elbow.

  Glancing once more at Adaira, he saw that she was looking away again, her attention focused upon the green headland they were circuiting.

  What will happen to her?

  The thought was fleeting, yet it irritated Lachlann. Adaira MacLeod’s future wasn’t his concern. He had more pressing things to worry about—like ensuring Lucas wasn’t taking up their father’s chair in the Great Hall.

  Looking away from her, he concentrated on steering the rowboat past a cluster of rocks and along the last stretch of coast that would lead him home.

  “Why are we landing here?”

  Adaira’s gaze swept the wide bay they’d just entered and shifted to the foaming line of surf rolling into the shingle beach before them. To her right rose a rocky headland. The landscape was distinctive; centuries of wind and rain had carved it into great stone terraces, and behind it reared a huge tawny mountain.

  It’s so similar to Skye, she mused. How strange.

  Her attention shifted to the sloping hillside to her left. A hamlet of stone cottages with sod roofs sat at its base, while a fortress perched upon a crag above.

  “Lachlann … where are we?” Adaira glanced back at her escort, however, he wasn’t looking her way. After his stinging words earlier that morning, the rest of the journey had passed in silence. Hurt by his obvious regret at kissing her, Adaira had felt foolish. She now resolved to keep him at arm’s length, although he seemed to have made the same decision, for he wouldn’t meet her eye.

  Lachlann jumped out of the boat into the waist-deep surf and began to haul the boat into shore. “We’ve arrived at our destination,” he announced.

  Adaira’s heart leaped in her chest. She glanced back up at the grim-looking fortress that loomed over the bay. Surely this wasn’t Gylen Castle? Her mother had described it as a great stone tower perched on the edge of a rocky coast, surrounded by emerald-green. This place looked too stark to fit such a description. “Are ye sure?”

  “Aye.” He pulled the boat through the last of the waves and dragged it up onto the beach.

  Adaira continued to stare at the broch above her. She could see that part of it lay in ruin. It looked like one of those round towers that the ancient folk of Skye had inhabited, long before the Norsemen arrived upon the shores of her isle. There was one such ruined tower not far from Dunvegan that she and her sisters had once explored.

  “It’s not what I imagined,” she murmured. “I expected Gylen Castle would be … grander.”

  Lachlann huffed out a laugh, although there wasn’t any humor in it. His mood had suddenly turned strange. “It’s grand enough … although this isn’t Gylen Castle or Argyle.”

  Adaira stiffened. She dragged her gaze from the fortress and focused on Lachlann.

  “Where have ye brought me?” Her voice cut through the rumble of the surf and the whine of the wind that whipped her hair in her eyes. “Answer me, Lachlann.”

  He looked at her then, and the hard look in his eyes made a chill seep into her bones. It was like observing a stranger, and she realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of her belly that, despite spending the last couple of days with him, she didn’t know Lachlann Fraser at all.

  “This is Talasgair,” he said finally. “My father’s stronghold.”

  Chapter Ten

  Till My Last Breath

  TALASGAIR.

  ADAIRA STARED at Lachlann.

  For a moment his words didn’t sink in, but when they did, she inhaled sharply, as if someone had just punched her in the belly.

  No wonder this coastline looked familiar. While she’d slept during their departure from Kiltaraglen, he’d rowed north.

  That had indeed been Duntulm she’d spied on the clifftop.

  That was why he’d left her on the shore when he went for supplies. The crofters’ village would have been on her father’s land; no wonder he’d been on edge and keen to move on quickly.

  Betrayal slammed into Adaira with such force that she gasped.
<
br />   “Ye deceived me!” The words were hoarse; she could barely get them out. “Ye made me a promise, and ye broke it.”

  Lachlann shrugged. “Deceived is a strong word … let’s not get overwrought.”

  “Overwrought?” The word came out in an outraged whisper.

  Adaira wasn’t quick to temper like Rhona or her father. All those who loved her described her nature as sweet and carefree. Few things got under her skin. Yet rage coiled in her now as she stared at the man she’d trusted, the man she’d set free.

  The man she’d kissed so eagerly.

  Her heart thundered in her chest, beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

  “I’ll not stay here,” she ground out finally.

  With that, she jumped out of the boat and into the surf. The cold water bit at her legs, the waves pulling at her heavy skirts, yet she ignored the discomfort.

  Adaira started to push the rowboat back into the bay. “I’ll row myself to Argyle.”

  “Slow down.” The thinly-veiled amusement in Lachlann’s voice made a red haze settle over Adaira’s vision. He’d betrayed her, and now he was laughing at her. “Ye aren’t going anywhere, Aingeal.”

  He placed a hand upon her shoulder then.

  Rage exploded within Adaira, a deep, feral thing that lashed out from a place she didn’t even know existed.

  She whipped round and struck out at him. Her palm hit his face with a loud ‘crack’.

  “Don’t touch me,” she snarled, “and don’t call me that ever again. I’m not yer ‘Aingeal’, ye cheating, lying bastard!”

  The shock on his face was almost comical.

  Adaira flung herself away from him and shoved her weight against the boat, angling it into the surf.

  She’d gone two paces when strong arms fastened about her waist and hauled her backward.

  “Sorry about this,” Lachlann grunted in her ear, “but I meant it. Ye are staying here for the moment. It would be easier to let ye go yer own way, but ye wouldn’t be safe on yer own. I owe ye that much.”

  Adaira spat out a curse, one she’d heard her father make once when his horse stood on his foot, and drove her elbow into Lachlann’s chest.

  However, he didn’t let go of her. He yanked her against him, trapping her under one arm, while with the other he grabbed hold of the boat.

  Then he turned and dragged them both to shore.

  Adaira was hysterical by the time they reached it. Fury pulsed through her, and she forgot fear, forgot anything except the fact that she’d given this man his freedom, and he’d tricked her, used her.

  She clawed at him, kicked and wriggled in his grip like an eel. If he was going to take her prisoner, she’d not make it easy for him.

  “Adaira … stop it!” Lachlann’s voice held no amusement now. “Ye will only do yerself harm.”

  His words didn’t calm her; they only enraged her further. She shouted curses at him, wielding them like sharp boning knives.

  They stumbled onto the shingle beach, their boots sinking into the fine grey pebbles. The hull of the rowboat crunched onto the shore as Lachlann let go of it. He needed two-hands to manage Adaira now as she became frenzied.

  Fear snaked through her then, penetrating the rage.

  What was he planning to do with her? Would he send her back to Dunvegan—back to Aonghus Budge?

  How Adaira wished she’d asked Taran to show her how to defend herself against attackers, as he had with Rhona. How she wished she was a man. And as they tumbled to the ground, and Lachlann held her still, pinning her limbs against the pebbles, she cursed her weak woman’s body. Lachlann was much taller and stronger than her.

  “Stop it!” Lachlann stared down at her, his green eyes dark with mounting anger. “I mean ye no harm, Adaira. This is only a detour. If ye wish to continue to Argyle, one of my father’s men will take ye.”

  She glared up at him, her teeth bared. She didn’t believe him, not after this lie. She never would again.

  “I had to return home,” he continued. His handsome face was taut and his gaze narrowed. “My father may be dying—or possibly dead already. I can’t risk one of my brothers taking my place as chieftain.”

  Ice washed over Adaira. Ambition. He’d broken his promise to her for purely selfish reasons.

  Adaira fought the hands that gripped her wrists. However, she couldn’t budge them an inch. He was sitting on her thighs. She was trapped.

  “Serpent,” she hissed. “I trusted ye.”

  He gave an exasperated snort. “Well, then ye have just learned a harsh life lesson.” He stared down at her. “Ye won’t trust so easily in future.”

  The arrogance of his words momentarily rendered Adaira speechless. Her throat constricted, and her chest felt as if it had a boulder sitting upon it. In the past she might have wept, but she was still too angry. She wished she had her dirk to hand; she’d have stabbed him in the heart with it. Instead, it was in her satchel.

  “Come.” He let go of her wrists and heaved himself to his feet. He then retrieved her cloak and satchel from the boat. “We’re wasting time here.”

  “No.” Adaira rose to her feet and backed away from him. “I’m not going anywhere with ye.”

  Lachlann’s gaze grew hard. “Are ye going to continue to fight me, Adaira?”

  “Aye, till my last breath, ye dog!”

  He huffed a breath before slinging the satchel across his front and tucking the cloak through it.

  “This is yer last chance. Ye either walk up to the fortress with me, or I carry ye up, slung over my shoulder like a sack of oats. Which will it be?”

  Adaira spat at him, whirled, and took off down the beach. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries sounding like mocking laughter. The soft shingle hampered her gait, slowing her, but she paid it no mind. She had to get away from him. She was in danger here, more so than if she’d stayed at Dunvegan.

  She’d gone half a dozen paces when Lachlann caught her.

  He grabbed hold of her arm and swung her round. Then, ducking his head to avoid her flailing fists, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. “No more chances,” he grunted. “If this is how ye wish to arrive at Talasgair, then so be it.”

  Adaira didn’t stop struggling, didn’t stop fighting him, the whole way up the hill. Desperation and fear turned her savage. She was aware that they walked past cottages, where cottars and their families worked fields of kale, turnips, and onions. Folk stopped to gawk at them, but Adaira didn’t care. Their murmurs and choked back laughter just served to enrage her further.

  It was a long walk, made longer still by her humiliation and mounting panic, and the climb was steep. Lachlann was breathing heavily, and she felt the heat of his body through the thin léine he wore.

  On the way up, they passed a number of sheilings, low-slung huts made of stacked stone with turf roofs, where more folk stood and stared at them.

  Eventually, even Adaira couldn’t withstand exhaustion, and she slumped against his shoulder. Her hands ceased beating his back and hung there, although they were still balled into tight fists. He clasped her legs, an arm clamped over them like an iron band, lest she try and knee him.

  He carried her through an archway of a high, yet crumbling, double wall, and into a wide, grassy yard.

  There, Lachlann set Adaira down.

  Panting, Adaira glanced around. Her body trembled, yet she couldn’t fail to note how different Talasgair was to Dunvegan. Her father’s keep was a huge, solid fortress with deep curtain walls. Yet this place was a blend of ancient and new. The great roundtower that rose before them had been built onto at both sides. Another newer watch tower rose on its southern side. Its battlements etched against the sky, where the Fraser pennant fluttered in the wind.

  Men, horses, and servants filled the bailey, all going about the last of their morning chores before the nooning meal was upon them.

  “Lachlann!”

  A man’s voice echoed across the yard. Lachlann took hold of
Adaira’s arm, his grip firm, and they turned to see a huge warrior with wild red hair and a short beard stride toward them.

  One look at the man and Adaira knew he was kin to Lachlann, although he was heavier in stature.

  “I thought MacLeod would have ye strung up by yer balls by now,” the man boomed, before he crushed Lachlann in a bear-hug.

  Lachlann was forced to release Adaira then as he staggered back. Adaira watched them. The anger had seeped out of her now, replaced by a dread that made her legs tremble under her.

  “It’s good to see ye too, Lucas.” Lachlann drawled, pulling back. “Worried about me were ye?”

  The warrior snorted, although his eyes—the same moss-green as Lachlann’s—were wary. “I thought ye were dead.”

  “No, just left to rot in Dunvegan dungeon. Were any of ye planning to come after me?”

  Lucas frowned. “Aye … we were discussing it this morning.”

  The man didn’t even bother to disguise the insincerity in his voice.

  Lachlann’s gaze narrowed. “Aye … were ye?”

  Lucas pursed his lips, as if he found the topic distasteful. Then he glanced over at Adaira. “And who’s this?”

  Adaira tensed under the man’s scrutiny, her body going rigid when Lachlann caught hold of her arm once more and pulled her close. “This is Lady Adaira MacLeod.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Ye brought a MacLeod here?”

  Lachlann huffed. “She’s the reason I’m free.” He met Adaira’s eye then, for the first time since he’d thrown her over his shoulder on the beach. There was a warning in his gaze, as if he dared her to start raging at him again. “Lady Adaira, meet my younger brother … Lucas.”

  Chapter Eleven

  What a Mess I’ve Made

  “SO YE DRAW breath still.”

  “Frasers are hard to kill, Da. I see that MacLeod didn’t finish ye off either.”