by Jayne Castel
Morgan Fraser, propped up by a mountain of pillows in his sickbed, frowned. “Disappointed?”
Adaira, who stood at Lachlann’s side, watched him fold his arms across his chest and favor his father with an arrogant smile. “Of course not … it’s a great relief to see ye are alive.”
Morgan Fraser huffed, before wincing.
Adaira had heard of the wound her own father had inflicted upon him. Malcolm MacLeod had bragged that he’d slit the Fraser chieftain open down one side. She couldn’t see his wounds, for he wore a loose léine over his bandages, but she knew her father would be disappointed to know his enemy lived.
They stood in the chieftain’s bed-chamber, which sat halfway up the fortress’s new tower. The window was open, letting in a brisk sea-breeze.
Lachlann’s three younger brothers—Lucas, Niall, and Tearlach—stood to the right of their father’s bed. Big, red-haired, and intimidating, all three of them resembled their sire. Watching them, Adaira wondered what their mother had looked like. Una had been Morgan’s second wife, and she had not borne him any children.
Morgan Fraser’s attention shifted from his first-born then, to Adaira. She’d been waiting for this, yet the force of his stare nearly made her wilt. Even pale-faced and in pain, the Fraser chief’s gaze was frightening.
“Lady Adaira MacLeod,” he said her name softly. “What an unexpected delight.”
He didn’t smile as he spoke, so the word ‘delight’ sounded more of a threat than a welcome. Adaira glanced at Lachlann. She didn’t know why she looked his way, for the sight of him made her feel ill, yet he was the only one in this chamber who knew how much she wanted to flee Skye. As much as it galled her, he was the closest thing she had to an ally here.
But Lachlann didn’t look her way. He merely watched his father, his expression impassive.
Adaira swallowed and glanced back at the chieftain. Morgan Fraser was still observing her, a speculative look in his green eyes. He was around her father’s age, yet whereas her father was corpulent and gouty, Morgan was lean and craggy. She could see that he’d been very handsome in his youth, but something—bitterness perhaps—had given his features a hard edge.
Out of all four sons, Lachlann resembled him physically the most. He had his father’s lean ranginess, his watchfulness.
“I’d say I was grateful to ye for saving my son’s life,” Morgan Fraser continued, his tone still soft, “yet I hear ye didn’t do it out of love for the Frasers, but rather a desire to escape yer betrothed.”
“Aye, Aonghus Budge,” Lucas spoke up, his mouth curving. “Can’t say I blame her either.”
Morgan ignored his son, instead continuing to observe Adaira.
Swallowing, Adaira dropped her gaze to the floor. His stare was making her sweat; she didn’t like the calculating look in his eyes.
“Ye are a bonny wee thing,” Morgan continued, “although I’ve heard yer sisters are true beauties: one as hot as flame, the other as cold as ice.” He paused here. “I wonder what that makes ye, Lady Adaira?”
She went still, wishing she was anywhere but here. This man made her feel like she was a cornered deer.
“The earth.” Lachlann’s answer made Adaira glance up in surprise. “Natural … and honest.”
Morgan grunted in response. “Sounds like ye are half in love with the lass.”
Lachlann’s brothers sniggered.
“No … just observant,” Lachlann answered coldly.
A smile stretched Morgan Fraser’s mouth, but no warmth reached his eyes.
Adaira cleared her throat. This conversation was giving her belly cramps. She longed to be far from all five of these men, but needed their help to get away. “Chieftain Fraser,” she began softly. “Will ye provide passage for me to travel to the mainland? I still wish to reach my kin in Argyle as planned.”
Morgan Fraser’s mouth compressed. “Why would I help a MacLeod?”
Adaira glanced at Lachlann, panic rising within her. “But ye said I could—”
“I rule here, lass,” Morgan Fraser cut her off. “I don’t care what my son told ye.”
Adaira went ice-cold at these words. “Please,” she whispered. “I have to leave this isle … I must—”
“Quiet, girl,” Morgan snapped, his gaze pinning her to the spot. “Spare me yer pitiful bleating.”
Adaira stared back at him, heat rising to her cheeks. Anger, although not the wild fury of earlier, rose within her. She decided then that she hated Morgan Fraser even more than she did his son.
“What does it matter?” Lachlann spoke up, his voice a drawl. “Surely, if ye help the lass escape, ye are hurting MacLeod.”
“Perhaps so,” Morgan mused. He reached for a cup that sat upon a low table beside the bed and took a sip. Lowering it, he leaned back against the pillows. “But by keeping her here I’d hurt him more.”
“No!” Adaira stepped forward, hands clenching by her sides. She turned to Lachlann, meeting his gaze squarely. “Ye swore ye would take care of me. Is this another promise ye are going to break?”
Her comment brought snorts of laughter from his brothers.
“She’s got some fire in her belly after all,” the one named Niall chortled. “I can see why ye have gone soft on her, brother.”
Lachlann ignored the jibe and held her gaze. His expression was hard, although his eyes were shadowed, his jaw tight. His lips parted as he readied himself to respond to her, but his father interrupted. “Never explain yerself to a woman, Lachlann.” He snapped his fingers then, the sound cracking like a whip across the bed-chamber. “Look at me, lass.”
Reluctantly, Adaira did as bid. However, her heart was now galloping, and her belly roiled. She felt close to being sick. Bile bit the back of her throat when she saw the cold smile on Chieftain Fraser’s face.
“I’ve got many bones to pick with MacLeod,” he continued, each word biting. “The bastard stole my wife, nearly gutted me, and would have let my first-born rot in his dungeon. One hundred years wouldn’t be long enough for me to take my vengeance upon him.” He paused here, letting each bitter word sink in. “But Lachlann has brought me a prize. Ye are now my prisoner, as he was once yer father’s.”
“Da—” Lachlann interrupted, his gaze narrowed now, but Morgan cut him off with a gesture.
“Our dungeon is a foul pit, no place for a lady, even a MacLeod,” the chieftain continued, his gaze pinning Adaira to the spot, “so ye will be confined to the top room of this tower until I decide yer fate.” Morgan shifted his gaze to Lachlann, who now stood silent and stone-faced next to Adaira. “Take her up and lock her inside.”
Lachlann followed Adaira up the tower stairs. Her slender back was ramrod straight, her shoulders rounded. Her hands were hidden from view as she had lifted her skirts to climb the steps.
Neither of them spoke.
Keeping his gaze on her, lest she turn and attack him half-way up the stairs, Lachlann silently cursed.
This wasn’t how he’d envisaged his return to Talasgair.
The old bastard was supposed to be either dead or on death’s door, not well enough to continue his blood feud against MacLeod.
He hadn’t wanted Adaira to be drawn into his father’s wrath either. She’d asked him to help her, and he’d gotten her imprisoned.
They entered the tower room. Lachlann hadn’t been up here in a while. The room had once been where he and his brothers had taken their lessons with Brother Took, a monk who’d visited from a nearby monastery to teach the Fraser sons their letters.
It was an austere space furnished only with a narrow sleeping pallet, a long table, and four hard wooden chairs. Cold stone pavers covered the floor. There was a tiny hearth in one corner, but it was unlit this afternoon. A narrow window stared out at where the bulk of Preshal More, the tawny mountain to the south, jutted against the sky.
Adaira walked to the center of the room and turned to face him.
He’d expected to see tears in her eyes, yet there we
re none. She was too angry for that. Just like during their scuffle on the beach, he was struck by how lovely she was when riled. When they’d first met, he’d thought her comely, but when she was angry, Adaira MacLeod was like no other woman. She was magnificent.
Adaira glared at him now as if she’d like to blacken his eye. In fact, her right fist was clenched at her side.
Lachlann stopped before her and dragged in a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have brought ye here,” he said, his tone terser than he’d intended. It was the closest he could manage to an apology. “I didn’t stop to think how Da would react.”
“Liar,” she hissed out the words between clenched teeth. “Ye have given him exactly what he wanted.”
Lachlann frowned. “I’ll speak to him. He might soften toward ye in time.”
“Aye, and the sun might set in the east. If ye believe ye can change his mind, ye are worse than arrogant—ye are a fool!”
Lachlann’s frown deepened. He was getting tired of her insults. Some of the things she’d screamed at him down on the beach would have made a whore blush. Yet underneath it all, she was scared; he could see it in her eyes.
Her small body trembled. He realized then that she was barely clinging to her courage.
Lachlann loosed a sharp breath. “I’ve made a mess of things,” he admitted roughly, “but I promise ye I will try to mend this. Ye will reach Argyle as ye had planned.”
Her throat bobbed, and two spots of high color appeared on her pale face. Then she stepped toward him, her hazel eyes glittering. “A promise from Lachlann Fraser is a vain, empty thing.” Her voice shook as she forced out the words. “The only person ye care about in this world is yerself.”
Chapter Twelve
A Warm Welcome
LACHLANN STRODE INTO the Great Hall to a thunderous applause.
His confrontation with Adaira had left a sour taste in his mouth, but the strain of the past few hours dissolved when his father’s men slapped him heartily on the back and their wives and children beamed at him.
“It’s good to see ye back, lad.” Morgan Fraser’s right-hand, a grizzled warrior named Thormod, boomed, pushing a tankard of ale into his hands. “Yer brother was getting too comfortable in yer seat!”
“Aye, I’ll wager he’s been polishing it with his arse morning, noon, and night,” Lachlann replied, his gaze swiveling to the long table upon the dais at the far end of the hall. He was pleased to see that Lucas didn’t sit in his elder brother’s place, to the right of the chieftain’s carven chair, but in his usual seat.
He noted too, that Lucas wore a sour look on his face.
Lachlann grinned at him, raising his tankard. He then turned his attention to the crowd of excited retainers that jostled around him. “Open a fresh barrel of ale,” he shouted, his voice carrying across the hall. “My return calls for a celebration.”
“Aye, and ye brought yer father back a worthy prize too!” Thormod’s wife, a rawboned woman named Forbia, cried out. “A MacLeod daughter!”
A roar went up, although this time Lachlann didn’t join in the laughter.
The less said about that the better.
Making his way to the chieftain’s table, he stepped up onto the dais.
“Generous of ye, brother,” Lucas grumbled as Lachlann approached. “To make free with Da’s ale.”
“He won’t mind,” Lachlann replied with a grin, enjoying his brother’s irritation. “Make sure ye have a tankard for him.”
Then, instead of taking his place next to Lucas, Lachlann deliberately lowered himself into the chieftain’s carven chair.
Lucas let out a hiss of outrage, while around them, heads swiveled to stare. “What are ye doing?”
Lachlann stretched back in the chair, placing his arms on the ornate armrests. “Just trying it out … not as comfortable as I imagined though.”
“Ye had better move,” Tearlach, the youngest of the four brothers warned him. Unlike Lucas he wasn’t glaring at Lachlann though. Instead, he was grinning and had a wicked gleam in his eye. “Da will have ye flogged for sitting in his chair.”
Lachlann cast Tearlach a rueful look. “No, he won’t. He’s too pleased to have his first-born safely home.”
This drew snorts from his brothers. All of them knew the truth of it: Morgan Fraser wasn’t a sentimental man. He had four sons and if one died there was always another to take his place. Besides, Lachlann and his father had always butted heads.
Lachlann leaned back in the chair and took a deep draft of ale, sighing at the sweet, sharp taste: the taste of home.
On the floor beneath him, the folk of Talasgair were now taking their seats at the long tables while servants circled with pots of steaming stew. A group of them approached the dais.
Lachlann’s belly grumbled in anticipation, reminding him that he’d last eaten at dawn.
“How did ye get out of Dunvegan Castle?” Lucas spoke up, drawing his attention. “It’s been puzzling me.”
Lachlann studied his brother’s face for a moment. Lucas wore an inscrutable expression, although his eyes were hard, suspicious.
“We crept out in the middle of the night,” he replied. “Lady Adaira drugged the guards with a sleeping draft.”
Lucas inclined his head. “That wee lass … she freed ye without any help?”
“There was a man who helped her escape. He was big and blond with a scarred face … one of her father’s warriors, I’d wager.”
Lucas scratched his short beard as he considered this. “Still … it’s a wonder ye managed to get through the gates unseen … even at night. Dunvegan’s said to be impenetrable.”
“Well, we did.” Lachlann took another draft of ale, his attention shifting to the huge bowl of venison stew that now sat before him. He reached forward, ripped a chunk off a loaf of bread, and dipped it into the rich stew. He started to eat, aware that his brother’s gaze still bored into him.
Lucas didn’t believe him, but he had no way of proving him a liar.
Taking another mouthful of stew, Lachlann wondered why he’d withheld the truth of how they’d escaped. Back in Dunvegan dungeon, he’d sworn to Adaira that he’d tell no one about the secret passage—and yet since he hadn’t upheld his promise to get her to Argyle, this one shouldn’t matter either.
But his knowledge of the hidden passage into the keep was power, and as such was worth keeping to himself.
Adaira managed to hold the tears in until she was alone.
After that there was no stemming them.
As soon as Lachlann left her, and she heard the grate of a heavy key in the lock, her vision blurred. His footsteps receded down the stairwell before fading into silence.
Adaira sank to the flagstone floor and clapped a hand over her mouth as a sob rose.
She should be on the mainland now, and on her way to her mother’s kin. Lachlann’s betrayal was a raw, bleeding wound. Did a promise mean so little to him? Anger rose hot and churning within her.
Selfish, lying dog.
But just beneath the anger lay a burning mortification. She’d liked Lachlann Fraser—been drawn in by his good-looks, easy manner, and self-confidence. When he’d kissed her, she’d melted in his arms. Despite the awkwardness afterward, that kiss had succeeded in intensifying her growing feelings for him. During the last step of the journey to Talasgair, she’d found her gaze returning to him, an ache of need growing within her.
And all the while he’d been betraying her.
Adaira covered her face with her hands and let out a muffled cry. This was what Rhona had warned her about—predatory men who cared nothing for the wellbeing of foolish lasses. She remembered the worry in her elder sister’s eyes as she’d told Adaira to be more careful around men, but Adaira had brushed away her concerns. Even the arranged marriage to Aonghus Budge hadn’t made her cautious. From the first moment she’d locked eyes with Lachlann in Dunvegan dungeon, she’d been slowly falling under his spell.
How she must have amused him.
Her father had said never to trust a Fraser, but she’d always believed that was just his bitterness speaking. She now realized MacLeod had spoken true.
Tears burned down Adaira’s cheeks, and she pulled herself up off the floor and crawled over to the narrow sleeping pallet. There, she curled up into a ball and wept until her throat was sore, until her eyes burned and her ribcage ached.
At some point servants arrived, two young men. One bore a tray of food, while the other stood in the doorway, eyeing her warily as if he expected her to attack him like a rabid dog.
Lachlann had probably warned them of her terrible temper.
Adaira watched them from the sleeping pallet. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just eyed the young man as he placed the tray upon the table, cast her a cool look, turned, and left the room.
Alone once more, Adaira didn’t rise from her bed.
The thought of eating made her gorge rise despite that she hadn’t eaten properly in days. She was too upset to touch a crumb of it.
What will become of me?
Morgan Fraser terrified her. She’d looked into the chieftain’s eyes earlier and felt dread claw its way up her throat.
That man was out for vengeance. She was going nowhere.
Such was his hate for her father he was capable of anything. Would he have her tortured? Would he behead her himself in front of a crowd of his baying kin?
The thoughts made her bowels cramp with terror. She’d been deathly afraid of wedding Aonghus Budge, but she realized now that she hadn’t been truly scared, not like now. The thought of what terrible fate might await her made the walls of the chamber close in on her. She shivered as if caught in a fever.
Her father would still be hunting for her. Would he think to look for her at Talasgair? She doubted he would. Suddenly, she missed her father with a force that made her chest ache. He’d be furious with her for running away, yet he’d never let Fraser hold her prisoner. He’d break down the walls of this broch with his bare hands to get her out.
Only, Malcolm MacLeod didn’t know she was here—and likely never would.