Page 21 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

Arran threw Craig a relieved grin as Bairre turned to his war leader. “Well,” he huffed. “Ye could have made it clearer to me when ye made yer report.”

Craig looked up stroking his beard as if he was considering Bairre’s words carefully. He shrugged. “I regret I didnae make it clear enough when I reported tae ye, me laird. I thought I did.” He gave a slight bow to Bairre, dipping his head. “Me apologies tae both ye and tae Arran.”

Bairre looked somewhat mollified at Craig’s words. “So ye rode ahead. But somewhere along the way ye realized they were nae longer on the road behind ye?”

“Aye. We stopped to water our horses. When Arran and the lady didnae appear after some time, one of me men rode back tae seek fer them. When he found nae sign of them, he concluded that they had taken rest at one of the taverns along the way.”

Bairre’s face turned bright red on hearing this. He looked ready to explode with fury.

“Is this true? Did ye aim tae cuckold me with the lass the king has commanded should be me wife?”

Arran straightened his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath before he spoke again. “I had nay such intention, Bairre.” It was only because of his concern for the safety of his mother and for Dahlia that he was able to keep his voice steady, biting down the murderous rage welling inside him at the hateful man’s insults. “When we stopped tae rest our horses, I went tae the aid of a peasant who had met with an accident. In doing so, I was injured. As a consequence, I was unable tae ride for the next several hours.”

Bairre huffed disbelievingly. “And if I question the lady, will she tell me the same tale?”

“I am certain she will. And if ye wish for evidence, I’ve a stitched-up gash and a smattering of bruises on me back that will attest tae me truth-telling.”

With Bairre’s wicked black eyes boring into him, Arran schooled his features to appear unconcerned, thankful that, for all his probing, the laird could not penetrate his heart. If Bairre had an inkling of the night he’d spent, injured or not, with Dahlia’s warm body pressed beside him, or if he knew how close they’d come to kissing beside the waterfall, both their lives and that of Emilia, would be in the gravest danger. For all their sakes hemade a silent vow to banish his longing and lust for Dahlia from his thoughts.

Bairre grunted. It was clear he was not satisfied with Arran’s answers, yet he had no option but to accept them as the truth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Why, melady, ye look very fine!”

Beaming, Beattie held the looking-glass for Dahlia to see herself before she ventured into the great hall to meet with Bairre and appear before his clansmen as his betrothed.

She was dressed in dark blue silk, her favorite gown. It hugged her slender waistline and the floor-length skirt embroidered in gold, moved sinuously with every step she took. With its long sleeves trimmed with white fur it was a gown for a grand occasion. When the dressmaker at Castle MacLeod had presented it to her a year past, she’d never dreamed that the first occasion on which she would don the beautiful garment would be her betrothal to a man she detested.

“Ye’ve done a marvelous job, Beattie. I dae, indeed, look fine this evening.”

Beattie had spent a great deal of time and patience taming Dahlia’s wild, silvery-fair mane of hair. First, she had washed and rinsed it in rose-petal scented water, brushing it dry in front of the fire so that it fell in glossy waves to her waist. She’d braided it and wound it about her head in a manner that accentuated Dahlia’s heart-shaped face with its high cheekbones. The blue ribbons Beattie had woven through the braids matched the cornflower-blue of her new mistress’s eyes.

It was too bad,Dahlia mused. At another time and in any other place she would have admired her appearance and reveled in the attention that would come her way. But tonight, she would draw the attention of Bairre Mackinnon, the very man whose admiration she fervently wished to avoid.

She fastened on the precious sapphire ear-bobs that had once belonged to her mother, inhaling a deep breath to calm herself and steady her shaking hands.

“I’m ready,” she signaled to Beattie, who scurried over to the oaken door and hauled it open. Outside, one of Mackinnon’s men in his tartan and great kilt was waiting.

“On the orders of me laird, I am tae escort ye tae the great hall where the guests await ye.” She took his proffered his arm and he walked her along the passageway and down the stairs to stand at the entrance to the hall. She hated every second of it. There, he took his leave and moved away, and she was alone.

As she waited, all eyes were on her. The hall, which had been filled a moment ago with the hubbub of voices, yells and calls,hurrying servants bearing jugs of ale, mead and wine, dogs and children scampering to and fro across the rush-covered stone floor, grew silent.

At the far end of the hall Bairre caught sight of her and rose from the high table, holding aloft a golden goblet.

“Melady is here to join us at last. On yer feet lads and lassies and raise yer drinking vessels. Let us make a toast tae the happy arrival of me beautiful bride-tae-be.Slàinte mhath.”

All eyes were on her as the assembled guests rose and raised their glasses and tankards to drink her health. Dahlia could feel her cheeks flushing with heat as, by herself, she walked slowly forward. Seated at the center of the long refectory table, Bairre was flanked by Craig Donald on his right-hand and Arran Mackinnon on his left.

Her heart bounced at the sight of Arran, splendid in his great kilt, the tartan across his shoulder, his freshly laundered shirt laced to his neck. His long, fair hair was combed and smoothed over his collar to touch his shoulders. His head high, he was truly leonine and magnificent as he met her gaze.

Bairre left the table and walked to meet her. He grasped her arm and tucked it into his as the guests resumed their seats and the babble of voices recommenced. Craig Donald stood and offered her a courtly bow, then moved aside to allow her to be seated at Bairre’s right, a position befitting her status as the Laird’s betrothed.

It was impossible for her not to seek out Arran. She swiveled slightly and met his gaze, snatching in a deep breath. All at once she was aware that having him close meant a great deal.

Serving maids appeared with lavish platters piled high with roasted venison, wild boar and wild duck, salmon, eels and crayfish. Although she’d had nothing to eat since the bowl of porridge at Abigail’s cottage, breaking her fast, the delectable feast held no appeal. Aware that Bairre was watching, she made a show of forking in a mouthful or two. But she found the meat tasteless and difficult to swallow. It was a battle to suppress the impulse to retch as the food hit her stomach.

“Ye’re nae eating, Lady Dahlia?” Bairre enquired, his eyes searching hers.

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