Page 14 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“And I’ve learned the ways of the ascetic. So ye should pay nay mind tae me bedding down on the floor.”
It seemed there was no persuading her, so without any further argument he removed his boots. He unbelted his kilt and undid the long length of it. Then clad in his long-shirt he pulled back the coverlet on the small bed and made himself as comfortable as his large frame could manage in such a confined space.
Lyra watched him with far more interest than he considered seemly.
“So, as well as yer life of self-discipline and self-denial, I daresay ye ken little of the ways of men.”
She shrugged, her cheeks turning a most alluring, delicate shade of pink. “Of course nae. The only men I was used to were some old monks from the monastery or the wiry workmen who made repairs when the task was too hard fer the nuns.”
Regarding him thoughtfully for a moment, she added, “None of them were brutes like ye, wi’ yer big shoulders and yer broad chest. And that great head of soot-dark hair.”
Detecting a hint of admiration in her voice, he couldn’t help but grin. “And which kind of men d’ye prefer then, lass? Big brutes such as meself, or the wee priests and the skinny shanks?”
The pink deepened as she thought this through. “I havenae made me mind up yet.” She gave him a mischief-filled look. “I’ll need tae see more of ye before I decide.”
She looked up at him through long lashes, her green eyes glinting in the half-darkness, toying with her long hair and languidly running her fingers over a lock that lay across her shoulder. He groaned inwardly. She was maddeningly enticing, a wee coquette without the faintest idea of the effect she had on his poor addled senses. Or, indeed, the vexing way his shaft stirred when he looked too long into her eyes.
He waited until the sound of her slow, even, breathing signaled she was asleep. With a sigh that could have been disappointment, he rolled over and closed his eyes.
CHAPTERSIX
Next morning ominous, dark-grey clouds threatened rain as Lyra and Tòrr departed the inn, leaving Craignure behind.
Lyra, refreshed following a night of sound sleep, found she was quite looking forward to sharing Tòrr’s saddle for another day’s ride. She was nimbler than the first time she’d mounted Paden, and settled in comfortably on the saddle. The horse, after a load of fresh hay, his coat glossy from the ostler’s brushing, had a new spring in his step.
Tòrr turned his gaze to the forbidding clouds. “If the rain holds off, we should be in Dùn Ara this night.”
Lyra gave a wan smile in response. The thought of arriving at the laird’s castle held no exciting anticipation. Once there, she would have to face her future and make plans for her return to her clan. No matter how perilous that might prove to be.
For all her better judgment, she’d been actually enjoying their travels. After so many years in the nunnery, the sense of freedom she felt as they rode through the countryside and the forests was exhilarating. Everything was new and wondrous and, at times, she could forget herself and pretend she was naught but a simple peasant enjoying the ride, with no hint of danger or pursuit.
And, to her endless amazement, she was finding Tòrr’s company pleasing, despite his gruffness.
“I hope ye’ll find Dùn Ara tae yer liking, Lyra.” He said the words softly, next to her ear, and a tiny tremor rippled through her. “’Tis nay such a grand castle as Duart, but ‘tis a right bonny place. Ye can walk on the cliffs, with the salt breeze in yer hair. ‘Tis a place fer dreaming.”
She smiled at that. In her years at Iona she’d come to love being close to the water. Mayhap Dùn Ara castle would not turn out to be the forbidding prison she’d been dreading.
“’Tis a wee scrap on the edge of the ocean, yet as well-protected a fortress as ye’d find anywhere,” Tòrr proclaimed, his voice filled with pride. It was clear he loved his wild, windswept castle.
They had not travelled far before the weather turned against them. Dark clouds roiled above them, thunder and lightning disturbing the air.
Tòrr cast around for somewhere to shelter but within a short space of time the heavens opened with a downpour that caught them in the open.
“Hurry lass. Take off yer cloak and roll it up. Try tae keep it dry. Ye’ll need it later.”
They were soon drenched and shivering but, with no choice, they plodded on, the wind driving the rain into an almost impenetrable curtain.
“There,” Lyra waved a hand at a tumble-down ruin perched on an outcrop overlooking the sea.
Tòrr turned Paden around and within moments they were, at last, within shelter.
While the walls were still standing, the roof of the old thatched cottage had fallen inwards, save for one brave beam which held up a section of the thatch. He walked Paden in with them and all three huddled against the wall, out of the confounded rain.
Then, before Lyra’s astonished eyes, seemingly without a second’s thought, and quite unselfconscious of her presence, Tòrr removed his claymore from its leather sheath, unlaced his dripping shirt, pulled it over his head, and undid the belt holding his kilt, allowing the kilt and his shirt to fall to the broken stone floor at his feet.
Before she turned her gaze away, he bent to pick up the length of plaid and, in all his glorious nakedness – save for his boots – flung his discarded clothing over the beam. His cloak which he’d folded and kept dry, he shrugged over his shoulders.
Heat flushed her cheeks.
