Page 56 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“I didnae think. ‘Twas foolish, I admit. But it is a true blessing that ye are the friend of me sister.”
Lyra clapped her hands, all thoughts of MacDougall pushed momentarily from her head with the excitement of this wondrous discovery.
She was breathless with the delight and amazement of it as she lifted her head, gazing into his storm-cloud eyes. “I helped her escape, ye ken. I had nay idea of what would befall her after she left the Priory.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Davina sent me a letter reassuring me she had succeeded in escaping, but all she wrote was that she was waiting fer me and once I was free, she would tell me everything. She was happy at last.”
Tòrr’s heart swelled at the sight of Lyra’s happiness. Yet, there was still great danger, and because of that night’s incursion, the following day’s meeting with the Council promised to be even more difficult than he had already anticipated.
He folded her into his arms and layered soft kisses in her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of lavender, remembering their kisses in the solar and wishing he could return to such a carefree moment again.
“When all this is done with, we’ll send a letter to Davina and her husband, the Laird Everard, and they will visit wi’ us here at Dùn Ara.”
Lyra gave a delighted laugh, holding his arms tight around her. “I look forward tae that.”
He leaned in and gently brushed her lips.
“I only wish I could stay in yer company, but I must prepare fer tomorrow’s meeting and be ready to face the Council’s questions and arguments. Let me walk ye tae yer chamber.”
She nodded and then dipped her head issuing with what he hoped was a reluctant sigh. “I wish ye good night, and I thank ye fer yer protection.”
After she had entered and locked her door, Tòrr returned to his study, sending up a prayer of thanks to the heavens that Lyra was unscathed, the letter the gallowglass had given him burning a hole in his sporran.
He took out the folded parchment and placed it on the table in front of him, gazing with loathing at the MacDougall crest embedded in the red sealing wax.
He had no trouble guessing what the letter would demand.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Two days earlier
Duart Castle, The Isle of Mull
Sipping his fine Bordeaux wine, Laird Alexander MacDougall gazed from the narrow window in his bedchamber. Mist swirled heavily over the waters of the Sound of Mull, dark clouds hovering overhead. For some, this may have been a portent of foreboding, but the great laird paid no heed to the weather, his thoughts elsewhere. Calculating. Ruthless. Bold.
So, me men have located the little minx who was hidden fer so many years.
He gave a soft, satisfied, laugh. She may have thought she'd evaded him, but the rough men he’d employed had successfully tracked her. First to the Priory on Iona, where the Prioress, Mother Una, had kept her presence secret for years.
The Abbot at the Iona monastery had been informed of Una’s perfidy and he would make certain that punishment would ensue.
Even though she had been located at last, Alexander burned with frustration that, thanks to the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, the Lady MacInnes had managed to evade his men and help her escape. That upstart laird would pay dearly for his defiance in transporting the lass to that cursed place, Castle Dùn Ara. So close. Hardly more than a day’s ride from Duart.
He experienced a flash of annoyance at having let her escape his clutches. But now, nothing would stand in his way. She would be his.
All he had to do was arrange for her delivery.
His mind roamed over images that made his breath hitch in his throat. The Lady Lyra MacInnes kneeling at his feet in this very chamber. Submissive. Abject. Available to his every pleasure.
On the other hand, mayhap she’d be feisty. A struggling lass always provided more value and enjoyment than the passive ones.
He gave a satisfied grunt. The MacKinnon would pose no opposition. A new laird, untried and without strong allegiances, would never dare defy the power of the MacDougall Clan.
Quaffing the last of his wine, he strode to his carved oaken desk, opened the drawer and took out parchment, ink and quill. He would make his demand and if, perchance, the young pup, Laird Tòrr, should disobey, he would discover that to defy the MacDougall came at a very high price.
His message was an ultimatum to the MacKinnon.
Give the lass tae me men, dinnae resist, and all will be well. Resist and feel me wrath.
