Page 68 of Bride of the Mad Laird
By the time they had reached the summit and the men were slowly making their way down to their horses, Tòrr stood with Edmund, scanning the surrounding country.
The fortress of Dùn Ara was surprisingly close, hardly more than a few miles distant, yet the track that would take them there was slow and tortuous.
The view of the road approaching the castle and the surrounding sea was, as Tòrr had surmised, clear to anyone standing where he was. From here the gallowglasses had held a vantage point that enabled them to see every coming and going at Dùn Ara, whether by sea or from land.
No doubt, they would have observed the arrival of the members of the Clan Council, and their departure.
Mayhap a messenger had already been dispatched to carry that information to MacDougall. If so, Laird Alexander would have guessed that the Council had been summoned to consider his demand for the Lady Lyra to be turned over to him and he would be waiting to hear what had transpired.
Tòrr smiled grimly at the thought. Let the craven coward wait in the safety of his castle, while his hired men gave their lives for him. There’d be no word coming to him about the Council meeting, no messenger riding back to inform him that Lady Lyra was his for the taking.
Mayhap there would, instead, be a message for Laird Alexander that the lass he coveted was already wed to another.
His pulse quickened. Would Lyra have made her decision by now?
They took their time making their way back to the castle. The men were tired, lacking a night’s sleep on top of the battle they had fought, yet Tòrr was reluctant to rest. There’d be time enough for them all to sleep once they were under the castle’s roof once again.
The track widened briefly and Edmund rode alongside, his horse daintily finding her footfall in the rutted track.
“How long d’ye imagine it will take MacDougall tae regroup and make another assault?”
Tòrr had been thinking on this. “If naught else, we’ve succeeded in buying time. If he recruits more gallowglasses, they’ll most likely come from across the sea in Erin’s Isle again.”
Edmund nodded. “So that will take him time. Will he nae use men from his own clan?”
“I dinnae ken the evil workings of his mind, but I’d hazard a guess that his pride will make him reluctant to display his intended bride’s reluctance to his clan. Secretly sending men tae capture her is what I believe he would prefer.”
Edmund snorted. “Aye. I believe ye’re correct. His vanity would nae allow it tae be kent. After all he has a reputation as a great seducer. It would hurt him sorely tae allow the world tae ken he is forced to kidnap a bride who is nae only unwilling but hates the very thought of him.”
The track narrowed and Edmund drew in behind Tòrr with no further opportunity for discussion.
As they neared Dùn Ara, Tòrr’s thoughts strayed more frequently to Lyra. His heart leaped at the thought of seeing her bonny face again, even as he dreaded what she may have to tell him.
He was aware that that night’s battle had been waged on her behalf. That men had died for her safety. And, if MacDougall persisted in his pursuit of her, it was likely more men would meet the same deathly fate.
Would MacDougall back away, now that he’d lost his men?
A fist in his chest closed over his heart at the thought. What he knew of Laird Alexander told him there would never be a way in which he would relinquish his quest to take Lyra. He was a powerful man, holding sway over the west and, as far as Tòrr was aware, no one had stood up to face him the way he was doing.
He feared for all his men and for all who served him at the castle and in the fields. Yet, his decision held firm. Lyra was his, and no one, MacDougall included, would take her against her will.
He nodded to Edmund as they approached the gate. “There are wounded men among us, I shall call upon Healer Eilidh tae attend tae them, if ye take on the matter of seeing tae the arms we’ve cadged from our enemy.
As they clattered across the courtyard a cheer went up from their men, greatly relieved to be treading their own home ground once again. They were joined by their brothers who had arrived earlier with the gallowglasses’ ponies, the remaining guards and the stable hands who rushed forward to tend to the horses.
Claray emerged from the keep with a welcoming smile, ready with ewers of refreshing ale for the men.
Within moments Eilidh exited her cottage, where the young Angus, the most badly wounded lad, had been brought immediately upon arrival, to checking the other wounded.
To his amazement and delight, he saw that Lyra had accompanied Eilidh and, under the healer’s instruction, was already cleaning wounds, with clean linen cloths.
He made his way through the throng and greeted her with a bow.
“Thank ye fer yer kind attention tae me men’s wounds.”
She looked up and offered him a brief smile before turning to attend to one of the men who sported an ugly graze down the side of his face. A near miss, not deep.
Once the man’s wound had been cleaned, she covered it with salve from a small jar she carried in the pocket of her apron.
