Page 26 of The Outlaw's Bride
She’d gone half a dozen paces when Lachlann caught her.
He grabbed hold of her arm and swung her round. Then, ducking his head to avoid her flailing fists, he picked her up and swung her over his shoulder. “No more chances,” he grunted. “If this is how ye wish to arrive at Talasgair, then so be it.”
Adaira didn’t stop struggling, didn’t stop fighting him, the whole way up the hill. Desperation and fear turned her savage. She was aware that they walked past cottages, where cottars and their families worked fields of kale, turnips, and onions. Folk stopped to gawk at them, but Adaira didn’t care. Their murmurs and choked back laughter just served to enrage her further.
It was a long walk, made longer still by her humiliation and mounting panic, and the climb was steep. Lachlann was breathing heavily, and she felt the heat of his body through the thin léine he wore.
On the way up, they passed a number of sheilings, low-slung huts made of stacked stone with turf roofs, where more folk stood and stared at them.
Eventually, even Adaira couldn’t withstand exhaustion, and she slumped against his shoulder. Her hands ceased beating his back and hung there, although they were still balled into tight fists. He clasped her legs, an arm clamped over them like an iron band, lest she try and knee him.
He carried her through an archway of a high, yet crumbling, double wall, and into a wide, grassy yard.
There, Lachlann set Adaira down.
Panting, Adaira glanced around. Her body trembled, yet she couldn’t fail to note how different Talasgair was to Dunvegan. Her father’s keep was a huge, solid fortress with deep curtain walls. Yet this place was a blend of ancient and new. The great roundtower that rose before them had been built onto at both sides. Another newer watch tower rose on its southern side. Its battlements etched against the sky, where the Fraser pennant fluttered in the wind.
Men, horses, and servants filled the bailey, all going about the last of their morning chores before the nooning meal was upon them.
“Lachlann!”
A man’s voice echoed across the yard. Lachlann took hold of Adaira’s arm, his grip firm, and they turned to see a huge warrior with wild red hair and a short beard stride toward them.
One look at the man and Adaira knew he was kin to Lachlann, although he was heavier in stature.
“I thought MacLeod would have ye strung up by yer balls by now,” the man boomed, before he crushed Lachlann in a bear-hug.
Lachlann was forced to release Adaira then as he staggered back. Adaira watched them. The anger had seeped out of her now, replaced by a dread that made her legs tremble under her.
“It’s good to see ye too, Lucas.” Lachlann drawled, pulling back. “Worried about me were ye?”
The warrior snorted, although his eyes—the same moss-green as Lachlann’s—were wary. “I thought ye were dead.”
“No, just left to rot in Dunvegan dungeon. Were any of ye planning to come after me?”
Lucas frowned. “Aye … we were discussing it this morning.”
The man didn’t even bother to disguise the insincerity in his voice.
Lachlann’s gaze narrowed. “Aye … were ye?”
Lucas pursed his lips, as if he found the topic distasteful. Then he glanced over at Adaira. “And who’s this?”
Adaira tensed under the man’s scrutiny, her body going rigid when Lachlann caught hold of her arm once more and pulled her close. “This is Lady Adaira MacLeod.”
The man’s brow furrowed. “Ye brought a MacLeod here?”
Lachlann huffed. “She’s the reason I’m free.” He met Adaira’s eye then, for the first time since he’d thrown her over his shoulder on the beach. There was a warning in his gaze, as if he dared her to start raging at him again. “Lady Adaira, meet my younger brother … Lucas.”
Chapter Eleven
What a Mess I’ve Made
“SO YE DRAW breath still.”
“Frasers are hard to kill, Da. I see that MacLeod didn’t finish ye off either.”
Morgan Fraser, propped up by a mountain of pillows in his sickbed, frowned. “Disappointed?”
