Page 32 of The Outlaw's Bride
One glance at that wound told Lachlann that his father was indeed lucky to still be alive. Though healing, the gash looked angry and sore.
“Had a good look at my war-wound, eh?” His father’s voice was sharp. “I can assure ye it looked far worse a few days ago.”
“Aye, it did,” Domhnall agreed with a grimace. “But it’s healing well now … ye shall make a full recovery, milord.”
“Good to hear,” Lachlann replied, his mouth quirking. He swore his father was indestructible. He’d be well into middle age himself before Morgan Fraser went to his cairn.
“Wrap the wound now, Domhnall,” Morgan grunted. He was frowning. Even a moment or two in his presence and Lachlann was already wearing upon him. “I want to speak to my son alone.”
“Aye, milord.” The healer gave a brisk nod before reaching for a clean linen bandage. “This shouldn’t take long.”
The healer worked deftly, wrapping the chieftain’s torso with practiced ease. While the healer finished tending to his patient, Lachlann took up a place next to the window. It was a grey, windy morning outdoors. Leaden clouds moved sluggishly across the sky, promising stormy weather to come. Despite the chill in the air, his father had insisted Domhnall left the window open.
A short while later the healer collected his basket of healing powders, tinctures, unguents, and bandages, and hurried from the chamber. After Domhnall had departed, Lachlann remained silent. He watched his father with a hooded gaze, arms folded across his chest. Two days had passed since he’d returned to Talasgair; he’d been awaiting another summons.
“Have ye seen the MacLeod lass since ye locked her up?” Morgan asked finally.
Lachlann shook his head. “No … why?”
His father’s mouth thinned. He didn’t appreciate Lachlann answering with another question. “The girl is refusing to eat.”
Lachlann nodded. This wasn’t news to him. He’d already heard the same. The cook had ranted that they should let the MacLeod scold starve rather than allow good food go to waste. Half the time, Adaira hurled the food back in the faces of the servants. She’d broken over half a dozen clay bowls and cups in the past two days. Nonetheless, the cook dutifully sent up trays at each mealtime as instructed.
“She’s unhappy,” Lachlann pointed out, “and angry.”
“With ye, no doubt.”
Lachlann shrugged. “With the world.”
“Do ye think MacLeod will come after his daughter?”
Lachlann shook his head. “Only if he knows she’s here. Once he exhausts his search on Skye … he’ll think we’ve crossed to the mainland.”
He was aware that his father was observing him keenly then, with a cunning glint in his eye that Lachlann knew well.
“It suits me that Adaira MacLeod doesn’t waste away to skin and bone,” Morgan said softly. “She must live.”
Lachlann’s gaze narrowed. He didn’t like his father’s tone. It made the fine hair on the back of his neck prickle. “Ye have decided what to do with her then?”
Morgan Fraser leaned back against the pillows, wincing as he did so. “Domhnall says I’ll be well enough to resume my old duties by Samhuinn. I plan to wed Adaira MacLeod on that date.”
For a heartbeat Lachlann merely stared at his father. Had he misheard? “Ye will wed her?”
The Fraser chief’s mouth curved into a rare smile. “Aye.”
Lachlann didn’t move from his position against the window sill. “Why?”
“MacLeod robbed me of a wife,” Morgan growled. “And I will rob him of a daughter.”
Lachlann drew in a slow, steadying breath. “Malcolm MacLeod will be rabid when he hears ye have wed Adaira,” he pointed out. “Do ye want to reignite feuding between ye?”
His father’s face tightened into a hard line. “The feud still lives,” he spat out the words. “And so does my enemy. This will hurt him in a way no blade could. He’ll bleed where no one can see.”
Vindictiveness dripped from Morgan’s voice. The hatred he bore MacLeod was no natural thing; it had soured into an illness of late.
Morgan Fraser spoke little of Lachlann’s mother—the woman who’d borne him four strapping sons—but all at Talasgair knew how he’d loved Una. He’d sworn never to remarry, not while she still lived. But he would break that promise now if it was for vengeance.
Silence fell in the chamber. Lachlann digested this news before realizing that it sat ill with him. His father wore a gloating expression. Adaira was nothing more than a weapon in his hands.
