Page 43 of The Outlaw's Bride
“QUIET,” CAME A harsh male whisper. “Noise travels in this place.”
Adaira froze. She recognized Lachlann Fraser’s voice instantly.
Fresh panic seized her.
What does he want with me?
Wordlessly, he entered the chamber, crossed to the window, and threw it open. Moonlight filtered in, illuminating his tall form. Adaira’s gaze swept over him. He wore a heavy cloak and boots, and carried a bundle under his arm.
Lachlann hunkered down, so that their gazes were level. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Do ye still want my help?”
Adaira stared at him before silently nodding.
“Good. We’re leaving Talasgair … now.”
Adaira stifled a gasp. “Ye will take me to Argyle?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Aye … if that’s where ye wish to go.”
Adaira’s breathing hitched. She didn’t want to hope; this could be some cruel trick. Lachlann could be toying with her.
But before she could question him further, he pushed the bundle he carried into her arms. “Get dressed and put on this cloak and boots,” he ordered softly. “We need to go.”
He rose to his feet and stepped back, giving her space.
After a moment's hesitation, Adaira pushed aside the blanket and got to her feet. She still wore the fine cream léine of that evening. She pulled on the blue kirtle she’d worn for the feast over the top, her fingers fumbling with the laces. Then she reached down and hauled on the fur-lined boots. Finally, she slung the heavy woolen cloak about her shoulders, fastening it about the throat.
All the while, Lachlann watched and waited. She’d never seen his face so serious. “Ready?”
Adaira nodded once more.
“Follow close behind me … and don't speak. My father’s a light sleeper.”
They left the tower chamber, padding softly down the worn stone stairs.
Adaira held her breath as they inched their way across the wide landing, past the door to the chieftain’s bed-chamber. Adaira imagined Morgan Fraser slept with one eye open. He didn't seem the kind of man to let his guard down—ever.
It was a long, tense trip to the bottom. At the foot of the stairwell, a single torch burned upon a bracket against the wall. It threw a soft light across a guard, who sat, slumped on the floor.
Adaira drew up sharply, her gaze searching the man’s face. For a moment she thought he was dead, but then she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Loosing a breath, she cut a glance to Lachlann. Their gazes met and held for a heartbeat.
With a jolt she realized he really was helping her escape.
Adaira’s mind whirled. This didn’t make sense. After everything that had happened, she couldn’t understand why Lachlann Fraser would help her. What had changed?
There was no time to ask him about it now though; her questions would have to wait.
Lachlann led the way out of the tower, toward the oldest part of fortress: the ancient stone round tower. Adaira wondered how he planned for them to escape this place. There would be guards everywhere.
But there didn’t seem to be, or at least not in the passageways Lachlann was taking. They entered the round tower, where the Great Hall sat in the midst of the old broch, but Lachlann didn't take her into the hall itself. Instead, they skirted a passageway around it.
Halfway along the passage, the scuff of boots against stone alerted them to someone’s presence.
Lachlann ducked into the shadows, pulling Adaira with him. Crushed against the long hard length of his body, her heart thundering so loudly she was sure the whole fortress could hear it, Adaira listened to the approaching footsteps.
It was a heavy, unsteady tread. A shadow passed by, a drunken man on his way to the privy.
