Page 61 of The Outlaw's Bride
Oblivious to Caitrin and Alban’s discussion, Lachlann perched on a window seat. It was early afternoon, and although the chill wind had died outside, the sky was grey. Even so, Lachlann seemed content to sit there and gaze upon the view to the south, across the hills that stretched over MacDonald lands. His expression was pensive, his gaze veiled.
Adaira could see he was deep in thought so she didn’t disturb him. Instead, she allowed herself to study the man who’d soon become her husband.
Dressed in clean braies and a loose léine belted at the waist, his red hair brushed out over his shoulders, Lachlann entranced her. He’d shaved, and she admired now the clean, strong line of his jaw.
Her belly fluttered as she imagined trailing her lips along it.
This time tomorrow she’d be his wife.
Eoghan squirmed in her arms, his tiny chubby hands reaching up and tangling in her hair. Distracted, Adaira gently pried his fingers free before placing a kiss on the top of his head. His hair was downy and sweet-smelling.
Adaira closed her eyes a moment. Happiness flowed through her, its warmth suffusing her like a hot bath on a cold winter’s day. One day, she’d hold her and Lachlann’s bairn in her arms. One day, they’d have a family together. She could hardly believe this was real, that soon he’d be her husband.
A tremor of misgiving curled in the base of her belly. After the events of the past months, she wasn’t used to things working in her favor. She worried that this happiness would somehow be ripped from her grasp.
At the window, Lachlann shifted.
Adaira yanked her thoughts back to the present and saw that he was frowning. “What is it?”
He tore his gaze from the view, to where Duntulm’s chatelaine sat, her brow furrowed as she scratched out sums onto the ledger. “Lady Caitrin, ye have visitors.”
“Really?” Caitrin placed the quill in its pot and rose gracefully to her feet. “I’m not expecting anyone.” She moved toward the window, Alban and Adaira following her.
Adaira stopped by Lachlann’s shoulder, her gaze moving past him to the rumpled blanket of green hills beyond. Sure enough, a large company of riders approached. From this distance, they were tiny, appearing like a column of marching ants. As the four of them watched, Adaira made out the outlines of banners.
Her breathing faltered. What if Morgan Fraser had tracked them north after all?
Beside her, Caitrin drew in a sharp breath. “It’s Da.”
Cold washed over Adaira, while Lachlann tensed. He tore his gaze from the approaching riders and met Caitrin’s eye. “Are ye sure?”
Caitrin nodded, her jaw firming. “The standards bear the MacLeod plaid.”
Adaira stared out across the hills, her own gaze narrowing. A moment later she too recognized the gold, grey, and black of her family’s plaid.
The warmth of wellbeing that had cocooned her since the day before fell away, and a wave of panic rose. “We can’t stay here,” she choked. “We have to go … now.”
Caitrin shook her head. “It’s too late. They’ll see.” She reached out and took Eoghan from Adaira. The bairn squawked, sensing the shift in mood. “Ye are going to have to hide while he’s here.” Caitrin turned her attention briefly to Alban. “Warn Darron and the others not to breathe a word.”
“Aye, milady,” the steward replied, his heavy featured face creasing with consternation.
Caitrin nodded her thanks and moved away from the window. She then motioned to Adaira and Lachlann. “Follow me.”
Caitrin smoothed her damp palms upon the skirts of her black kirtle. She hoped her nervousness didn’t show on her face, that her father wouldn’t see through her brittle smile of welcome.
Malcolm MacLeod was the last person she wished to see right now.
Standing in the bailey, she watched her father’s banner-men ride in through the gate, their horses’ hooves thundering over the drawbridge. Suddenly, Duntulm’s bailey was filled with them. Alban stood at Caitrin’s right shoulder, while Darron flanked her left side. Their silent, stoic presence calmed her, reminded her that she was in charge here.
Her father would not intimidate her.
Clan-chief MacLeod was easy to spot: a broad, thick-legged figure with a wild mane of greying auburn hair and a beard to match. He rode a heavy-set destrier, a beast strong enough to carry his weight.
Caitrin’s gaze narrowed. It was nearly two moons since she’d seen her father last, and he’d grown even fatter than she remembered. Una rode into the keep behind him, dark and fey-looking, her blue-eyed gaze sharp.
Caitrin’s breath caught when she spotted two familiar faces behind them.
A big man with short blond hair and a scarred face rode through the archway, with a fire-haired beauty at his side: Taran and Rhona.
