Page 29 of The Outlaw's Bride
LACHLANN STRODE INTO the Great Hall to a thunderous applause.
His confrontation with Adaira had left a sour taste in his mouth, but the strain of the past few hours dissolved when his father’s men slapped him heartily on the back and their wives and children beamed at him.
“It’s good to see ye back, lad.” Morgan Fraser’s right-hand, a grizzled warrior named Thormod, boomed, pushing a tankard of ale into his hands. “Yer brother was getting too comfortable in yer seat!”
“Aye, I’ll wager he’s been polishing it with his arse morning, noon, and night,” Lachlann replied, his gaze swiveling to the long table upon the dais at the far end of the hall. He was pleased to see that Lucas didn’t sit in his elder brother’s place, to the right of the chieftain’s carven chair, but in his usual seat.
He noted too, that Lucas wore a sour look on his face.
Lachlann grinned at him, raising his tankard. He then turned his attention to the crowd of excited retainers that jostled around him. “Open a fresh barrel of ale,” he shouted, his voice carrying across the hall. “My return calls for a celebration.”
“Aye, and ye brought yer father back a worthy prize too!” Thormod’s wife, a rawboned woman named Forbia, cried out. “A MacLeod daughter!”
A roar went up, although this time Lachlann didn’t join in the laughter.
The less said about that the better.
Making his way to the chieftain’s table, he stepped up onto the dais.
“Generous of ye, brother,” Lucas grumbled as Lachlann approached. “To make free with Da’s ale.”
“He won’t mind,” Lachlann replied with a grin, enjoying his brother’s irritation. “Make sure ye have a tankard for him.”
Then, instead of taking his place next to Lucas, Lachlann deliberately lowered himself into the chieftain’s carven chair.
Lucas let out a hiss of outrage, while around them, heads swiveled to stare. “What are ye doing?”
Lachlann stretched back in the chair, placing his arms on the ornate armrests. “Just trying it out … not as comfortable as I imagined though.”
“Ye had better move,” Tearlach, the youngest of the four brothers warned him. Unlike Lucas he wasn’t glaring at Lachlann though. Instead, he was grinning and had a wicked gleam in his eye. “Da will have ye flogged for sitting in his chair.”
Lachlann cast Tearlach a rueful look. “No, he won’t. He’s too pleased to have his first-born safely home.”
This drew snorts from his brothers. All of them knew the truth of it: Morgan Fraser wasn’t a sentimental man. He had four sons and if one died there was always another to take his place. Besides, Lachlann and his father had always butted heads.
Lachlann leaned back in the chair and took a deep draft of ale, sighing at the sweet, sharp taste: the taste of home.
On the floor beneath him, the folk of Talasgair were now taking their seats at the long tables while servants circled with pots of steaming stew. A group of them approached the dais.
Lachlann’s belly grumbled in anticipation, reminding him that he’d last eaten at dawn.
“How did ye get out of Dunvegan Castle?” Lucas spoke up, drawing his attention. “It’s been puzzling me.”
Lachlann studied his brother’s face for a moment. Lucas wore an inscrutable expression, although his eyes were hard, suspicious.
“We crept out in the middle of the night,” he replied. “Lady Adaira drugged the guards with a sleeping draft.”
Lucas inclined his head. “That wee lass … she freed ye without any help?”
“There was a man who helped her escape. He was big and blond with a scarred face … one of her father’s warriors, I’d wager.”
Lucas scratched his short beard as he considered this. “Still … it’s a wonder ye managed to get through the gates unseen … even at night. Dunvegan’s said to be impenetrable.”
“Well, we did.” Lachlann took another draft of ale, his attention shifting to the huge bowl of venison stew that now sat before him. He reached forward, ripped a chunk off a loaf of bread, and dipped it into the rich stew. He started to eat, aware that his brother’s gaze still bored into him.
Lucas didn’t believe him, but he had no way of proving him a liar.
Taking another mouthful of stew, Lachlann wondered why he’d withheld the truth of how they’d escaped. Back in Dunvegan dungeon, he’d sworn to Adaira that he’d tell no one about the secret passage—and yet since he hadn’t upheld his promise to get her to Argyle, this one shouldn’t matter either.
