Page 30 of The Outlaw's Bride
But his knowledge of the hidden passage into the keep was power, and as such was worth keeping to himself.
Adaira managed to hold the tears in until she was alone.
After that there was no stemming them.
As soon as Lachlann left her, and she heard the grate of a heavy key in the lock, her vision blurred. His footsteps receded down the stairwell before fading into silence.
Adaira sank to the flagstone floor and clapped a hand over her mouth as a sob rose.
She should be on the mainland now, and on her way to her mother’s kin. Lachlann’s betrayal was a raw, bleeding wound. Did a promise mean so little to him? Anger rose hot and churning within her.
Selfish, lying dog.
But just beneath the anger lay a burning mortification. She’d liked Lachlann Fraser—been drawn in by his good-looks, easy manner, and self-confidence. When he’d kissed her, she’d melted in his arms. Despite the awkwardness afterward, that kiss had succeeded in intensifying her growing feelings for him. During the last step of the journey to Talasgair, she’d found her gaze returning to him, an ache of need growing within her.
And all the while he’d been betraying her.
Adaira covered her face with her hands and let out a muffled cry. This was what Rhona had warned her about—predatory men who cared nothing for the wellbeing of foolish lasses. She remembered the worry in her elder sister’s eyes as she’d told Adaira to be more careful around men, but Adaira had brushed away her concerns. Even the arranged marriage to Aonghus Budge hadn’t made her cautious. From the first moment she’d locked eyes with Lachlann in Dunvegan dungeon, she’d been slowly falling under his spell.
How she must have amused him.
Her father had said never to trust a Fraser, but she’d always believed that was just his bitterness speaking. She now realized MacLeod had spoken true.
Tears burned down Adaira’s cheeks, and she pulled herself up off the floor and crawled over to the narrow sleeping pallet. There, she curled up into a ball and wept until her throat was sore, until her eyes burned and her ribcage ached.
At some point servants arrived, two young men. One bore a tray of food, while the other stood in the doorway, eyeing her warily as if he expected her to attack him like a rabid dog.
Lachlann had probably warned them of her terrible temper.
Adaira watched them from the sleeping pallet. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just eyed the young man as he placed the tray upon the table, cast her a cool look, turned, and left the room.
Alone once more, Adaira didn’t rise from her bed.
The thought of eating made her gorge rise despite that she hadn’t eaten properly in days. She was too upset to touch a crumb of it.
What will become of me?
Morgan Fraser terrified her. She’d looked into the chieftain’s eyes earlier and felt dread claw its way up her throat.
That man was out for vengeance. She was going nowhere.
Such was his hate for her father he was capable of anything. Would he have her tortured? Would he behead her himself in front of a crowd of his baying kin?
The thoughts made her bowels cramp with terror. She’d been deathly afraid of wedding Aonghus Budge, but she realized now that she hadn’t been truly scared, not like now. The thought of what terrible fate might await her made the walls of the chamber close in on her. She shivered as if caught in a fever.
Her father would still be hunting for her. Would he think to look for her at Talasgair? She doubted he would. Suddenly, she missed her father with a force that made her chest ache. He’d be furious with her for running away, yet he’d never let Fraser hold her prisoner. He’d break down the walls of this broch with his bare hands to get her out.
Only, Malcolm MacLeod didn’t know she was here—and likely never would.
Lachlann sank into the hot water and released a long sigh.
Finally, he almost felt back to his old self.
He sat in the deep iron tub in his bed-chamber, a medium-sized room with a narrow window looking east over the hills behind Talasgair. Outside, daylight was fading, and the sky was ablaze with red and gold.
It felt good to be back here. It was a drafty, damp space, and cold in winter despite the hearth that burned against one wall—yet this afternoon it felt as spacious and warm as his father’s solar.
The servant had added a drop of lavender oil to the water, and the scent wafted through the damp air. Lachlann closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell reminded him of summer, of the courtyard garden on the southern edge of the keep.
