Page 33 of The Outlaw's Bride
“Can I go now?” Lachlann asked finally. He’d had enough of his father’s scheming.
“Not yet,” Morgan replied. He’d been observing Lachlann with a hard, predatory gaze, watching his reaction to the news. “I have a task for ye, son.”
Lachlann pushed himself off the sill. “Aye, what is it?”
“I want ye to be the one to inform Lady Adaira of the happy news. Go up and tell her now.”
Lachlann climbed the stairwell to the tower room, his jaw clenched with anger.
Vicious bastard.
This was punishment, although for what Lachlann wasn’t sure. Sometimes when Lachlann looked into his father’s eyes, he thought he saw dislike there. Father and son often clashed. Lucas had once told Lachlann it was because they were too alike—but Lachlann hadn’t liked that.
I’m nothing like that bitter old curmudgeon.
Reaching the landing before the door, Lachlann halted. He wasn’t going to enjoy this, yet it was best to get it over with quickly.
He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
“Get out!”
A tray flew at his head. Lachlann ducked, and the missile clattered against the pitted stone wall.
He closed the door and backed up against it, ducking again as half a loaf of bread flew at him. He wasn’t fast enough this time, and the bread bounced off his temple. Lachlann reeled back. The bread was stale and had a hard crust.
Cursing, Lachlann rubbed his forehead, his gaze settling on the fury who faced him. “Was that necessary?” he growled.
“Aye,” she spat. “Leave! I have no wish to see or speak to ye.”
Lachlann’s gaze traveled over her bedraggled form. Her brown hair was wild and dirty. She’d lost weight, even in the two days she’d been in here. He could see it in the delicate lines of her face. The green kirtle and cream léine she wore were both soiled and in need of laundering. She clenched her fists at her sides, the remnants of her last untouched meal scattered over the floor.
However, it was not her appearance that took Lachlann aback, but her eyes. They were desolate, lost.
Adaira MacLeod was suffering.
Lachlann opened his mouth to speak before hesitating. He knew he could lack charm—but then it didn’t matter how he phrased this news, she wasn’t going to like it.
“Adaira,” he began, gentling his voice as if talking to a nervous horse. “My father has decided yer fate.” Their gazes met and held. “Ye will wed him … at Samhuinn.”
His voice died away, leaving a deep silence in its wake.
For a long moment Adaira merely stared at him. Then he watched as her face drained of color and her eyes rolled back in her head. Lachlann stepped forward to catch Adaira as she collapsed upon the floor.
Chapter Fourteen
Despair
WHEN ADAIRA CAME to, she felt someone stroking her cheek. The touch was soft, although the skin was slightly rough: a man’s hand.
Adaira’s eyes flickered open, and she looked up into Lachlann Fraser’s face.
Like a breaking wave, the memory of his news crashed over her.
I am to be Morgan Fraser’s wife.
Tears leaked from Adaira’s eyes, trickling down her face.
Lachlann stared down at her. A shadow moved in his eyes. His face was serious, and a nerve flickered in his cheek. He drew his hand back from her face. “Are ye well?”
