Page 35 of The Outlaw's Bride
“How many warriors did we lose in the end … against the MacLeods?” Lachlann asked finally, deliberately changing the subject.
His brothers’ expressions sobered.
“Thirty-two,” replied Tearlach.
Lachlann tensed. It would take the Frasers of Skye years to recover from such a loss.
“Many of our men are on the mainland still, aiding King David’s cause,” Lucas added, his face grim, as if reading his elder brother’s thoughts. “Warriors are thin on the ground at Talasgair.”
Of course. With everything that had happened of late, Lachlann had almost forgotten. The Scottish king was planning a raid across the border. There was currently a truce between the English and the Scottish, but David planned to break it, to push south while the English king’s focus was on France.
Lachlann would have joined them if his father hadn’t been plotting against the MacLeods. Morgan Fraser had wanted all his sons by his side when he faced his enemy.
“I’ll take the Guard out to patrol our borders then,” Lachlann replied, his gaze sweeping over his brothers’ faces. “MacLeod will know we’ve been weakened. We don’t want the bastard getting any ideas.”
Adaira leaned against the stone window ledge and looked out at where the last of the sun’s light gilded the huge mountain to the south. Preshal More—that was its name. She’d seen it once from afar when she’d joined her kin on a trip to visit the MacDonalds of Sleat on the southern edge of the isle.
She stared at the bald, rocky outline of the mountain. Its bulk was strangely comforting, a reminder that despite all that had befallen her of late, some things remained constant.
Three days had passed since Lachlann had told her she would wed his father, and in that time an odd calm had descended upon her.
She’d been through such extremes of emotion in the past few days that she now felt drained.
This evening Adaira couldn’t summon much feeling at all, save a dull dread that had lodged in the pit of her belly.
On the table a few feet away sat the remains of her supper. Remembering Lachlann’s warning, she’d eaten most of it, although every bite had stuck in her throat. Still, her body felt stronger since she’d resumed eating, and her head no longer spun.
A cold breeze fluttered in through the open window. The nights had a bite to them now, and although the servants had lit the hearth in this room, Adaira found herself huddled deep inside a nest of blankets upon her sleeping pallet every morning. The stone she leaned against was as cold as a lump of frozen snow.
Adaira continued to stare out the window, her gaze turning inward now. She thought back to her days at Dunvegan. She’d never fully appreciated how blessed they were, but she did now. Her father’s servants loved her, and she’d taken their warmth for granted. Here, the woman who brought up her food and cleared away her chamber pot was stone-faced and cold-eyed.
At Dunvegan she’d had her own horse and often gone riding with her sisters or her father’s men. Her father had even let her keep Dùnglas, her wolf-hound pup, although she wasn’t sure Aonghus Budge would have ever let the dog accompany them to Islay.
Adaira swallowed hard, remembering how she used to flit about the keep, carefree and more than a little silly. She’d spent her days learning the pursuits befitting a lady. She could play the harp well enough and was a neat embroiderer.
She’d lived a privileged life, and even seeing her sisters’ own struggles—Caitrin’s unhappy marriage and Rhona’s forced one—hadn’t truly touched her. She’d always lived a little apart from it, always believed she’d remain happy.
She didn’t believe that now. Her old life seemed as if it had belonged to a princess, and she wasn’t that girl anymore. She felt as if she’d aged years in just a few days. That laughing, carefree lass was dead.
The sound of the key grating in the lock, drew Adaira from her thoughts. Turning, she watched the door open and Lachlann Fraser step inside.
Adaira went rigid. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d delivered the news she would wed his father.
Despite that the sight of him made her belly churn, she would have been blind not to notice how attractive he was. His slightly disheveled appearance today only highlighted his arrogant good-looks, his swaggering self-confidence.
Lachlann was clad in dusty leathers, a travel stained cloak hanging from his broad shoulders. His hair was sweaty and plastered against his scalp, as if he’d just removed a helmet. He looked as if he’d returned from a patrol.
Shutting the door behind him, Lachlann leaned up against it, surveying her.
Adaira hissed out a breath. “What do ye want?”
His mouth curved. “I’ve been away … checking our northern border. Now I’m back I thought I’d check on ye.” Lachlann’s gaze shifted to the empty tray a few feet away. “I see ye are eating.”
Adaira clenched her jaw. “The servants could have told ye that.”
“Aye, but I’d prefer to check on ye in person.”
Adaira folded her arms across her breasts. The sight of this man was a painful reminder of her own gullibility. Still, the knowledge that he’d been patrolling the border with the MacLeods rattled her.
