Page 37 of The Outlaw's Bride
“No, it won’t,” his father replied, his voice developing a lethal edge. “But it’ll cut MacLeod deep. That lass will suffer at my hands, and her father will know of it. A man doesn’t cross me and get away with it. This is a grudge I’ll take to my grave.”
Lachlann stared back at him, but in place of his father all he saw was a man—a vengeful and bitter one. Lachlann’s younger brothers had always ribbed him over how much he was like his father—how they were destined to forever lock horns, for they knew just how to provoke each other.
If it were true then Lachlann faced a bleak and unhappy future. Was this what he would become?
Adaira watched with suspicion as Lachlann entered the chamber. He carried a large hessian bag, which he set down on the table.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted her.
Adaira didn’t reply. She noted that he hadn’t called her ‘aingeal’ since their struggle on the beach. There was an odd formality in him these days—very different to the brash individual who’d fled Dunvegan with her. Sometimes he almost seemed subdued in her presence, although today he appeared a little more cheerful.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked, deliberately rude. Spending day after day in this tiny chamber was slowly chipping away at her, eroding her naturally optimistic spirit. Apart from Lachlann, the only face she saw was that of the sour-faced maid who delivered her meals, emptied her chamber-pot, and brought her clean clothes.
“A diversion,” he replied with a half-smile.
He withdrew a large clay bottle stoppered with a cork and two clay cups. Then he produced a wooden board marked with squares and a small cloth pouch.
“Have ye ever played Ard-ri?”
Adaira frowned. She was a clan-chief’s daughter, of course she had. Reluctantly, she nodded.
“Good,” he replied. “I’m not the world’s most patient teacher.” He pulled out two chairs and took a seat on one. “Come on … let’s play a game.”
“I’m not playing Ard-ri with ye, Fraser.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not? Ye must be growing witless with boredom.” He reached for the clay bottle and unstoppered it. “I’ve brought plum wine to make the experience more bearable for ye.”
“I don’t care. Take yer wine and yer game and leave me be.”
Ignoring her, Lachlann poured two cups of wine, before he emptied the cloth pouch and started placing small brown and white counters upon the board before him. One of the counters was twice as high as the others and marked with a crown on top: the king stone.
“Playing Ard-ri with a Fraser doesn’t mean ye have to stop hating me,” he said as he worked. “I’m not asking for friendship. Just a game.”
“I don’t understand why ye keep visiting me,” Adaira replied. “Haven’t I made it clear ye aren’t welcome?”
“Ye have, but we Frasers are thick-headed as well as stubborn. I’m the reason ye are here so I like to check ye are well.”
Adaira went still. That was the first time he’d even hinted that he felt guilty for what he’d done, and even then the comment was spoken with the flippant edge she’d come to expect from him.
Lachlann fixed her with a level look. “Just one game, Adaira. That’s all I ask.”
Silence fell between them and then, reluctantly, Adaira rose from the bed, where she’d been perched, and walked to the table. She sat down, pushing her chair back in an attempt to put as much space between them as possible.
Before them the Ard-ri board sat ready. Ard-ri—or High King—was an old game, and one her father loved.The game simulated a viking raid: four attacking viking drakkars were pitted against the Scottish king and his defenders.
Adaira wasn’t a strong player; both Rhona and Caitrin had always beaten her at it. She imagined this game would be over with merciful swiftness.
“Do ye want to be the attacker or the defender?” Lachlann asked.
Adaira picked up her cup of wine and took a sip. It was delicious, deep and rich, not like the sour wine that accompanied her meals. “I’ll attack,” she replied.
Lachlann flashed her a wolfish smile. “Then it’s up to me to put up a strong defense.” He motioned to the board. “Ye take the first move.”
Adaira stared back at him but made no attempt to reach for a counter. “I liked ye once, Lachlann,” she said after a pause. “When we fled Dunvegan together, I was in awe of yer courage. I thought ye were a good man, an honorable one.”
Lachlann’s smile faded. “I’m no saint, Adaira,” he replied softly, “but nor am I the worst man ye will ever meet.”
“Is that so?”
