Page 42 of The Outlaw's Bride
Adaira swung round, grabbed a pitcher of water off the table, and threw it at the maid.
The girl squealed and ducked, but it was too late. The earthen jug shattered against the wall, drenching her.
“Get out!” Adaira shouted. “And when I see ye tomorrow, I want to see that sneer wiped off yer face.”
The maid backed up, eyes brimming with tears. Adaira advanced toward her, hands balling into fists. The girl gave a squeal of terror, turned, and fled from the room.
Breathing fast, Adaira listened to the key turning in the lock.
It felt a cowardly thing to do, to take the rage she felt toward Morgan Fraser and unleash it upon a servant, yet the maid’s rudeness toward her seemed to grow with each passing day.
Her situation here was bad enough without the servants turning on her. She had to start as she meant to go on, or they would think her weak and torment her.
Morgan would bully her, but they wouldn’t.
Adaira ran a hand over her face, relieved to finally be alone once more. Ever since Marcas Fraser had delivered the news of Scotland’s bitter defeat against the English, the mood at Talasgair had turned grim. The cursing that had followed the initial shock shook the rafters.
Men had leaped to their feet roaring with rage. Morgan Fraser’s sons were the loudest of them. All except Lachlann.
He alone had remained silent, hunched over his goblet of wine. His face had been stone-hewn, his gaze shuttered.
Although Adaira had pretended to ignore him throughout the feast, she’d been painfully aware of Lachlann’s presence, just a few feet away.
Had he heard the things his father had said to her?
Crossing to her sleeping pallet, Adaira lowered herself down. Her hands were shaking, so she clasped them together and rested them upon her knees.
“Courage, Adaira,” she whispered. “What would Rhona do?”
A wry smile twisted her face then. Her sister would have slapped that girl’s face weeks ago.
Adaira inhaled a ragged breath as Morgan Fraser’s softly spoken threats returned to her. He’d said them to scare her. He wanted her to be a trembling wreck by tomorrow night. He wanted her to weep and cringe, before he took her maiden-head.
He’s mad, twisted by hate.
Her belly cramped with fear. She just hoped she was strong enough to endure him.
Adaira couldn’t sleep that night.
She lay awake in the darkness, staring up at the rafters and listening to the silence. It was quiet up in the tower; the noise in the rest of the fortress didn’t reach here.
Adaira’s thoughts circled, fear pressing down upon her chest. The wedding loomed like a hangman’s noose before her. She didn’t want to think of it, yet she couldn’t stop herself.
Time stretched out, and she continued to stare into the darkness. It was strange, but she didn’t even feel remotely drowsy.
She was still wide awake when she heard the light scrape of footfalls on stone outside her door—and then a heartbeat later, the clunk of an iron key in the lock.
Adaira sat up, heart pounding.
Who would come to her chamber at this hour? Had Morgan Fraser come to rape her before the handfasting?
Terror exploded in her chest. He’d been angry enough tonight to do it. His rage upon hearing of Scotland's defeat had been a terrible thing to behold. Her own father had a blistering temper when roused, one that could send both his kin and servants running for cover. But she was less afraid of MacLeod than she was of Morgan Fraser. The Fraser chieftain’s temper was a cold, vicious thing.
The door opened, and Adaira clutched the blanket to her. “Go away,” she hissed, terror pulsing through her. “Or I’ll scream these walls down.”
Chapter Eighteen
By Moonlight
