Page 4 of The Outlaw's Bride
“We can’t let Adaira wed that man.” Rhona MacKinnon looped her arm through her husband’s and cast him a fierce look. “He’ll kill her.”
Taran met her gaze for a moment, his face troubled. They walked down the curving causeway from the castle, heading toward the gardens that lay south of the keep. It was their evening ritual these days, this stroll. However, Rhona couldn’t relax this evening, not when Adaira’s future was so precarious.
“I like this as little as ye,” Taran said after a pause. “But ye know what happens to those who defy yer father.”
Rhona drew in a sharp breath at Taran’s reminder.
She knew all too well. Rhona had defied her father at every turn for years, and in the end he’d forced her to wed. Things could have turned out badly indeed for her, but fortune had twisted in her favor.
“This is my doing,” she said bitterly. “Da wasn’t so inflexible in the past. I’ve made him this way … he won’t have any daughter stand up to him now.”
Taran didn’t reply, for they both knew it was the truth.
Aonghus Budge had been meant for Rhona, but she’d spurned him. After the support the chieftain had given the MacLeods of late, her father was determined to strengthen his relationship with the Budges of Islay. He’d not let Adaira stand in his way.
The couple walked in silence then, taking the path that cut south, and entering the gardens. Unlike the heavy confines of the keep, and the thick curtain walls that sometimes felt as if they hemmed Rhona in, the gardens were a place of refuge: a quiet space where she could breathe, where the scent of flowers soothed her.
The scent of the last of the summer roses enveloped Rhona and Taran. They walked amongst the riotous growth of rosemary, sage, and thyme, their boots crunching on the fine pebbles underfoot.
A damp sea breeze wafted across the garden, bringing with it a sharp, briny tang. The air was changing; the softness of summer was gone. But for now there was warmth enough in the sun for them to venture outdoors without a heavy mantle. Rhona inhaled the sharp crispness of autumn. In just over two months’ time, the solstice of Samhuinn would be upon them, and then they would begin the long winter.
Stopping next to a canopy of honey-suckle, Rhona turned to face her husband.
Taran met her eye and grimaced. “Something tells me I’m not going to like what ye are about to say.”
Rhona arched an eyebrow. “Ye are right about one thing, Taran,” she began, her voice low and determined. “If I confront Da about this, it’ll only enrage him. We can’t change his mind so we must go around him.” Taran’s brow furrowed, but Rhona continued doggedly. An idea had been growing in her mind all day; she’d not be thwarted. “We must help her escape Dunvegan.”
Adaira hurried into the gardens, one hand clamped over her mouth in an attempt to hold back the sobs that racked her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her vision blurred, yet she knew the path to the gardens so well she could have traveled it blind-folded.
And she knew Rhona and Taran would be there.
She had to see them. They were the only souls in the keep who’d know how she felt.
Adaira entered the heart of the garden through an arch of trailing roses and spied her sister and brother-in-law up ahead. They were standing next to a canopy of honey-suckle—and they appeared to be arguing.
Rhona was talking quickly, waving her hands around for emphasis, while Taran stood before her, arms folded across his broad chest. His expression was thunderous as he barked out sharp replies.
Adaira slowed her pace. Despite her upset, and the panic she could barely contain, she was suddenly wary of intruding.
She was sorry to interrupt them, but she had no one else to turn to.
The crunch of her booted feet on gravel alerted Rhona and Taran to her arrival. They glanced up and stepped away from each other, their expressions almost guilty. Rhona turned her storm-grey eyes—so similar to their father’s—toward Adaira. The cross look on her face softened when she saw who interrupted them.
“Adi,” she greeted her. “What is it?”
Adaira stopped before them, and her defenses crumbled. She wanted to be brave, but everything had gotten too much. She covered her face with her hands and started to sob.
“I’ve … just come from … Da’s solar,” she managed in panicked gasps. “The wedding will be … in three days’ time.” Adaira drew in a ragged breath and scrubbed at her tears. The upset look on her sister’s face, and the concerned expression on Taran’s, made it difficult to keep calm. They both understood how grave this was.
“Aonghus Budge will remain here until the handfasting,” Adaira continued hoarsely, “and directly after the ceremony he and I will leave for Islay.”
Rhona drew in a sharp breath. She then cast an imploring look at her husband. “We must help her.”
Taran stared back at his wife, his face taut. Long moments passed, before he muttered an oath and raked a hand through his short blond hair. Then he turned his attention to Adaira. “Yer sister has a plan,” he said roughly. “I think it’s madness, but she won’t be swayed.”
Adaira went still, her gaze shifting back to Rhona. “Ye do?” she asked hoarsely.
