Page 60 of The Outlaw's Bride
A groove formed between Caitrin’s delicately drawn brows. “Aye, on that we are both agreed. The sooner ye wed the better.”
Lachlann raised his eyebrows before glancing at Adaira. Seeing her pink cheeks, he realized Caitrin knew what had passed between them. Adaira’s sister would be worried he’d planted a bairn in her womb.
The thought had crossed his mind as well.
Lachlann met Caitrin’s eye, favoring her with a wry smile. If she wanted them to wed in haste, he wasn’t going to discourage her. “Do ye have a date in mind, Lady Caitrin?”
She nodded. “The day after tomorrow. Ye can be wed in Duntulm village kirk. I shall call for the priest.”
“That went better than I thought,” Lachlann admitted as he escorted Adaira to her chamber later that evening. “I expected Lady Caitrin to have me stoned out of Duntulm.”
“I just needed to have a quiet word with her.” Adaira glanced up at him, smiling. “Caitrin isn’t unreasonable.”
Lachlann raised an eyebrow. “She glared at me all through supper. I think she expects I’ll abandon ye at the altar.”
Adaira huffed. “No, she doesn’t … she’ll warm to ye eventually.”
“Aye, perhaps—but not any day soon.”
They reached a wooden door framed by a stone arch, and Adaira halted. She turned to Lachlann, raising her chin so she could meet his eye. He gazed down at her before reaching out and caressing her cheek. His thumb slid along her plump lower lip and desire quickened his breath. Adaira had a lush mouth that was made for kissing.
“Would ye mind if I shared yer bed tonight?” he murmured, his gaze still riveted upon her mouth.
“Best not,” Adaira replied, her voice husky. “Caitrin’s had a chamber prepared for ye … downstairs.”
“What about a goodnight kiss then?”
“Very well,” Adaira breathed, “just one.”
Lachlann’s mouth curved. Leaning down, he brushed his lips over Adaira’s—once, twice—and then he parted her lips with his tongue. Her answering gasp inflamed him. He loved how responsive Adaira was. Her soft moans and gasps excited him beyond measure, as did the way she melted under his touch.
God, how he longed to carry her into that chamber and tear her clothes off. Last night he’d been frustrated by the layers of wool, leather, and linen that separated their bodies. It had been too cold to strip, but he ached to see her naked.
Just two more nights, he reminded himself as he tore his mouth from Adaira’s,andthen she’s mine.
“Wicked temptress.” Lachlann braced himself against the door and pushed back. Adaira stared up at him from within the cage of his arms. Her hazel eyes were luminous, her lips slightly parted. He stifled a groan. When she looked at him like that it was difficult to keep a leash on his self-control. “I should go then.”
“Good night, Lachlann.” The hoarse edge to her voice made him ache to take her right there up against the door.
The thought sobered him. Lady Caitrin would definitely cast him out of Duntulm for such an act.
“Sleep well, Aingeal,” he replied, stepping away from her. “I shall see ye in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ill-timing
ADAIRA PICKED UP Eoghan from his crib. “How he’s grown,” she murmured, holding the bairn against her breast as she turned to Caitrin. “What are ye feeding the lad?”
Caitrin huffed. “Just milk for now, but he’s a hungry bairn.”
Adaira glanced down at Eoghan’s thick thatch of dark hair. Not for the first time, she felt a jolt. Even though he was still a babe, Eoghan MacDonald looked so much like his father it was eerie. Baltair MacDonald had been very handsome to look upon, and Adaira could see that one day his son would rival him in looks. A shadow of misgiving fell over her then, as she stared down at the bairn’s chubby face. His sea-blue eyes were his mother’s. But would he inherit her or his father’s character?
Adaira carried Eoghan over to where a large log burned in the hearth. After the drama of the day before, it now felt peaceful inside the solar. Caitrin was seated at the table, bent over a huge leather-bound ledger as she went through Duntulm’s accounts. Alban MacLean, the castle’s steward, sat at her side, looking over the chatelaine’s shoulder as she copied down the sums he read to her from scrappy leafs of parchment.
“No, milady,” he corrected her quietly. “It was thirty sacks of oats we bought from MacLeod this year, not forty.”
Muttering an oath under her breath, Caitrin dipped her quill into the pot of ink beside her and corrected the ledger.
