Page 63 of The Outlaw's Bride
“Aye,” Caitrin replied. She doubted there was a soul upon the isle who’d not heard. He must think her a hermit.
“Many Scots died in that battle,” her father continued, still scowling. “None of the MacLeods who joined King David have returned yet … few will.”
Caitrin frowned. He was leading up to something.
“Baltair’s younger brother joined the king, did he not?” Una spoke up. She sat at Malcolm’s side, a goblet of wine in hand. She wore a sanguine expression. However, her blue eyes were assessing.
“Alasdair,” Caitrin replied. “He joined the army before Baltair and I wed, and hasn’t been back to Skye since. I know not where he is.”
“I sent word to him after Baltair’s death,” her father rumbled. He was watching Caitrin with a penetrating look now. “If he lives, he will return to claim his rightful role as chieftain. He will no longer need yer services as chatelaine. Ye will have to return to Dunvegan.”
Caitrin swallowed. “And if Alasdair MacDonald never returns? There are no other heirs.”
“Then ye remain Lady of Duntulm,” Rhona piped up with a grin. She raised her chalice to her sister. “Here’s to that, dear sister.”
Malcolm MacLeod glowered at them. “No, she won’t. One of the MacDonalds of Sleat will step into the breach. Like it or not, Caitrin, ye will still have to wed again.”
“Don’t worry.” Una favored Caitrin with a sweet smile. “We’ll begin a search for a suitable husband for ye upon our return to Dunvegan.”
Caitrin swallowed a cutting reply. It wouldn’t do her any good to start an argument with Una or her father; Malcolm had a fiery temper, and when riled wouldn’t let a subject drop. Best to be quietly defiant, as she’d always been.
“Apple and bramble tarts, milady.” A servant appeared at Caitrin’s elbow, bearing a huge platter of fragrant sweets.
Thank ye, Galiene,” Caitrin responded with a smile. Never had she been so grateful to have a conversation interrupted. “Please, serve them.”
Galiene, an older woman who helped Duntulm’s cook prepare meals, began to circuit the table, serving Malcolm first.
Seeing her father was distracted, Caitrin leaned toward her sister. “I need to speak to ye,” she whispered. “As soon as supper’s over, meet me outside the kitchen.”
Adaira walked into the kitchen to find Caitrin, Rhona, and Taran waiting. Her step faltered at the sight of them, joy exploding within her.
“Rhona!”
She flew across the kitchen and crushed her elder sister in a fierce hug.
Pulling back from the embrace, Adaira saw that Rhona’s eyes glittered with tears. However, her face appeared frozen in surprise. “Adi … what are ye doing here?” she gasped.
Likewise, Taran appeared floored. His ice-blue gaze searched Adaira’s face, before it shifted to where Lachlann had stepped up behind her. Taran’s expression then hardened.
It was warm in the kitchen, the air fragrant with the aroma of baking. The old cook had stepped outside with her assistants, leaving the party alone. It had been a nervous wait in their chambers. Caitrin had told Adaira and Lachlann she would meet them in the kitchen after supper. They had waited a long while before the cook knocked on the door and whispered that it was safe to come out.
Sensing the shift in mood, the sudden tension in the air, Adaira stepped back so that she and Lachlann stood shoulder to shoulder. She glanced up at him, and their gazes fused for a moment.
Lachlann then swung his attention back to Rhona and Taran. “After Adaira and I left Dunvegan we made our way to Kiltaraglen, where I stole a boat,” he began without preamble. “However, instead of taking her to Argyle, I brought her back home with me … to Talasgair.” Lachlann paused here, drew in a deep breath, and plowed on. “I wanted to get home fast, in case my father died and one of my brothers took his place as chieftain. At the time I didn’t spare a thought for Adaira. It was only later—when my father announced he planned to wed Adaira at Samhuinn—that I began to realize what a grave mistake I’d made. On the eve of their wedding, I helped her escape … and here we are.”
Silence followed his words. Eventually, Taran finally broke it, his voice wintry. “Ye swore a promise to see Adaira safely to Gylen Castle … upon yer life. Don’t deny it, for I heard ye speak the words.”
“I don’t deny it,” Lachlann replied, “I swore an oath … and I broke it.”
“I told ye what would happen if ye failed to uphold yer end of the bargain, Fraser.”
Lachlann frowned. “Aye, and I warned ye not to threaten me.”
“Dog!”
In an instant, Taran was on him. A large hand clamped over Lachlann’s throat. Taran slammed him backward, and they crashed onto the large scrubbed oaken table that dominated the heart of the kitchen.
“Taran!” Adaira cried out, lunging toward where the two men now wrestled. “Stop it!”
