Page 65 of The Outlaw's Bride
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife she was using. She was so tired of men deciding her fate.
Glancing right, she caught Rhona’s eye. Her sister watched her with a knowing look. Few understood how she felt, but Rhona and Adaira did, for both their lives had nearly been ruined by Malcolm MacLeod’s controlling ways.
“Taran and I are taking a ride along the coast this morning,” Rhona announced lightly. “We thought we’d make the most of the sun before it leaves us again.”
“Ye areallabandoning me,” Malcolm MacLeod grumbled. “What am I supposed to do this morning while ye are out?”
It was Caitrin’s turn to utter a soft laugh. “Ye will hardly notice our absence, father. Put yer feet up in Baltair’s solar and take a well-earned rest. I’m sure Una can entertain ye.” She cast her step-mother a look as she spoke, enjoying the way Una’s mouth pursed, before continuing. “Later, we’ll eat together.”
Duntulm village kirk was a stone building with a steep gable roof and a tiny belfry. Constructed of local basalt, the kirk squatted at the southern edge of the village.
Its silhouette, set against a cornflower-blue sky, was a welcoming sight to Adaira. She and Lachlann hurried toward it, cutting through the windswept kirk-yard and the rows of tombstones that surrounded the building.
Lachlann squeezed her hand as they approached the heavy wooden doors. “Nervous?”
“Aye,” she admitted, glancing across at his hooded face. He’d pulled the cowl forward so his face was cast completely in shadow; it was impossible to read his expression. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she murmured. “What about ye?”
He gave her hand another squeeze before reaching out to push open the door. “My guts are in knots.”
Adaira smiled. It gave her solace to know he was as nervous as she was.
The awful scene with Rhona and Taran yesterday evening had put her on edge. The conflict had been resolved, but the memory of it had cast a shadow over Adaira’s mood. There had been a moment when Adaira had felt despair touch her heart. She didn’t want her union with Lachlann to cause a rift between her and her sisters.
And not only that, but her father perched up in Duntulm keep like a giant vulture ready to swoop.
Adaira hadn’t been able to sleep for the worry that he’d ruin everything.
But he hadn’t. Here they were, entering Dunvegan kirk, and beginning a new life together. The worst was behind them.
Stepping inside the kirk, Lachlann heaved his shoulder against the heavy door and pushed it shut at his back.
A gentle silence greeted the couple, as did the scent of incense and the faint whiff of tallow from the banks of candles lining the walls. Two rows of wooden benches led up to a raised altar. A small party stood beneath it: Caitrin, Rhona, and Taran—and a man Adaira had never seen before. Small and balding, and wearing dark robes, the priest watched them approach.
Adaira’s slippered feet whispered on the flagstones. Above her rose a ceiling of wooden beams, and at each end of the kirk, high tear-drop-shaped windows let in the morning sun.
Adaira and Lachlann stopped before the altar and pushed back their hoods. Meeting Caitrin’s eye, Adaira flashed her a smile. She had much to thank her eldest sister for. Caitrin was still dressed in mourning black, although her expression was soft this morning; she almost looked like the girl she’d once been. Back before Baltair MacDonald wed her.
Adaira’s attention shifted to Rhona. She hadn’t been sure her sister—or Taran—would attend the handfasting. Yet they’d both promised, and here they were. And unlike the day before, Adaira could see no anger in their faces or wariness in their eyes.
Dressed in flowing green, her fiery hair pulled back in a long braid, Rhona favored Adaira with a soft smile. Beside her, Taran nodded at Adaira. However, he cast Lachlann a cool, assessing look.
Adaira suppressed a sigh. Lachlann and Taran weren’t likely to be fast-friends, but at least they were no longer enemies.
Wordlessly, Adaira and Lachlann shrugged off the heavy cloaks they’d worn for the walk down from the castle. The clothing they wore underneath was quite plain for a handfasting. Lachlann wore leather braies and a clean white léine and Adaira a simple green kirtle. However, this morning Caitrin had woven some wild-flowers into her hair.
Lachlann looked down at her, favoring her with a soft smile. “Ye look bonny, Adaira.”
She smiled back, suddenly shy.
“Are ye ready?” The priest’s gentle voice interrupted them.
Adaira shifted her attention to him, studying the man who would wed them. He had a harried yet kind face, and a heavy wooden crucifix hung around his neck.
“Aye, Father,” Lachlann spoke up. “Je suis prest.” He broke off here and winked at Adaira. “We’rebothready.”
“Please step forward then and join hands.”
Adaira and Lachlann did as bid. The feel of Lachlann’s fingers entwining through hers, the heat and strength of his touch, caused the thudding of her heart to calm slightly.
