Page 70 of The Outlaw's Bride
MacLeod tensed, his gaze narrowing. “What?”
“After I drugged the guards and freed Lachlann, we escaped through it.”
A nerve ticked in the clan-chief’s cheek. “Why didn’t ye ever tell me of this passage?”
Adaira lowered her gaze, chastened. “I liked having a secret … I’m sorry, Da.”
“And ye are the only one who knows of it? No one else was involved in this plan of yours?” MacLeod cut a hard glance toward Rhona. His voice was flinty now.
Adaira shook her head.
Lachlann drew in a slow breath, resisting the urge to look Rhona and Taran’s way. Wisely, Adaira had left them out of it.
A brittle silence settled over the table.
Lachlann let his gaze rest fully upon his father-in-law. Feeling the weight of his stare, MacLeod met his eye. He could see the resentment, the simmering anger that needed very little to ignite it.
Although it galled him to do so, Lachlann knew his next words needed to weave peace, not antagonize.
“I love yer daughter,” he said, his gaze never wavering. “And I will work for the rest of my life to prove myself worthy of her.”
MacLeod’s mouth twisted, and he snorted, although the dislike in his eyes dimmed a little. “Ye would need ten lifetimes for that, Fraser.”
Lachlann stood by the hearth in the Great Hall, nursing a goblet of wine. MacLeod and Una had retired to their chamber, while Adaira had gone off with her sisters. They would help her prepare for her wedding night.
The emptiness of the hall soothed Lachlann. The crackle of the hearth and the richness of the wine eased the tension in his shoulders.
This was a day he’d never forget. He’d wed the woman he loved, but MacLeod had almost ruined everything. The man was as tenacious as a maddened boar, and just as difficult to fight. He wasn’t sure how he’d have handled things if MacLeod had actually come at him with that dirk.
All the same, he hated that Adaira had put herself in danger to save him.
Lachlann ran a hand down his face. He had to do a better job of protecting her in future.
“I misjudged ye, it seems.” Lachlann tore himself from his brooding and glanced up to see Taran MacKinnon standing next to him. “Ye aren’t the feckless bastard I took ye for.”
The warrior wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was staring into the fire, his expression reflective. The firelight played over the two scars that slashed across his features. They were deep and ugly, and Lachlann wondered how he’d gotten them.
Lachlann huffed, his fingers tightening around the goblet. “Ye seem like a good judge of character to me, MacKinnon.”
Taran grunted. He glanced over at Lachlann, studying him. “Ye have balls, I’ll give ye that … few men stand up to MacLeod and live.”
Lachlann’s mouth twisted. “I don’t think he appreciated what I had to say.”
Taran laughed, a low rumble in his chest. “Maybe not … but he’ll never forget it. Ye didn’t just defend Adaira in that kirk, but her sisters as well. Ye told him what he should have heard years ago.”
Their gazes met, and for the first time since their meeting in Dunvegan dungeon, the flinty chill in the man’s eyes was gone. With a jolt Lachlann understood that Taran MacKinnon was very different to how he appeared. Beneath that scarred, forbidding appearance lay a kind, big-hearted soul.
He’d helped Adaira escape Dunvegan after-all.
Lachlann frowned, recalling the tense discussion during the feast earlier in the day. MacLeod was shrewd; he knew he’d not been told the full story. Lachlann had seen the naked suspicion in his eyes.
“He doesn’t know about what happened after Adaira and I left Dunvegan, does he?” Lachlann asked. “About Talasgair … and my father?”
“No … ye wouldn’t be drawing breath right now if he did.” Taran paused here, his gaze shadowing. “MacLeod doesn’t know Rhona and I helped Adaira either … and it’s best he never does.”
Chapter Thirty
Here We Are
