Page 75 of The Outlaw's Bride
“Aye,” her eldest sister replied. “Much more than I did initially.”
“I’m glad Baltair’s dead,” Rhona spoke up. Never one to mince her words, Rhona wore a fierce expression now. “He was a tyrant.”
Caitrin loosed a sigh. “I know a wife shouldn’t wish her husband dead … but I did. I felt nothing but relief when I saw him laid out in Dunvegan’s chapel. When we buried him in the kirkyard here,” Caitrin motioned to the peaked roof of the kirk rising to the south. “I stood there dry-eyed and feared the folk of Duntulm would judge me for not weeping.”
“And did they?” Rhona asked.
Caitrin shook her head. “They’re good people,” she said softly, “and have made me feel very welcome here.”
Adaira studied Caitrin’s face and saw that her expression was suddenly shuttered. Even with her sisters she didn’t often speak openly. Adaira sensed she was pulling back from them, putting her shields back in place.
Caitrin hadn’t always been this way. Before wedding Baltair, she’d been a carefree lass with a sharp wit. But looking at her now, Adaira realized that lass was gone forever.
Perhaps she just grew up, Adaira reflected,like I had to. She glanced over at Rhona then and saw that she looked thoughtful. Rhona was easily the most resilient of the three of them. Even as a young lass she’d had a knowing edge to her, an understanding about the ways of the world, that both Adaira and Caitrin had lacked. Yet she’d changed too in the past months. Taran had tempered her wildness.
The three sisters fell silent and made their way up the incline to the keep. The walls of Duntulm rose against the windswept sky, the MacDonald pennant snapping and billowing.
They crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey to find a large mob of men amassed in the center of it. They were jostling to get a view of something occurring in the heart of the crowd.
Caitrin turned to one of the guards at the gate. “What’s going on here?” she demanded, her gaze narrowing.
“Fraser and MacKinnon are going at it, milady,” he answered her. “Sounds like a great fight … I’m sorry to miss it.”
A loud grunt echoed across the yard then, followed by a man’s curse.
Adaira’s breathing hitched.Lachlann.
Picking up her skirts, Adaira rushed to the edge of the crowd. She went up on tip-toe, straining to see over the broad shoulders of the men in front of her. Yet it was impossible—they were all much taller than her.
“Let me through!” She elbowed her way through the fray, Rhona and Caitrin close behind her. The men gave way reluctantly, their attention focused on the fight before them.
Adaira reached the edge of the crowd to see Lachlann and Taran, both naked to the waist, battling with blades.
She let out the breath she’d been holding, relief flooding through her. It wasn’t a fight to the death—they were sparring with wooden swords.
As the panic drained from Adaira, she found herself studying her husband with frank admiration. He moved with a dancer’s grace, easily holding his own against Dunvegan’s best swordsman. Adaira had watched Taran fight many times over the years in the practice yard of her father’s keep. He was a big man, but he was light on his feet. His scarred face was tense with concentration as he fought.
“Get under his guard, MacKinnon!” Malcolm MacLeod bellowed. The clan-chief stood a few feet away, at the edge of the crowd, his gaze tracking the fight with predatory intensity. “Beat the bastard into the dirt! Wipe that smirk off his face!”
“Da!” Adaira put her hands on her hips, her anger rising. “Don’t say such things!”
MacLeod spared his youngest daughter a glance before grinning. “Don’t look so fierce, lass. It’s just a bit of fun.”
Indeed, Lachlann looked like he was enjoying himself. His eyes gleamed and a smile stretched his face. However, his attention didn’t shift from his opponent. Sweat poured down his naked chest, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as he lunged for Taran.
His opponent parried, bringing up his blade to block the attack. He then swiftly followed it up with a feint. Lachlann jumped to one side, narrowly avoiding the trap.
The two men moved fast, circling each other as they lunged, attacked, feinted, and parried. Their wooden blades became a blur.
Lachlann managed a circle parry, catching the tip of Taran’s sword with his own and deflecting it. He followed up with a swipe at Taran’s ribs, slamming into him with the flat of his blade. Taran’s hiss echoed across the bailey.
Adaira held her breath. She’d seen few men beat Taran MacKinnon, but Lachlann was close to doing so.
It was then that Lachlann realized Adaira was among the crowd.
His gaze snapped her way, and he grinned.
That was when Taran made his move; one moment of distraction was all he needed.
