Page 29 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“And the men who pursued me? They never got close enough tae recognize me.” Edmund refilled their glasses. “This is a fine dram, lad.”
“Aye. ‘Tis a good whisky.” Tòrr raised his glass. “Me thanks to the lads on the Isle of Jura.”
“I can only deduce that MacDougall’s men gained information in Fionnphort that made them assume I was taking the lass north to Dùn Ara. Thinking they were on our trail they made their way here in the hope of intercepting us.”
“And ye didnae oblige. Instead ye kept to the longer coast road. Because the rain delayed ye two, ye made it safely back to the castle in the darkness.” Edmund snorted. “Luck was wi’ ye.”
“Aye.” Tòrr shook his head at the thought of how close a call it had been. “But I dinnae like to rely on luck.”
They sat, lost in thought, sipping their drams, the fire sparking now and then.
Tòrr finally spoke. “So, we’re agreed. MacDougall is after the lass and he’ll likely pay nay attention tae the MacKinnons as long as we stay out of his way. “
“And that’s the problem lad. Wearein his way, as long as Lady Lyra remains at Dùn Ara.”
Tòrr got to his feet to stoke the fire. He well understood the situation. Once his Clan Council became aware of what was at stake, they would command the return of Lyra to the powerful Laird MacDougall.
He returned to his chair and gazed bleakly into the fire. “The Council will nae agree tae her remaining here if it means risking MacDougall’s wrath.”
Edmund shook his head. “So, ‘tis a simple matter. We hand the lass to MacDougall, he’ll nae lay siege to Dùn Ara and the Council will be happy.” He studied Tòrr for a long moment. “But ye’ll nay agree tae giving over the lass.”
Tòrr shook his head, gritting his teeth at the thought of Lyra in the hands of Laird Alexander. “’Tis nae right wi’ me soul tae hand over an innocent lass tae the likes of a lecherous brute like MacDougall. Mayhap if we kent what he wants wi’ her, that could make a difference.”
“Aye.” Edmund nodded warily. “If he’s changed himself overnight into a good man, he may simply wish to return her to the bosom of her clan, where she’ll be cared for and petted like a lamb.”
Tòrr snorted. “That’s one for the fairies, lad.”
“Our men should return tonight or sometime tomorrow. I expect they’ll bring us news of MacDougall’s intentions.”
It was news Tòrr was dreading. Lyra had put her trust in him to keep her safe and, no matter what it cost, he would not break that trust. If, as he was almost certain, Laird Alexander MacDougall had naught but wickedness in his heart, Council or nae, he would not satisfy his demand. If that meant war between the MacKinnons and MacDougall’s men, then so be it.
He shook his head. “I cannae imagine the man has good intentions. The MacInnes clan have substantial lands on the mainland. Me guess is that he has designs on the land and Lyra is naught tae him but a useful pawn in his power game.”
Edmund could only agree with Tòrr’s assessment. “If ye’re right, and we uncover his plan, then then ye must call a meeting of the Council and ask fer their advice.”
“And if I convince them it is our duty tae protect the lass, we must prepare fer war.”
“Aye.” Edmund gave a resounding sigh. “I’ve already sent our scouts tae call up the lads tae make ready. Once they’ve assembled, both ye and I will need tae make sure they are well-armed and properly trained.”
“And we should make preparations fer a siege.” Tòrr kept his gaze on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Dùn Ara, with its sturdy protecting walls, was a strong fortress and had withstood more than one siege in its history. But withstanding a siege was punishing. Especially so, if the enemy was as well-resourced as Tòrr was confident MacDougal would be. “I’ll speak wi’ Bethia and ask her tae prepare supplies in preparation should such a dire event occur.”
The afternoon wore on with less pressing matters: the sale of a horse, the improvement of the track from the village, repairs to one of Tòrr’s several birlinns lying at anchor in the noost below the castle. Then there was the important issue of a fair price for trading wool with the nearby islands for their weavers to return with cloth.
Claray tapped on the door. “Yer supper is ready fer serving. Will I let Bethia ken ye’ll be taking yer seats in the refectory hall any time soon?”
“Thank ye Claray. We’ll be there forthwith.”
The two men rose to their feet, Tòrr, stretching to relieve a crick in his back after remaining seated too long.
As they wandered down the passage to the hall, Tòrr was thoughtful. “Once we’ve heard back from yer men, I’ll decide whether tae call the Council tae meet. But, until then…” He flashed a grin to his friend, “…I intend enjoying whatever delicacies Bethia has prepared fer our supper.”
They’d been seated only a few minutes when he caught sight of Lyra as she entered the hall. He found it impossible to keep his eyes off her tall figure as she walked gracefully toward the high table. With every step she took, his sister’s gown of deepest blue velvet swayed over her slender curves in such a way as to make his heart beat a little faster, shamelessly stirring his manhood.
She took his breath away. By the Gods, she was a true beauty. And tonight, with her hair wound around her head in a circlet of golden braids, wearing a gown fit for a princess, she was both untouchably regal and charmingly enticing at the same time.
As she took her seat between himself and Edmund, Tòrr found to his disgust that his hands were clammy and his mouth was dry. The Lady Lyra was unwittingly playing havoc with his senses.
“Ye’re looking well me lady,” he ground out.
