Page 48 of Bride of the Mad Laird
He wished for nothing more at that moment than to fold her into his arms and tell her that his life had meant nothing to him when he realized she was in danger.
But such a confession was little short of madness.
Once they were warmed a little, Tòrr signaled to Lyra for them to be on their way.
“The path tae the castle is steep, Lady Lyra. D’ye think ye can walk it, or d’ye wish me tae carry ye?”
“I’ll walk. Thank ye.” She huffed as if his very presence aggravated her.
He gritted his teeth in frustration. Could she nae be a tad grateful tae him fer being rescued?
Fer the second time?
Yet she hadnae a word of thanks.
Why did she insist on placing herself in danger? In the name of all-the-devils-in-hell, she was a willful lass, hell-bent on causing him trouble since the very first moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Why, once they were safely back inside the castle, he should turn her over his lap and give her the spanking she deserved.
He smiled grimly.
Now there was a pleasant thought.
They struggled on up the hill, the rain soaking them all over again. Occasionally he took her elbow to help her over a slippery, rocky section of the path and she was quick to wrench her arm away once they reached steadier ground.
Whatever had got into the lass? Despite the freezing weather, it was clear she was burning with rage. There was much for them to discuss.
At last, the dim, reassuring, light at the castle gate came into view and they hastened their steps. The gate was locked and they waited for the guard to descend and unlock it. The burly man looked questioningly at Tòrr, then at Lyra, saying nothing.
No doubt the strange behavior of his laird, and he and the Lady Lyra returning to the castle like a pair of bedraggled cats, would be the cause of a great deal of comment among the guard. They could wonder all they liked, Tòrr had no intention of enlightening them as to the night’s happenings. He was still bemused by them himself.
“Good night, me laird. Lady Lyra.” The guard saw them on their way.
They were only halfway across the courtyard when Claray and Elspaith rushed to greet them.
“Yer wee hands are frozen.” Claray immediately took Lyra’s hands chaffing them to bring them back to life. She signalled to Elspaith. “Make sure there’s hot water in the lady’s room, lass. She’ll need tae warm herself before she catches a death of cold.
She threw Tòrr a baleful look.
He shook his head. “’Tis nae me fault, Claray, that this headstrong lass decided tae try and drown herself in the Sound of Mull.”
Claray flung a woolen plaid around Lyra’s shoulders. “Come lass. I’ve a fire set in yer chamber. Ye need tae be out of those wet clothes at once.” She hurried her into the keep without another glance at the chagrined laird.
Edmund, who had been waiting at the stairs, greeted him.
“Good tae see ye’re still alive, lad. Although, by the looks of ye, it seems ye’ve been giving death a good gamble this night.
Tòrr strode up the stairs heading for his bedchamber. “Bring the whisky and I’ll tell ye what transpired this night.”
The candles burned low into the night as Tòrr, now warmly clad in his night shift and woolen plaid, related the story of his night’s adventures.
“Whatever was the lass thinking?” Edmund mused, pouring them each another splash of whisky. “Did she nae understand that she would have been easy prey fer MacDougall out in the sound, and once she’d made it tae Morvern? If Laird Alexander has any sense he’d have had men posted, looking out fer her there.”
Tòrr shrugged. “She’s angry, yet I dinnae ken why. I’ll question her tomorrow.”
Edmund finished his dram. “And, dinnae forget, the Council members will be here before tomorrow nightfall. Ye need tae think hard about the choices ye must put before them.”
Tòrr nodded wearily. He was not looking forward to dealing with the Council.
