Page 62 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Cursing himself for a blundering fool, Tòrr walked the few paces to his chamber. Of course the lass was furious. He should have thought of that possibility before he spoke. He already knew that the idea of a convenient marriage for the sake of the ownership of clan lands was abhorrent to her. She’d said so often enough. But he’d been too much of a dolt to have not fully understood it could apply just as readily to his proposal as it did to that of MacDougall.
He settled in front of the fire, his thoughts ranging across every possibility. He had three weeks in which to court the lady and convince her that marrying him would not be the hell on earth she may suppose it to be.
And what of his own heart. He assessed the things he was certain of. First, her beauty left him breathless. If he was honest with himself, the idea of marriage and taking Lyra to his bed was uppermost in his mind. The time they’d spent together he’d learned a little about her. First she’d been imperious and unbending, but as their travels wore on he’d come to see her in a different light.
Surely, she was impulsive and impetuous – her attempt to escape had shown him that in no uncertain terms. But along with that, she was passionate and determined, not a gentle submissive creature but brave and courageous, someone who would always challenge and hold him to account.
She would be a wife he could turn to for strength and support when there were difficult decisions to make. She was proud and defiant, yet compassionate and clever.
His heart lifted. For him, the marriage held no sense of dread. In time she would come to feel as he did.
A sharp tap on his door had him on his feet as Edmund walked in carrying what was left of the whisky and a platter with bannocks and cheese.
“Thought ye might dae with some refreshments.” Edmund placed the platter on the small table and seated himself by the fire. “Have ye spoken tae the Lady Lyra yet about the Council’s decision?”
Tòrr wrinkled his nose. “Seems I’m nay more appealing as a husband than our dear friend Laird Alexander.”
Edmund chuckled. “And ye were expecting the lass tae fall at yer feet and thank ye fer saving her from one arranged marriage by offering another?”
“Aye, lad. Fool that I am, I anticipated her gratitude, nae her disgust.”
“So, I take it, there is much courtship tae be done before the wedding.”
“If there is tae be a wedding.” Tòrr added, remaining on his feet, leaning on the mantel before the fire. “I havenae intention of forcing the lass tae me bidding. I’m nae a beast like MacDougall.”
“I ken neither ye nor meself have been ones fer spending time on courtly manners, but this may be what ye require.”
“What dae ye suggest?”
“Why nay a ceilidh tae celebrate yer betrothal? There’s been precious little amusement at Dùn Ara since ye took the lairdship. Our last few days of levity were when yer sweet sister and the Laird of the MacNeils came tae visit.”
Tòrr took advantage of the carafe of whisky and the two glasses on the mantel and poured them each a splash.
“I like that idea. Since me faither’s death, me days have been burdened with the business of the lairdship and repairing the damage he inflicted on our relationships within the clan.”
It had proved difficult and there was still mending to do.
“At first, half the chiefs would nae deign tae meet wi’ me. Tempers had been sorely tested by me faither’s cruelty and his lack of care fer our people.”
“And the meeting we’ve just ended has shown how ye’ve succeeded in bringing the Clan together. Ye’ve earned their respect.”
“A ceilidh it is then.” Tòrr chuckled, his head filled with thoughts of taking Lyra’s hand and leading her in a wild dance. “Once I’ve spoken again wi’ Lady Lyra, we’ll ask Claray tae set things in motion. Make sure the invitations go out tae all the bonniest lassies and the finest lads. We’ll have a ceilidh that will open the lass’s stony heart.”
Tòrr turned back to the fire, relishing the thought of winning Lyra’s favor.
After Edmund had departed, he sat thoughtfully. He knew what he must do if Lyra was to grant him the opportunity to prove himself worthy. He sucked in a determined breath. He had to stand aside and allow her to make a choice. And whatever she decided, he would abide by it.But in the meantime he would write the letter, letting Clan MacInnes know that Lyra was with him and safe, although at risk of being kidnapped by MacDougall. He would ask for their help if there were to be a war and he would also ask for her hand in marriage. Whatever her decision was, it would be something to deal with later on. For now, the most important thing was to get the ball rolling.
* * *
The next morning, after breaking his fast with Edmund in the hall, he caught Claray as she went about her business and asked her to request the Lady Lyra’s presence in the solar, where he wished to converse with her.
Once Claray had bustled off he retired to the colorful room. Not knowing what Lyra’s reaction would be when she was asked to meet with him, he could only suspect it would be defiant. No doubt, she’d be even more steadfast in her opposition than she had been the night before.
He’d taken care to wash and groom his hair, to don a clean shirt, to polish his boots, meticulously pleat his kilt, and see to it that the maid brushed every last scrap of mud from his jacket.
He hoped that standing neat and tidy before her she might be fooled into perceiving him as a gentleman instead of a mad man.
It was a long wait before she flounced into the solar, but he’d expected that. He guessed she’d be at pains not to rush to obey his summons. He smiled to himself. This meeting with her promised to be interesting.
