Page 74 of Bride of the Mad Laird
He filled her goblet with the ruby red wine and raised his own glass. “Slàinte mhath me love, may our lives be free of care.”
She took up her glass in response. “Slàinte mhath tae ye, me laird, and may our time together on this earth be lived in happiness.”
His own joy and the glow in Lyra’s eyes and the high color in her cheeks told him that, at least for tonight, they were both untroubled and happy. A sliver of cold crept through his belly. It would be too much to hope for long-lasting serenity for them while Laird Alexander MacDougall remained in Castle Duart, spinning his web to ensnare them both, like an evil spider.
He shrugged the thought aside.
Tonight he would not allow a troublesome foreboding to intrude into the joyous occasion of his betrothal to the beautiful lass who had taken possession of his heart and soul.
After their meal was done with, they retired to the fireplace where Tòrr took her on his knee, marveling at Lyra’s grace and beauty and still in wonderment that she had agreed to wed him.
They spent the remaining hours touching hands, kissing and whispering lovers’ words, reminiscing about the events that had brought them together and their journey from Fionnphort mounted together on Paden’s stalwart back.
“And ye tried tae sit upright all day, fer fear of touching me.”
She laughed at that. “And I cannae forget the pain in me backside after a day crouching on yer saddle.”
“Ye thought me a mad man then.”
She tossed her head and laughed, looking up at him through her long dark lashes. “Aye. But ye’re still a mad Laird, Tòrr MacKinnon.”
He dipped his head. “Me apologies.”
“Dinnae tell me ye’re sorry, Tòrr, fer I’ve come tae realize that yer madness is somewhat tae me liking.
He laughed and kissed her again.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Lyra was still tingling the next morning as Elspaith plaited her hair into a myriad of tiny braids with her nimble fingers and wove it into a golden crown ready for Sunday service in the chapel.
She could scarcely believe that on that day, Father Pádraig would read the banns pronouncing her betrothal to the Laird Tòrr and calling on all those who might have a reason for the marriage not to go ahead to make themselves known.
That would happen on three consecutive Sundays, and after the third, Father Pádraig would perform the marriage ceremony and she would become the wife of her laird.
In some ways, it was dreamlike, almost unreal, for she’d never have conjured such a thing in her mind on the day she departed from the nunnery. Although, even on that day, she was struck with admiration for Laird Tòrr ’s form and for the chiseled planes of his lean face. She’d been reminded then of drawings of statues from the pagan days of the ancient Greeks she had once glimpsed in one of the dusty tomes in the library.
However, marriage had never entered her head.
Yet, beneath her dreams of joys-to-come, seethed a dark undercurrent. Something unseen, a slimy, sinister, ooze that threatened danger. She shivered as cold, bony fingers slithered up her spine.
Would the Laird MacDougall leave her alone? Or would he view the banns as a challenge to come forward and make a claim against her marriage to Tòrr?
Elspaith held up her cloak and she shrugged it on. Adjusting her skirt, she attempted to force aside her sense of foreboding.
Tòrr and Edmund were waiting outside the chapel as she arrived. The day was crisp with the scent of winter in the air despite the sunshine and the clear blue sky. Smiling, Tòrr reached for her hand and pressed it with a kiss.
“What is wrong, Lyra? I see from yer eyes that nae all is well wi’ ye.”
She shook her head, not wanting to spoil the moment. This was a special day, when their plans to wed would be promulgated to all.
That was the problem.
They went into the little chapel to meet with Father Pádraig before the mass. He was a small, gentle-faced man, who greeted them with deference. Quite different to the priests she’d known at Iona. In comparison with Father Pádraig, they were overbearing, always displaying their dominance and superiority to the meek nuns. Many of the novices were quite afraid of them.
Father Pádraig, contrarily, spoke quietly and seemed humble.
Yet, when he asked, “Dae ye give yer consent freely tae this marriage” she stumbled over the words, suddenly afraid. Even now, with Tòrr by her side her thoughts flew to the Laird Alexander and the eruption of his rage that was certain to greet the news of his plans being thwarted.
