The Laird's Captive Wife(33)
‘Home—to Glengarron.’
* * *
The journey that day was long and cold, but Ashlynn was scarcely aware of physical discomfort. Her thoughts had turned inward, trying to come to terms with what had happened, trying not to contemplate the future too closely. For the most part they rode in silence, the swift pace not being conducive to conversation. However, when they did stop to rest the horses at noon it quickly became apparent that news of the laird’s marriage had spread. Dougal took it upon himself to issue each man with a dram of whisky from the keg on the wagon, and proposed the toast to the newly married couple. A loud cheer rent the air.
Iain looked down at his bride and smiled wryly. ‘It seems they approve, my lady.’
Ashlynn shot him a swift glance but remained silent, not knowing what to say. In truth the press of grinning faces was a little daunting, though oddly she could see none of their former antipathy now. Rather than show any apprehension she forced herself to an outward display of calm.
‘Will ye no kiss the bride, my lord?’ called a wag from the crowd.
A roar of approval greeted this, followed by the chant of ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’ Iain handed his cup to Dougal. Then he took Ashlynn in his arms, crushing her against him and bringing his mouth down on hers in a searing embrace. Another roar erupted around them. Ashlynn scarcely heard it, aware only of a rush of warmth deep within, like the sudden rekindling of a flame. The flame leapt and became fire. Unable to help herself she yielded to it, her body melting against him, her mouth opening to his.
In that moment of unexpected surrender he felt his own desire quicken and imagination tantalised, offering another glimpse of something he had thought was lost. If they had been alone…The thought stopped him in his tracks: this was a union undertaken out of duress, not love, and they had an audience besides. Ashlynn only kissed him now because she could do no other. Reluctantly he drew back a little, letting the general noise wash over them, his gaze burning into hers.
‘By God, lass,’ he murmured, ‘you play the game well.’
Her cheeks turned pink, much to the delight of the spectators for though they had not heard the words they thought they could guess the import. She took refuge in their noisy enthusiasm, trying to calm her thumping heart, overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge within it. She darted another glance at Iain but the look in his eyes did nothing to restore a tranquil mind. Did he really think this was some game to her?
It was no small relief when the column mounted up again and set off. The pace was steadier now but the cold no less for that. As they rode, the hills closed in around them, a barren snow-clad waste of rock and heath and dead bracken that vanished into mist above. Ashlynn shifted her weight in the saddle, aching with the chill and the long hours spent on horseback and longing for nothing so much as a warm fire and hot food, wherever they might be found. However, not for anything would she have uttered a word of complaint. These men already regarded her as a liability and, although their manner appeared to have softened a little today, she would not give them any cause to despise her further. Nor would she have them think the less of their chief for wedding a soft Sassenach wench. Pride kept her chin up and her tongue silent but, as the afternoon wore on, the effort became greater.
Iain, riding alongside, saw her pallor with concern and could well understand the cause. The journey was hard enough, never mind all that had gone before. Had it been any other woman he would have expected tears at least by this, but then, he acknowledged, Ashlynn wasn’t just any woman. Experience had shown him her courage; he could only guess at the will-power that kept her going when others would have cracked. By rights she should have after all that she had endured of late. Her silence touched him more than any words could have done and seeing her composure now he felt the first stirrings of pride.
* * *
The afternoon was wearing on when they came at last to the head of a narrow valley. Seeing the sudden lightening of spirit in the faces of the men nearby, Ashlynn glanced at Iain. Interpreting that look aright he nodded.
‘This is Glengarron.’
She should have felt relief to hear those words but now her stomach knotted instead. This was the lion’s den, the place from which there was no escape. The cavalcade rode into the misty glen in single file for the way was narrow with trees on one side and the peaty waters of a racing burn on the other. On either side the hills rose into the low cloud and marked their passing with the muffled echo of the horses’ hooves. After about half a mile the glen widened out and through the snow the muted outlines of houses were just visible in the distance. However, it was not the houses that held Ashlynn’s attention for there, dead ahead, a great granite outcrop thrust up from the ground and, brooding over the whole scene, a fortress that might have grown from the rock itself.