Page 93 of Bride of the Mad Laird
But, as they did so, MacDougall’s attention shifted and Lyra, slumped forward, making herself a dead weight, dropping to the floor.
MacDougall reeled back, losing his grip on both her arm and the dirk, which clattered to the floor beside her.
He bent fast to seize it, but before he could grasp it, Lyra had it in her hands. She rolled slightly to the side and as he stooped over her, she brought up the weapon, holding it tight in her two hands, and stabbed it deep into his belly.
In a heartbeat Tòrr was on him. But the killing blow had already been dealt.
MacDougall grunted, doubling over, clutching himself as the blood spurted from his wound, his face contorted in pain. Then it was finished. His eyes closed, his body fell back, his hands giving way, the cruel sneer still twisting his face.
Tòrr slashed the ties on Lyra’s wrists and lifted her, sobbing, from the floor to cradled her in his arms. She was shaking all over. But, then again, so was he.
“We must go.” Edmund’s voice penetrated the fog that was overtaking Tòrr ’s thoughts and placed a hand on his shoulder. “The other guards willnae be far away.”
Even as he spoke the door was flung open and another group of gallowglass crowded into the study, their eyes fixed immediately on the prone figure of MacDougall stretched at Tòrr and Lyra’s feet.
In the brief space that followed, Tòrr stepped forward, still holding Lyra.
“Ye’ve naught tae fight fer now. Yer maister is dead and ye must let us leave here without obstruction.”
The gallowglasses looked around, seemingly dazed at the scene of carnage.
Then, with Matheus, Jacob and Edmund guarding his back, Tòrr walked toward them.
As he reached the first man, he withdrew a purse from his sporran. “And ye’ll nay be collecting yer pay fer all yer hard effort,” he said, almost gleefully.
He untied the purse strings and emptied a series of gold coins into his hand. While his audience was still frozen and uncertain, he tossed the coins into the air so that when they landed they were scattered across the study.
The gallowglasses scrambled about trying to gather the coins, losing all interest in Tòrr and Lyra as he and the others hastened out of the room.
When they finally reached the spot where their ponies were tethered, Lyra insisted they wait long enough for her to rip her kirtle and quickly bind both Tòrr’s wound and Matheus’s arm.
She was calm now, the shaking had retreated and all Tòrr could do was simply gaze at her as she saw to the wounds.
In time, bards would sing about the Lady Lyra MacKinnon, praising her great courage, her bravery and her beauty, but tonight, for Tòrr, breathing the same air as she did was enough.
As they rode slowly back to Dùn Ara, she sat proudly on the saddle in front of him. The woman of his heart and soul.
EPILOGUE
One Month Later…
Lyra had been up since before daybreak, creeping from the warmth of her bed while Tòrr slumbered on. She gazed on her husband’s dear face while he slept, his dark eyelashes curling on his cheek, his hair a messy tangle after their lovemaking.
After she’d washed and dressed quietly so as not to wake him, she hurried off in search of Claray.
She found her seated in the kitchen, gossiping with Bethia over a bowl of porridge and they both curtsied as Lyra entered.
“Oh please, dinnae let me disturb ye, I’m just...”
Both Claray and the cook chuckled.
“...ye’re just checking again that all the arrangements are in order fer the visit of dear Davina and her husband.”
Lyra huffed. “Of course. I am so tired of waiting; I need something tae dae.”
Claray laughed. “’Tis a long journey from Barra as ye ken. The Isle is several sailing days away. They’ll likely arrive today.”
Bethia silently filled a bowl with porridge and slid it across the table. “Come, Lady Lyra, break yer fast wi’ us.”
