Page 1 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
CHAPTER ONE
February 1312
Near Castle Eilean Donan, Wester Ross
Shivering in the bone-deep cold, Tyra MacNeacail tugged the hood of her fur-lined cloak to cover over her hair from the steadily falling snowflakes.
Although not a great distance, the passage across the sea from her home on the Isle of Skye to Wester Ross had been rough. She’d suffered terribly from seasickness, spending the voyage clinging to the rails of her half-brother Edmund’s birlinn, wishing for nothing more than to let the waves take her and plunge her to the bottom of the briny sea.
Yet, she’d survived, and here she was, en route to the Priory of Pluscarden at Moray, which was at least another three days’ ride. She shivered at the prospect of days on horseback in thisfreezing weather, when her legs were like jelly and her derrière already felt bruised and battered.
Dugald MacLeod, one of the two lads guarding her who had ridden ahead through the gathering gloom, grinned as he rode up to her, his bridle jangling. Judging by his ruddy cheeks and red nose he was feeling the cold as keenly as she was.
“The village is nae much further now, Lady Tyra.”
Her two stalwart defenders had been charged with keeping her safe at all costs. Even though she would have felt safer with a larger contingent of men-at-arms, she knew they would draw attention. To evade possible pursuit, this journey was meant for stealth, and she’d been whisked away from the castle and the island in secrecy.
She craned her neck, searching the dark, forbidding sky for a friendly spiral of smoke from a cottage chimney. But all was lost in the clouds.
“Thank ye Dugald. It will be good tae find a warm fire and something tae fill our bellies.”
Here in the rugged country, she was further from her home than she had ever traveled before, and to her great dismay, where she was heading was not at all to her liking. Once they arrived at the priory, her life would be lived in quiet reflection and prayer. It was a far cry from the bright, joyous, life she’d once believed would be hers. She sighed again.
It was not as if she had anything against nuns, but she’d always known the life of silent contemplation was not for her.
What she’d pictured for herself – not too long ago – was being wed to the man she loved, bearing his children, and creating a family of her own. Even though her hopes of a happy home had been dashed most cruelly, a tiny part of her still hoped and dreamed that somewhere there might be some happiness she could call hers.
But that hope was kept locked away in the furthest reaches of her heart, surrounded by a high stone wall that no one would ever be permitted to breach.
Over the past months she’d received an angry swarm of unsigned missives, all of them filled with dire threats of a cruel fate awaiting her – even threatening her death. At first, she’d said nothing, trying to ignore the letters, but as they became more numerous, they took a cruel toll. The threats haunted her. She’d become fearful, unable to sleep, nauseous, fretting over food she’d once enjoyed, her clothes loosening as she grew thin.
When, finally, she’d revealed to her brother and sister-in-law what troubled her, Laird Edmund had made every effort to discover who was sending the messages. Despite his efforts, the identity of the sender remained a mystery, yet as far as Edmund was concerned, they were sent by Laird Harris MacDonald, the man to whom Tyra had been betrothed. But there was no proof that MacDonald was the culprit and, ultimately, she had no recourse but to reluctantly agree with her brother’s plan to send her to safety at Pluscarden.
She shook her head. The memory of her fiancé’s betrayal was still too raw, too cruel, to allow her thoughts to dwell there.
Her fingers plucked idly at the reins. These last hours on horseback since leaving the ship had tired her, and she looked forward to a rest from the journey and a few blessed moments to herself.
Eager to escape the weather, all three urged their horses into a canter as the curling smoke from the scattering of whitewashed cottages ahead finally came into view.
The village was tiny, the population consisting of only a handful of fishermen, the landlord of the inn, and his staff.
In only a few minutes they were clattering into the deserted inn yard ofThistle and Briar. Ghillie, her other guard, assisted Tyra to dismount and handed her reins to the ostler, who was standing by ready to lead their horses into the stables.
“Feed them well,” Tyra said, “We’ve three more days before we reach our destination and our horses – and ourselves – will be sorely tested over such harsh country.” She glanced around, theirs were the only horses she could see. “Are there others staying here?”
“Nay, milady, ye and yer lads are the only ones taking respite here from this foul weather.”
This was good news. The fewer folk there were to take notice of her little party, the better.
Dugal left them, striding into the inn to consult the landlord about their overnight accommodation and to arrange a meal for all three. While Ghillie busied himself unstrapping their panniers, she stretched her arms and rolled her head to rid herself of the cursed crick in her neck. Her shoulders were tight with tension.
“I will walk a little way, Ghillie, I need tae stretch me limbs after such a long ride.” She gave a soft laugh. “Me poor legs are complaining that I have been sitting too long at me embroidery these past months.”
The man looked up, anxious creases appearing on his face.
“I’ll set this task aside, melady, and accompany ye. ‘Tis me first priority tae keep ye safe.”
Desperate to have a moment to herself, she tutted. “Dinnae fash, Ghillie. I’ll be back in minutes. I’ve nay intention of walking far, I just wish tae stretch me limbs after so long in the saddle and at sea. ‘Tis surely safe enough here. We’re far from Skye, and I doubt danger has followed us over the sea.” Although she understood the need for caution, the constant surveillance left her on edge, adding to her sense of peril rather than alleviating it.
