Page 10 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Assuring himself that Tyra was sleeping peacefully, he turned and walked to the door, Malcolm following behind, gesturing toward his laird’s personal chamber. “Is there aught ye wish me tae fetch for ye, Laird Ewan, before ye rest yer head fer the night?”
But who will watch out fer the lass’ safety?
Ewan shook his head, his mind suddenly made up. “If ye can bring me the bolster from the bed so I can rest me head along wi’a warm coverlet and a flagon of yer best ale I’ll take me chances outside the Lady Tyra’s door fer a wee while.”
“Indeed.” Malcolm nodded. “That is right thoughtful of ye, milaird.”
Ewan refrained from sharing that he held fears that whoever had ordered the attack on her might still be lurking hereabouts. Whatever that evildoer had planned for the lady, it was certain his business was not finished. Should there be another attempt to assault and abduct her, he would see to it that they would fail.
Once Malcolm had delivered the items he’d requested, Ewan hunkered down on the floor outside Tyra’s door, making himself as comfortable and as warm as possible. After pouring himself a long draft of ale, he settled down to his vigil, glad of the opportunity to clear his thoughts and take stock of the events that had happened too fast for him to yet fully make sense of them.
He told himself that his protectiveness toward the bonnie lass was naught but the duty he bore toward any soul who found themselves in dire straits on Mackenzie land. Yet he knew in his heart, that was not the half of it. His offer of hospitality toward Lady Tyra MacNeacail was far more than what his duty called for.
He could scarcely bring himself to admit the way his body had responded to the warm soft curves he’d held in his arms, nor the way in which the brush of her hair against his cheek and its scent of violets, had aroused him.
He wanted to see her again. He wanted her to spend time at his castle, Eilean Donan. Yet those thoughts sent a stab of shame through him.
He took a long slow draft of ale and silently cursed himself for a fool.
The candle slowly guttered and died and, as the noises of the inn slowly faded, he at last closed his eyes. He allowed himself to drift into a wary sleep ready to wake at the slightest sound.
He woke with a jolt in pitch darkness. A faint creak and a rustling sound set his nerves on edge and, heart beating fast, he reached for his dirk. Seconds passed and then came a squeak and a scamper. Rats! He breathed deeply until his heartbeat returned to normal. Then, placing his dirk close beside him he slipped into an uneven slumber for the remaining hours of the night.
In the first grey light of dawn he opened his eyes and got to his feet. He stretched, breathed in deeply several times, shook his arms and legs to banish the stiffness, and declared himself to be awake. Not wishing to disturb Lady Tyra he slipped quietly down the corridor to his bedchamber. Once there, he removed his shirt, splashed himself with icy-cold water from the ewer on the bedstand, dried off on a linen cloth, and exchanged his muddied kilt for a pair of trews and a fresh shirt.
He made a mental note to remind Malcolm to make sure his shirt was laundered and hanging in the garderobe in case he should require the room on another occasion.
Shrugging on his fur-lined vest and flinging his plaid cloak over his shoulders he was stepping out of his room when he confronted the landlord approaching, steam rising from a large ewer he carried.
“’Tis no matter, Malcolm. I thank ye, but I’ve washed already. Had to break the damn ice in the jug before I did so.”
“Apologies milaird, I didnae ken ye were awake.”
“Can ye take the hot water tae the lass?”
Malcolm nodded and they both turned in the direction of Tyra’s room. There was no sound of movement as Ewan strode to the door and knocked loudly.
“Our landlord is here wi’ hot water fer ye tae bathe, Lady Tyra.” He pressed his ear closer. A sigh, a grunt, and a soft, inaudible murmur were the only responses forthcoming.
He reached for the latch and lifted it, nodding to Malcolm. He pushed the door open and Malcolm entered with his jug and Ewan a few steps behind him.
From what he could see, Tyra was lying under the covers as she’d been when he’d deposited her on the bed last night. He deduced her eyes were open, but the coverlet was pulled up to her chin and only her collar was visible. She moaned softly as Malcolm placed the hot water on the washstand and set about re-kindling the fire in the grate.
“Are ye all right, milady?” Ewan enquired.
She moaned again. “Me head aches, Laird Ewan. I am afraid tae sit up fer fear the world will be spinning as it was last night.”
Ewan chuckled. He had experience of being far more tipsy than she was last night. “I daresay the world is nay longer spinning, Lady Tyra, and once ye are up and breaking yer fast, the ache in her head will fade.”
She sat up slowly, still clutching the coverlet close to her chin.
“Did ye… was it ye who…?”
Her cheeks blushed a most appealing shade of pink. Amused, Ewan could not restrain a soft chuckle.
“If ye’re asking how it was ye came tae yer bed, lass, then I confess it was meself who carried ye up the stairs.”
She gasped, her hand shooting up to cover her mouth. “Then I must thank ye, Laird Ewan. I recall I was rather… out of sorts… last night.”
