Page 2 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Ghillie hastily redid the belt on the saddle that held the pannier. She saw him signal to the ostler who was waiting at the stables but she was in no mind to wait for him.
Breathing deeply, exhaling small, steamy clouds into the icy air, Tyra tramped along the muddy roadway, passing a row of fishermen’s cottages along the seafront where several small craft were tied.
Some distance behind her, Ghillie was hurrying to try and catch up.
She nodded to an old woman who shuffled past, bundled into so many layers of clothing that only her eyes and a tuft of grey hair were visible. There were only a few villagers about, hurrying, heads down against the falling snow, most of them carrying baskets or sacks of provisions.
As a fisherman informed her, this time of year, there was little fresh produce available, and the villagers survived with bartering between themselves of salted fish, eggs and cheese, drawing on supplies laid up from harvest time.
Realizing with a jolt that she’d walked further than she intended and had passed the last of the cottages, Tyra turned back into the gathering darkness. She’d only walked a few paces toward the now distant lights, when she heard quick footsteps surging behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder just in time to witness the dark figure of a man emerging from the woods beside the road, rushing toward her.
Heart stuttering, she broke into a run, but before she’d progressed more than a yard or two a rough hand was laid on her shoulder, restraining her. A wild scream of terror and rage broke from her throat as she struggled against the man, trying to tear herself from his grip.
It was only a moment before she felt the point of a dirk pressed hard into her ribcage, the sharp edge just piercing her skin.
“Hold still, ye chit,” came a gruff, muffled voice out of the darkness, “or I’ll slice ye like a slaughtered lamb.”
She managed another piercing scream before a giant hand came up, crushing her lips against her teeth, brutally attempting to stifle the scream about to fly from her mouth. Pulling her head back, her screams reduced to mere guttural bleats, she looked around, helplessly, for someone who might help.
Her blood ran hot with elation as she made out the figure of Ghillie rushing toward her in the gloom. And, not far behind him was Dugal.
For once their surveillance was not a burden but a source of hope.
The foul-smelling man who was holding her must have caught sight of the two men rushing to her rescue with swords raised, for he grunted, dragging her backwards a few steps.
Dugal was shouting as he raced toward her, “Halt, ye swine. Let the lady go.”
The man snarled. “Come closer, and the lady dies.” She felt the sting as he dug his blade against her ribs.
While his attention was momentarily diverted by her lads, she made a sudden twist that caused him to him to fumble with the dirk. Struggling, she managed to keep out of reach of his weapon, yelling with all her might to her defenders. “Take nay notice, lads. Come quick. He cannae hold me.”
In a trice, Ghillie and Dugal closed in and her captor was forced to let her go, turning to face the slashing swords of her would-be rescuers. Taking advantage of the moment, grabbing up her skirt, Tyra turned and raced back along the road, her ears resounding with men’s shouts, her rasping, indrawn breath and the deadly clash of steel on steel.
Glancing back over her shoulder as she ran, she was horrified to see two more men dashing onto the road. One of the newcomers engaged with her two men-at-arms, who turned to take the fight fiercely, while the third man set off in hot pursuit after Tyra.
She gasped in a breath and, gathering her courage, made a desperate bid to outrun him, her feet in her leather bootsslipping and sliding in the rutted road, her skirt and petticoat tangling around her legs, slowing her down.
Up ahead, two villagers, watched, seemingly spellbound at the action taking place. As she drew closer to the bystanders, the man gaining on her with every step, she beseeched them for aid.
“Help me,” she yelled. But the two women seemed frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as her pursuer caught up with her, seizing her arm in an iron grip. She struggled, managing to drag her own dirk from her belt, slashing wildly at the man’s arm.
“Damn ye,” he cursed, lashing out with a fist, sending her dirk flying from her hand. Yet that brief moment’s respite provided her with an opportunity to break free. Summoning every last scrap of her failing strength to evade him, she ran screaming toward the inn, now not more than thirty yards further on.
But the road was empty, there were no villagers to lend her assistance and she still was too far from the inn to expect any help to come from the men there. Her soldiers were likely still fighting the other two attackers, yet Tyra didn’t dare look back to confirm, reluctant to lose even a moment of momentum.
Although willing herself on, she was puffing, chest heaving, out of breath, her body tiring. Her legs, heavy as lead, were giving out. Try as she might, she found her steps slowing.
In a flash the man was on her again, only now he was joined by the others.
Have me two soldiers been killed?
Before she could draw breath to scream again for help, the men had seized her arms and grabbed her around the waist, holding her fast. Twisting and turning, screaming desperately for aid that was not forthcoming, there was no escape. Two of them pinned her arms while the other bound a cloth tightly around her mouth, silencing her screams.
“Hurry lads,” one of the men ground out, “Before someone comes looking fer her.”
The two men holding her arms half-carried, half-dragged her back along the road where she’d so recently strolled, enjoying her momentarily illusion of freedom. Her heart was pounding with the force of a thousand hooves as, with every step, she was forced further away from any chance of rescue.
