Page 4 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
“Take yer hands off me,” she shrieked. “Ye’ve nay right tae touch me.” Her voice was shrill with terror and despair as she fought to stay out of their grip.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere came a deep, commanding, voice rumbling over the ice like a coming thunderstorm.
“Dae as the lady tells ye lads. Take yer brute hands off her.”
CHAPTER TWO
In the dim light Tyra could only just make out the tall figure of a man as he stepped onto the ice ahead of her, holding his claymore at his shoulder, ready to strike.
As silent and still as a statue, despite the treacherous ice underfoot, he reached a hand for her as her attackers fell back.
Shaking all over, she took the stranger’s hand and he helped her up.
“Behind me,” he ordered.
Her heart jumping wildly, she obeyed without question, slithering behind his broad back in a trice, while her pursuers took a step in retreat. It was clear that whoever that man was, he was no friend of theirs.
One of the men sprang forward, holding out a long dagger, crouching low, the fingertips of one hand holding him steady onthe ice while the other aimed his blade at the intruder’s thigh, ready to bring him down.
With one terrible swoop of his claymore, the stranger cleaved the hand holding the knife from the man’s arm. Then, as the screaming man rolled on the ice, the stranger skewered him with the point of his blade with a lightning-fast move through his heart.
Tyra swallowed her breath as another man crept from the side holding a short sword aloft, preparing to strike. The stranger swiveled toward the man, wielding his deadly claymore once more.
His opponent had not a whisker of a chance. The tall swordsman, with one swift motion, sliced the creeping man’s throat with the long claymore before he could even draw close enough to land his blow. He went down, blood gushing from his wound, to lie motionless on the ice.
After watching both his companions dispatched to their fate, the third man managed to edge his way to the place where Tyra crouched behind her rescuer. He snatched at her arm and dragged her to stand as a shield between himself and the swordsman, shoving his dagger ruthlessly at her throat.
The warrior swiveled toward them, blood dripping from his claymore.
“Hold, where ye are,” Tyra’s captor growled. “I’m taking the lass wi’ me and ye’ll nae stop me.”
Her breath was coming high and fast in her throat as the man dragged her to the edge of the ice, the warrior standing by silent and still, able to do little more than watch. She had no doubt the man gripping her arm so painfully with his dirk at her throat would not hesitate to plunge it into her neck if any move was made by her rescuer.
A heartbeat passed, then two, and with each moment she was closer to the edge and her captor’s escape.
Without a thought she let herself go limp, turning into a dead weight, giving no thought to the possibility of the knife ending her life. She already knew it would be forfeit if the man succeeded in taking her.
As she slumped to the ice, the man’s balance was upended, his feet slithered as he desperately sought to regain his balance, his hands flailed, the dirk fell onto the ice with a clatter. Before he could right himself, the warrior was upon him, with moves as swift as lightning.
In a trice the claymore severed the man’s head from his body, and blood spurting, what remained of Tyra’s assailant fell and rolled off the ice to lie the gravel and pebbles at the side of the burn.
There was no strength left in her legs to help her scramble to her feet as her savior lifted her from the ice where she lay. His arm surrounded her waist and he held her tightly, here legs giving way. She registered the strength in his arm, the hardness of hischest, his scent of sweat and leather filling her nostrils as she leaned into him.
Her heart stuttered at the knowledge that his man had risked his life to save her.
“Can ye walk, lass. I’ve a horse tethered nearby and I wish tae leave this place with all speed.”
“Aye, I believe I can,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe, still not quite sure if she was alive or dead. He supported her with his strong arm at her waist as she walked with him until they came upon the place where his horse was tethered.
“Are ye injured, milady? Have any of those brutes hurt ye or harmed ye?
“Nay.” She managed a soft laugh. “There may be a bruise or two on the morrow, yet, thanks tae ye I have all me arms and legs and me throat intact.”
He held her upright, waiting while she restored her balance, despite trembling from head to toe now that the ordeal was over.
“I thank ye, sire. I am deeply grateful tae ye fer rescuing me. If ye’d nae come when ye did, the Lord kens what would have become of me.”
“I did what I had tae, lass. I saw ye were in a dire situation.” He bowed from the waist. “I am the Laird Ewan Mackenzie,milady. As ye are on me lands ye are under me protection.” Through a sliver of moonlight creating a small, dappled place among the snowclad trees, she sensed his eyes on her. Looking up, she caught his puzzled expression. “I can scarce make out yer features, lass, yet from what I can tell ye’re nae kent tae me. Are ye nae from around here?”
