Page 43 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Tyra gave her head a slight shake. “Laird Ewan, ye dae ken I have many fine gowns still in me garderobe at Scorrybreac. I shallsend fer them in due course. And I have coin tae pay fer me own choices.”
“Nay lass. This is what I want fer ye. I ken ye’ve only gowns that have been re-shaped fer ye. Now, ye can have whatever ye wish and it will be made fer ye and none other. And, as me betrothed I am the one tae pay fer whatever items yer heart desires.”
Her cheeks flushed warm. “Why thank ye fer such a kindness, milaird.”
David De Ville was only too happy to produce each bolt of cloth that took her fancy and unroll it before her. She was enchanted by the silks from China, some as soft as gossamer and others heavier like damask. Then there was wool, some of it so fine it was almost as light as the silk. Her fancy was taken by a bolt of delicate, fine-woven wool in a vibrant saffron yellow.
“Ah, ye have excellent taste, Lady Tyra,” said Davie, obviously a man well versed in flattery. “That is the finest woolen fabric in Europe. It comes from the Imperial City of Aachen, where the weavers are held in the highest esteem. The wool is from Spanish sheep which produce the most excellent wool.”
Ewan studied her. “Aye, that will look well on ye, Lady Tyra.”
She looked up, catching his eye and the intent expression on his face as he regarded her.
He looked away as her eyes met his, almost as if he did not wish her to see the admiration in his eyes.
She smiled to herself.
She was quite unable to resist three lengths of the Aachen wool in yellow, a deep indigo and a soft rose. She chose several headscarves in gossamer silk in the softest of colors, and two lengths of damask.
She dithered over two lengths of Italian velvet, unsure of which to choose. One in a magnificent royal blue, the other in forest-green threaded with gold,
Ewan laughed. “Why, take them both Lady Tyra. Ye will be equally bonnie whichever ye choose.”
When she went to protest, he nodded to the peddler. “Package them both along wi’ the rest.”
Her heart warmed at his concern and the sweet indulgences he was happily bestowing on her.
They were joined by a smiling Isla. She and Tyra put their heads together over several lengths of silk that had captured Isla’s eye.
“I shall leave ye two tae continue yer dallying,” Ewan said, calling over a couple of stable boys to keep an extra eye on the lasses and because there was safety in numbers, “while I shall seek out Duncan.” He turned to the peddler. Please leavethe packages wi’ our good landlord, Malcolm. He will make the payment on me behalf and see tae it that the goods are delivered tae the castle.”
By the time Isla had made her selection and the packages had been prepared by the peddler, Ewan returned with a bleary-eyed Duncan in tow.
Isla turned to Tyra. “Me younger braither has the appearance of having nae slept last night.” She flashed her a wry grin
Ewan glanced at the sky. “We shall still catch the tide at its lowest if we leave now.”
The grooms left to get their horses from the stable while Malcolm carried out the party’s small leather panniers.
Once they were attached to the saddles, they mounted and with a wave to innkeeper, trotted out of the innyard to the road leading them to castle Eilean Donan.
“Let us take me quicker route,” Ewan said, and they turned their horses to take the path through the trees, setting off at a good trot for the short ride to the causeway.
Tyra shivered as they wound their way through the trees along the narrow path, passing close to the place where Ewan had appeared in response to her screams and cries for help. Was it only a mere week ago that she had left her brother’s birlinn and journeyed there?
The were about to turn from the trees to the path leading down to the water when they heard a sharp crack, like the sound of a twig trodden by a horse.
At the sound, Ewan instinctively dropped one hand to reach for his dirk, while with the other he wrenched his claymore from its sheath beside his saddle. Duncan did the same.
Before they had time to take another breath, horsemen burst from the trees ahead of them, brandishing their short swords, cutting off the path to the causeway. The attack came like a storm breaking, steel flashing through the mist.
Ewan barely had time to draw his claymore before the first man was upon him. He swung low, the heavy blade cutting clean through mail and bone. The impact jolted up his arms. The man toppled backward from the saddle, blood spraying across the ferns.
Another rider pressed in fast, too close now for the claymore’s long reach. Ewan dropped the hilt to his left hand, snatching for his dirk with his right, his big battle-hardened warhorse unfazed beneath him.
But his enemy’s short sword was quicker. He’d scarcely had a chance to parry, their horses colliding flank to flank in a tangleof leather and hooves. The man’s steed reared, shrieking, almost unseating his rider.
Seizing his chance Ewan drove his dirk up beneath the man’s ribs, twisted, and shoved him clear.
