Page 51 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
The air cleared and he lifted his head, meeting her eyes.
“I dinnae wish me own confusion tae cause ye hurt, Lady Tyra. I’m nae good at dealing wi’ the pain of memories that come over me when I draw closer tae ye.”
She glimpsed the pain and longing in his gaze and the ice surrounding her heart melted a little.
“Is this tae dae wi’ the memories of yer late wife that haunt ye?”
He formed his mouth into a tight line and nodded.
“Aye. ‘Tis so. I will explain meself tae ye another day.” He brightened, touching her hand, sending a ripple of warmth to her heart. “’Tis our wedding day, and I dinnae wish tae burden ye wi’ the sad truths of the past.”
She nodded. There were sad memories pressing on her heart also. And when he told her he felt his pain more as they drew closer, she recognized the truth in his words. In the few moments of closeness she’d shared with Ewan, she’d also felt thepain of her own shattered dreams. Those were the times when her past reared up, threatening to intrude on the future, dashing her hopes of finding love.
A pang of something like jealousy tied a small, painful, knot in her belly. Did he still love his first wife? If she still held his heart what did that bode for her marriage to him?
All at once, aware that her unshed tears were in danger of trickling down her cheeks, Tyra turned her head away, gulping in another steadying breath. It would not do for him to see the hurt and confusion his words had caused.
“Thank ye, milaird.” She nodded, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I must return tae me own chamber tae prepare fer the ceremony.”
Head high, she marched to the door. He stepped forward to open it and she moved past him into the passageway without another word.
On entering her chamber she could not contain a gasp of delight. In her absence the gown she had commissioned from Maeve was hanging by the garderobe.
The gown took her breath away. It was the saffron-yellow wool with the gold threads she’d chosen from the peddler, now transformed into a fashionable creation that would not be amiss in the royal court. It had a more fitted waist and a fuller skirt than she’d been used to, with buttons and a fur trimming down the front and gold embroidery at the neckline. The seamstressmust have worked day and night to have it ready for the special day.
Not far behind Tyra came a troop of maids from the kitchen with buckets of hot water. She luxuriated in the large copper tub lathered with rosewater soap, taking care to keep her hair dry and Isla’s handiwork undisturbed. Her body thrummed with a combination of fear, nervousness, excitement at the thought of what was to come. It scarcely seemed possible that today she’d be wed to Laird Ewan.
Yet, there was still so much unspoken between them.
After bathing, calmed by the soothing warmth of the waters, wrapped in her fur robe, she was partaking of a small repast of cheese and bannocks when there was a loud knocking at her door.
“’Tis me, Tyra. May I enter.” It was Isla’s voice.
Tyra’s soon to be sister-in-law burst into the room. Catching sight of the wonderful gown, she beamed.
“I was hoping tae assist ye wi’ yer dressing.” She examined the hanging gown. “Maeve has done a beautiful job in such a short time. It will suit ye, Tyra. Ye’ll be gold from head tae toe save fer those wee pearls in yer hair.”
Tyra’s hand went to her hair and the necklace entwined there. The little pearls kept her mother’s memory close. “And I thank ye fer yer artful fingers.”
Isla laughed and took down the dress. “Here, allow me tae help ye and tae make certain yer hair stays as it should.” She held the gown over Tyra’s head and eased it down without disturbing a single strand.
“Ye look beautiful, me sweet Tyra. Me braither will be lost wi’ admiration when he sets his eyes on ye.” Isla, concentrating on the many buttons, did not see the little frown creasing Tyra’s brow at her words.
“I hope that is so,” she whispered.
Before they vacated the chamber, Isla took up her scissors and cut a thin strip of fabric from Tyra’s old plaid woolen cloak.
“Ye must have yer clan’s plaid fer yer hands tae be bound with yer husband’s.”
Tyra’s heart jumped at Isla’s mention of the word ‘husband’. It made her happy and sad at that the same time.
The banqueting hall was humming with conversation when Tyra and Isla arrived at the arched entryway. As all eyes turned to them and the hall grew silent. Judging by the abundance of Mackenzie plaid on display, she guessed there were manycouncil members present along with some of the wives who lived close enough to the castle to be there at short notice.
Ewan and Duncan were there, beside Father Conran under the tall, stained-glass, windows, at the furthest end of the hall.
As she made her way through the smiling throng of guests, she was conscious of the numerous murmurs of approval that heartened her, raising her spirits somewhat after her earlier encounter with Ewan.
But it was the tall, broad figure of her black-haired groom, clad in his great kilt and black velvet jacket standing beside the priest that caused the breath to hitch in her throat and jolted her heart.
