Page 79 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
As she entered the vast room, her only light was the dim flicker of a dying torch on the wall. She caught her breath. Its light danced across the worn wooden beams, throwing shadows that stretched long and thin like fingers across the floor.
Suddenly fearful, she hesitated at the threshold. She could hear her own ragged breath, high and harsh in her throat. Her hand brushed the edge of the wooden counter as she stepped inside, causing her to jump. Every sense was alert; every instinct whispered that the night held something more than emptiness.
She poured herself a cup of milk from the ewer, warming it by the heat of the stove, the liquid steaming gently in the cold night air. The familiar aroma was oddly reassuring, and she took a careful sip, the warmth settling in her chest. For a moment, she allowed herself to re-imagine the day and the joy of what had passed between herself and Ewan, their passion and their growing connection. She smiled to herself, distracted from the gloom surrounding her.
With the cup warming her hands she was about to slip through the kitchen door into the courtyard to retrace her steps back to the keep, when a subtle sound froze her mid-step. It was almost imperceptible. A rustle, like fabric brushing against stone. Her heart skipped. She glanced toward the window. Darkness pressed against the glass, thick and unyielding, yet she thought she saw a shadow flicker, vanishing the moment her eyes locked onto it.
A shiver coursed down her spine. She leaned closer, peering into the blackness beyond the glass. The night was empty, orso it seemed. A cold draft whispered through the slightly ajar window, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and the tang of pine from the castle’s surrounding woods. Tyra’s pulse quickened, and she fought to keep her hands steady, gripping the cup to her chest like a tiny shield.
Then the kitchen door creaked open.
Her breath hitched. A figure stepped inside, almost hidden by the darkness. A chill of horror surged through her as she recognized the lean, familiar silhouette. It was the one person she feared above all others. The Laird Harris MacDonald.
“Ye… How did ye get here?”
His gaze locked on hers, sharp and unyielding, and the slow curl of his lips into a predator’s smile sent ice through her veins. Her stomach knotted, and the cup slipped from her fingers. Milk splashed across the floor, warm and sticky, but she paid it no heed. The acid rush of terror through her veins made her tense, ready to flee, yet her legs felt like lead and try as she might she could scarcely move.
Frantic, she spun toward the rear door, heart hammering, but Harris was already moving, blocking her escape. His hand shot out, clamping her arm with an unrelenting force that made her cry out. The sudden pain jolted up her arm, and she struggled to wrench herself free, but there was no breaking his iron grip.
“Lady Tyra,” he murmured, the words curling around her like acrid smoke. “Did ye nae believe I’d find ye?”
“Let go of me!” Her nails dug into his skin, scratching and tearing, but he barely flinched. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to flee, to vanish into the night, but the distance to the door stretched impossibly far. She twisted, yanking to free her arm but, unyielding, he countered her every move.
The floor was slick with spilled milk, splinters of wood from the broken cup jabbing through her silk slippers as she struggled. She stumbled, barely catching herself on the edge of the heavy timber table. Harris jerked her back and pain shot through her shoulder. Her scream rose, muffled by the oppressive night, but she forced herself to keep moving, trying to create even the smallest gap between them.
He succeeded in dragging her toward the door and she looked around, desperate for someone, anyone, who could come to her aid. But outside, the courtyard was strangely still.
Every fiber of her being was screaming. She had tumbled into Harris’s trap and she could not escape.
His hand tightened, the iron weight of it crushing her arm.
“Struggle all ye like,” he said, his voice low and gloating, “Ye are mine now. Ye always have been.”
Her vision blurred with panic and tears, she twisted, kicking at his legs, scraping her heels against the flagstones. Her body ached, but fear gave her strength. She tried to throw him off, to create enough space to bolt for the rear door. Harris merelyleaned into her, his bulk pressing against hers, his hand gripping her with unyielding control.
Freedom seemed so close, yet impossibly far. Tyra’s mind raced. If she could just reach the door, if she could just turn the handle, she could vanish into the darkness. Her fingers stretched toward the latch, trembling and desperate. But Harris anticipated it. He jerked her backward, pulling her away.
Tyra’s slippers skidded on the slick floor, her body twisting as she desperately attempted to escape. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath. She clawed at his face, at his chest, anywhere she could reach.
The night air hit her as they passed through the kitchen door. Cold and sharp, it stung her face and made her gasp. Still, she struggled, twisting in Harris’s grasp. But his brutal power overwhelmed her.
“Quiet,” he hissed in her ear, the word loaded with menace. “Or it will only get worse.”
Her lungs burned, her muscles screamed in protest, but she refused to give in. Her mind raced through possibilities, desperate calculations of how she might turn the situation to her advantage.
Her heart threatening to burst from her chest, she twisted again, catching a glimpse of a spade leaning against the kitchen wall. If she could reach it… She struggled, kicking at him. Her handgrazed the cold metal, but Harris’s grip tightened before she could seize it.
With a sharp jerk, he yanked her backward, knocking her against the cold stone wall and kicked aside the shovel. Pain shot down her side, and she gasped, clawing at him in a frantic, useless motion. He leaned close, his face inches from hers, the predatory gleam in his eyes making her skin crawl.
Refusing to accept the inevitable, she kicked again at his legs, trying to bite his hands. Anything to make him loosen his grip. But every attempt only seemed to amuse him, his cruel smile widening as he dragged her further into the courtyard.
Struggling hopelessly, she ignored the cold, the weight of her terror, the ache in her arms. But her strength was waning.
Harris’s voice cut through her panic again, low and deathly. “Dae ye understand now? There is nay one tae save ye.”
She was shaking all over, not just from cold or fear, but from the realization of her utter helplessness against the awful force of the man she had once cared for. Her legs burned from the strain, her lungs heaved, but still she fought as best she could, teeth gritted, nails scraping, every fiber of her body alive with the primal urge to survive.
The yard stretched before her like a trap. Her eyes darted around for anything, some edge, some obstacle, some chance to slip free.
