Page 80 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Harris pulled her close, arm tight around her, the heat of his body oppressive. “Stop struggling,” he hissed, the menace in his tone undeniable. “It will only hurt more if ye resist.”
She twisted, flailing in a desperate, violent motion that was more hope than strategy. Pain exploded in her arm where he held her, a cruel reminder of her weakness. Yet she refused to give in. Every second, every heartbeat, she resisted him, clinging to the desperate hope that somehow, some way, she could escape.
Her feet skidded on the frozen ground, fingers brushing the rough texture of the stone wall that bordered the yard. She tried to leverage herself, to push off, to run, but Harris anticipated every movement, pulling her closer.
The night seemed to stretch endlessly, the cold seeping into her bones, the fear coiling like a serpent in her chest. And yet, despite the terror, Tyra’s mind refused to surrender. She would not go quietly into whatever fate Harris had planned.
Harris leaned close again, his lips barely above a whisper. “Ye believed ye were safe,” he mocked, tightening his grip, the iron weight of it reminding her that the night belonged to him. “Now, there is nay Mackenzie tae rescue ye. Me men are waiting. They will make short work of his men if they dare tae follow. There is only me.”
“Ewan will kill ye when he finds out. He’ll come fer me, I’m sure.” Tyra’s scream rose again, sharp and desperate, cutting through the night, but it was swallowed by the vastness of the yard, by the cold that gnawed at her fingers and toes. She foughton, twisting, flailing, refusing to submit, even as Harris pulled her toward the portcullis, each step a reminder of the distance she had already lost, each breath a reminder of the peril that awaited.
The yard stretched before her, vast and cold, shadows lengthening under the faint light of the moon. Frost coated the grass, and the night smelled of damp moss and pine, sharp and biting. Tyra’s lungs burned with each desperate breath, her hands were raw from clawing at Harris, her legs trembling from the strain.
As he dragged her forward, her mind raced – not only with the present fear, but with memories. The letters. The folded, ink-stained sheets of parchment that had appeared under her door, in her chamber, even tucked under her pillow. Each one a promise of what awaited her at his hands. Torture. Death. Every word a razor, every line a threat so specific it had made her skin crawl and her belly roil with nausea.
Before she had left Scorrybreac she had burned the letters one by one, yet the fear had lingered, gnawing at her even in the light of day. She had believed herself safe at Eilean Doran, hiding there, cautious, careful, but he was like a spider spinning a web around her, waiting to pounce.
Now, in the chill of darkness, with his iron grip on her arm and his eyes sharp and unyielding, the horror came tumbling back. Every threat he had made, every cruel promise, every shadowed warning of his intent. He’d been preparing for that night.
“Ye thought the letters were naething more than words?” Harris murmured, his voice low and cruel, whispering in her ear. “Ye thought I would allow ye hide from me retribution fer yer faithlessness?”
Tyra’s chest tightened, and she shook her head, gasping, her teeth chattering from both cold and terror. Her mind scrambled for a plan, for anything to save her. Could she somehow convince him he was wrong about her?
But the portcullis loomed ahead, and with it, the men he had stationed there moving like dark, menacing, silhouettes, brandishing their weapons, ready. Her stomach twisted. The letters had warned her. Every threat of death, every promise of pain, was coming to life in the darkness.
She kicked out, smashing her heel against Harris’s knee. Pain shot through her foot, but her kick barely slowed him. He grinned, a cold, predatory curl of his lips that caused her stomach to plummet painfully.
“Ye’re vicious,” he said softly, almost admiringly, “but nae vicious enough. Ye can ne’er match me.”
The ground was frozen, uneven, and she stumbled, scraping her knees on frost-hardened cobblestones. Her nails dug into his wrist, leaving scratches that barely registered against his grip. Every step forward was agony, each movement a mix of fear and resistance.
His letters. She remembered one in particular, the ink still etched in her memory:“Ye cannae hide. Every night, every step, I am closer. The moment ye think yerself safe, ye will be mine. And when I claim ye again, it will be worse than ye ever imagined.”
Now she realized it had all been true. Every fearsome, vicious word, every threat, every subtle message meant for her to know he had been planning this, hunting her, shaping her fear, molding her into his helpless prey so she could never hope to escape.
The portcullis towered ahead, its dark iron bars casting long shadows across the yard.
Beyond the gate, Harris’s men waited, their chain mail and swords glinting in the dim light. Harris leaned close, the heat of his body pressing against hers. “Ye see me soldiers?” he murmured, his voice a coarse whisper. “All is ready. Ye cannae escape what awaits ye.”
He dragged her closer, each step pulling her further from the keep, from Ewan, and from hope. The letters had warned her of it, yet nothing could have prepared her for the sheer horror of that moment.
His men shifted like restless shadows, murmuring to each other, ready to take her wherever he willed. Terror caught in her throat. Those men were not there to escort her. They were there to ensure her submission – or worse.
Chest heaving, she tried to breathe past the terror, still trying to summon some thought, some plan. But fear clouded her mind, memory of the letters flashing in her head.
“Ye could have avoided this,” he whispered, voice low and cruel, “but ye were too proud. Too clever. Now…” He paused, tilting his head, lips brushing her ear. “… now there is nay escape.”
Tyra’s scream rose again, sharp and frantic, cutting through the night. Tears streamed like ice on her cheeks. She was trapped, caught in his grip, and being dragged toward the waiting menace beyond the portcullis.
Her hope died as the night pressed in, cold and dark. Now all that stretched ahead was the iron grip of a man who had hunted her for months, with waiting men, ready to do his evil bidding, and the darkness beyond.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ewan’s stomach knotted painfully, his unease growing as he paced the hall outside their chambers. Tyra had been gone too long. It was well past the time they usually retired.
The torchlight flickered across the stone walls, taunting his imagination with shadows that seemed almost alive. His hand clenched around the hilt of his dirk, knuckles whitening, as his mind raced through every possibility, every threat. Surely, she’d not attempted to leave the protection of the keep to venture outside to the kitchen? The prickling sense of dread, the same one that had haunted him ever since they’d been ambushed by MacDonald’s men, had returned. Fear was a rising tide in his chest, sharp as a knife and undeniable.
He’d trusted his instincts in battle and they’d never failed him. Now, with growing certainty, he feared the worst.
