Page 81 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Before heading down the stairs, he rapped sharply on Duncan’s door.
“Something’s amiss. Follow.”
He was already at the staircase when he heard his brother’s door opening and the hurried footfall behind him.
He hastened down the stairs of the keep, Duncan close behind him, and together they crossed the courtyard. There was no light shining from the kitchen window and, to his dismay, the doorway yawned open. As he stepped through, his breath caught in his throat.
The flagstones glistened in the torchlight, and the sight that struck him made his pulse spike violently: a broken cup smashed on the floor and spilt milk, curdling on the cold stone, its sheen smeared in a series of chaotic arcs. A dark, terrible foreboding gripped him.
Where was Tyra?
“By the gods,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze flicking toward the courtyard beyond. The door was ajar, and he could just make out the outline of a dark shape moving, too deliberately, too stealthily for it to be his own men. Breath hitching in his throat, he signaled Duncan, a dark shape against the wall, and whistled a signal, low and long, drawing the attention of the nearest guards. He dashed into the courtyard, every step on the damp flagstones sending a shiver of tension up his spine.
His heart sank as the chill of night and the smell of smoke from the torches mixed with something foul – the faint, metallic tangof blood carried on the wind. He raced with Duncan to the partly raised portcullis, hardly aware of the bodies of his guards lying prone in the trampled mud by the gate.
In the light of a wall-hung torch he caught a clear view of Tyra. MacDonald had one arm around her chest, the other at her throat. Her struggle was frantic; she fought like a trapped cat, her arms flailing, clawing at the arm choking at her neck, her hair whipping around her pale face.
The sight caused an excruciating tightening in Ewan’s chest and his pulse already thundering like a frantic war drum, increased its beat. Every step he took was calculated, every breath a silent prayer. He slid his sword slid from its sheath, the cold steel offering small comfort against the tidal wave of dread crashing through him.
He was suddenly aware of a body of men – around ten at a quick glance – waiting at the gate, and MacDonald, already almost among them. He still held Tyra in his cruel grip, her face, pale and terrified
Behind him, his soldiers surged forward. He held a hand to slow them, wary of MacDonald’s next move. The open space between the two groups of men seemed to stretch impossibly as he pushed forward, sword drawn, every muscle coiled and taut.
“Release her, ye cowardly scum!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the courtyard like a wild thunderstorm.
Illuminated in the flames from the Ewan’s torch MacDonald’s eyes gleamed with something darker than mere malice and hatred. Madness, bloodlust, and a wicked hunger for vengeance Ewan had never seen in any man.
MacDonald’s lips curled into a snarl, and with a sudden, cruel twist, he pressed one arm across Tyra’s chest and the other around her neck, squeezing until her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps.
“I should have ended ye the moment ye defied me,” MacDonald hissed, his voice low and deadly, “But ‘tis nae too late fer me tae take the revenge on ye that’s rightfully mine.”
Tyra’s eyes met Ewan’s, wide with a silent, desperate plea that made his blood roar with fury. The tight, vicious hold on her delicate throat had her gasping for breath. Her plight drove him forward with a reckless desperation that made his short sword and dirk feel like mere extensions of his own mighty wrath.
Every step brought him closer, the stones of the courtyard sliding under his boots, the night air sharp against his face, carrying the scent blood and the scent of pine from the castle’s surrounding forest.
Breathing deep to cut across the rising panic in his chest, he measured the distance between himself and the dark figure of MacDonald.
He gestured to Duncan across the chaos, a brief, sharp nod passing between them.
“Ye’re a coward, Harris MacDonald, venting yer failure on a woman. Ye’re nay more than a rabid dog, mad, roaming free when ye should be cut down.”
He saw that his words had cut his enemy, for the snarl on MacDonald’s face grew deeper. “Ye’re damned fer a fool, Mackenzie, thinking tae give yer life fer this worthless wee vixen.”
With MacDonald’s attention now fully focused on Ewan, Duncan moved in, a silent shadow, taking advantage of the distraction Ewan’s words created. Drawing closer he delivered a brutal kick to their enemy’s side. The man’s grip faltered, and Tyra stumbled free, gasping for air. Relief sparked in Ewan’s chest, a flash of hope he clung to like a lifeline.
Before MacDonald could right himself and seize her again, she had darted out his reach and both Ewan and Duncan, weapons drawn, leaped to join battle with their enemies.
Steel met steel with a clang that echoed through the courtyard. MacDonald lunged at Ewan with a fury that sent sparks from their blades into the darkness. Ewan’s muscles coiled, every movement precise and deadly, but his mind was only half on the fight. The other half was entirely consumed by Tyra – her safety, her fear, her presence that made him both reckless and meticulous at once. He could smell the sweat and blood mingling with the pine-scented night air, taste the iron tang of exertion on his tongue, feel the sting of the night chill on his skin.
MacDonald was relentless, his sword a brutal whirlwind. Ewan countered, parrying blows that rang like thunder in his ears. There was a blur of movement at the edge of his vision – MacDonald’s men spilling through the gates. Steel flashed under torchlight as the battle widened.
Ewan ducked a sweeping strike, sidestepped a thrust aimed at his shoulder, and thrust his dirk toward MacDonald again, only for the man to shift with lightning speed.
Tyra’s whimper reached him, and the sharp stab of fear at the sight of her struggling with yet another of MacDonald’s men nearly unbalanced him mid-lunge.
Ewan’s chest heaved with exertion and panic, his teeth clenched, the sudden metallic taste of blood where he’d bitten his lip centering him. Every muscle screamed with tension, his limbs moving almost instinctively as he closed in. “Hold fast, Tyra,” he yelled. “Dinnae fear. He’ll nae harm ye.”
The clash of steel, the guttural grunting of the men and the scraping of boots on stone, swallowed him a deafening cacophony. Sparks flew from clashing blades, the torch light illuminating MacDonald’s snarl in a ghastly orange glow. Yet for all the battle swirling around him Ewan’s awareness never left the woman he loved. He measured his moment, waiting for the opening that would let him strike with lethal precision.
