Page 9 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Her sweet tooth was such that she found it impossible to resist the delectable-looking confections. She took a cake and nibbled it, and when she was done her fingers sticky with honey. Without thinking, she licked her finger, savoring the last scrap of the honeyed tidbit. Glancing up, she caught Ewan’s eyes fixed on her mouth.
“Excuse me.” She felt her cheeks flush with heat. “I forgot me manners fer a moment.”
“Dinnae fash, lass.” He smiled and for a moment Tyra forgot her awkwardness, smiling back and taking another gulp of wine. And another.
The terror of the day’s events had cut her to the bone and the Laird Ewan’s attentiveness and the wine helped dampen the horror for a brief while.
As the evening wore on, she felt herself becoming sleepy. She looked around the empty parlor, stifling a yawn. The journey and the terrible events of the afternoon were weighing heavilyon her. All at once a wave of dizziness swept over her, causing her head to swim. She clutched the arm of her chair to steady herself.
Placing a hand to her throat she shook her head. “Methinks I should take tae me bed, Laird Ewan”.
Oh dear. The walls seem tae be tipping and wavering alarmingly. Whatever is happening?
She rose a little too quickly, her feet almost tripping over each other, her legs unsteady. The room was definitely swaying.
Ewan leapt to his feet and grabbed her arm. She clutched him with both hands. If not for his support she would have ended in a heap on the floor.
“This place has the most devilishly uneven floors,” she said, holding tightly to his sleeve. “I can scarcely keep meself upright.” She giggled. “Ye must forgive me, Laird Ewan.”
Straightening her spine and raising her chin, she released her grip on his sleeve.
“I thank ye, but I am quite all right now.” She shrugged aside his proffered hand. “Nay bother, sire, I am quite all right.” With another breathless giggle, she took two steps forward, her hands outstretched for balance. She turned to him. “See, I’ve nay need of support.” And then she veered toward the wall.
“Oh!” She clutched the table and swung around to face Ewan. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Ye’ve nay cause tae laugh, milaird. Mayhap, after all, I dae require yer hand tae keep me upright.”
He hastily reached out his hand. Tyra clung to it tightly, unable to progress any further, her feet utterly failing to obey her commands.
Then, with a most annoying expression of amusement on his rugged features, Laird Ewan Mackenzie politely hoisted her into his arms.
“Begging yer pardon, Lady Tyra, tae save us both valuable time, I shall carry ye up the stairs tae yer room.”
“Nay. Nay. I dinnae wish tae be carried.” She squealed and shook her head vigorously as he strode across to the staircase holding her firmly in his strong arms. Mortified, she glanced around. Thank goodness the parlor was empty.
Yet those vexatious maids were peeking around the kitchen door at them, giggling to their impertinent hearts’ content.
“Put me down,” Tyra commanded, trying not to slur the words.
Ignoring her, he ascended the stairs, carrying her with the same ease as he’d lifted her into his saddle. She uttered an indignant huff, and then without another thought, she found her arms winding around his neck as he clasped her to his massive chest.
It was not an altogether hateful sensation to be enveloped in his arms, feeling his heart beating close to hers, his warm, hard body against her and his breath in her hair. She nuzzled her tired head on his shoulder, her eyes drooping as sleep began to claim her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malcolm was waiting for Ewan with a lighted candle at the top of the stairs. He led Ewan past the room that was set aside for his use whenever he stayed over in the village, and paused at the next doorway, his hand on the latch.
“I’ve made up the bed in this room for the lady, Laird Ewan.”
When Ewan grunted his approval, Malcolm opened the door and with the now dozing lass in his arms, Ewan stepped into the room and carried his bundle across to the bed. A soft snore issuing from her plush lips brought a smile to his face.
With Malcolm holding the light, he lowered Lady Tyra onto the soft mattress, gently removed her sodden leather shoes and rolled the folded coverlet over her. Although the fire in the grate had diminished to little more than a handful of glowing coals, the room was still pleasantly warm.
Before leaving he glanced down at Tyra’s sleeping form, noting how the paleness of her face contrasted with the long, dark, lashes curling on her cheeks. He was surprised by feeling oddly bereft that he was no longer cradling her in his arms.
Malcolm was looking at him with interest, his brow creased and his eyebrows lifting.
Ewan chuckled softly. He understood the landlord’s puzzlement and the reason for the muffled giggles emanating from the kitchen as he carried Tyra up the stairs. They were all too well aware there’d been no woman in his arms since the death of his wife and newborn daughter five long years ago.
He ground his teeth. Gossip spread quickly in these parts and he didn’t fancy word reaching a member of his Clan Council that he’d been seen carrying a woman up to her bed as if she was his bride. Even though they were aware of his vow never to remarry, his Council already gave him enough grief with their growing demands for him to wed and provide the Clan with an heir.
