Page 76 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
Ewan studied her for a long moment. Her eyes were bright, her jaw set, her stance firm. There was a determination in her that demanded respect. At last, he nodded. “Very well,” he said, his voice low and serious. “If it is skill ye wish tae learn, I shall teach ye. But know this – it will test ye.”
“I will nae falter,” she said, tossing her head defiantly.
The first lesson began with her learning correct stances. Ewan positioned her feet, adjusted her shoulders, and set the tilt of her hips. Every adjustment brought them into close proximity, the warmth of his body brushing against hers, the faint scent of him filling her senses
“Keep yer center steady,” he instructed, his hands lightly guiding her waist. “Balance is everything.”
Tyra nodded, trying to ignore the small shiver creeping down her spine. She planted her feet as he showed her the proper stance, the weight of her body anchored yet ready to move. She was aware of the sounds of the wind tugging at the banners, the echo of the loch against the rocks, as they mingled with her breathing, creating a rhythm all their own.
“Good,” he murmured, stepping back, observing. “Now, parry.”
Her first swing of the clumsy wooden sword was stiff, awkward. Ewan stepped closer, correcting her posture. His hands brushed against hers – a purposeful touch that sent a sliver of heat rippling through her.
“Ye are stronger than ye think,” he told her quietly. “Move with intention. Dinnae hesitate. Try again.”
She adjusted, focusing on the mechanical aspects of the fighting: the angle of her strike, the pivot of her wrist. This time, her blow landed – gently, but with deliberation. Ewan intercepted it, spinning her lightly. She gasped, laughter escaping her lips as she stumbled before regaining her footing.
“Careful,” Ewan said, the teasing glint in his eye betraying him. “Ye’ll throw me off balance yet.”
“Then I shall” she exclaimed, a spark of defiance lighting her face.
Their training grew playful. Tyra attempted a strike, Ewan intercepted and twisted her gently, spinning her until she shrieked with delight. Her laughter rang through the yard, free and spontaneous, bringing a smile to his lips. He caught her, steadying her against his chest, and whispered, “See? Ye have power ye dinnae realize. Strength enough tae defend yerself.”
She swayed slightly, flushed, fair wisps of curls damp against her forehead. “I… thank ye,” she said softly.
“Ye’ve learned faster than many men.” He brushed a hand along her arm, lingering at her elbow. “Stay focused but remember—strength is nae only in force. It is in control.”
He demonstrated again, slow and deliberate, showing her a block and counter, then stepped closer to guide her through it. Their bodies pressed together briefly as he corrected her stance, the warmth radiating through her.
Tyra’s focus sharpened. She met every adjustment with intensity, refusing to falter despite his distracting proximity. Every glance, every touch, sent a thrill through her.
“Ye have grit, Tyra,” Ewan said at last, breathless, although a faint smile lingered. “I wager ye will surprise more than one foe in the future.”
“Good.” Her chest was heaving, “I intend tae.”
Finally, they paused, the exertion leaving a flush on their skin, a sheen of sweat catching the morning sun. Ewan released her, letting her step back.
“If ye wish it, we shall continue on the morrow,” he said. “Fer now, eat, drink, and rest. Ye’ve earned it.”
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, grinning. “And will ye join me?”
“I’d be only too happy tae dae so, Lady Tyra.”
Their refreshments were served in the solar – some little cream cakes she’d not had before, cheese, cold chicken and bannocks, washed down with a goblet of mead.
After the meal they parted company, Ewan headed for his study, while Tyra retreated to their bedchamber to rest.
Later, the castle grew quieter. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, illuminating tiny specks of dust that danced in the sunbeam. The faint scent of pine drifted in through the open shutters, mingling with the lingering warmth from the hearth and the faint tang of sea air from the loch. Tyra sat at the small dressing table, brushing her hair with slow, deliberate strokes, speaking softly to the mirror.
“Ye must hold yerself steady,” she murmured. “Not just fer yer people, but fer yerself. Ye are stronger than ye ken.”
A shadow fell across the floor. Tyra looked up.
Ewan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a faint grin tugging at his lips. The sunlight caught the touch of copper in his dark hair, and his eyes glinted with mischief.
“Ye’re talking tae yerself?” His voice was full of amusement, low and teasing.
Tyra arched a brow. “And ye, I presume, have come tae remind me of a duty I might be neglecting?”
