Page 82 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
It came in a heartbeat. Tyra screamed Ewan’s name and MacDonald’s attention wavered momentarily, providing the opportunity for Ewan to drive his dirk forward with every ounceof his strength, stabbing deep and powerfully into the other man’s chest. MacDonald’s mad eyes widened in shock before he sank to his knees, collapsing into the dirt, blood gushing, as life left him in a final, shuddering gasp.
“Hold.” Ewan shouted, “the MacDonald is dead.”
The courtyard fell into an eerie stillness, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the crackle of torches.
Without another thought, Ewan rushed to Tyra, ready to slaughter the man who had hold of her. But the man had vanished into the darkness. Ewan immediately dropped to his knees to crouch beside her, brushing the hair from her eyes, tenderly enfolding her in his arms.
“Me love,” was all he said, brushing his thumb gently over the forming bruises on her neck. Relief softened the hard edges of his face as she leaned into his touch, shivering from both fear and the bitter night air. “Ewan… ye…” she began, voice trembling.
“I’ve got ye, lass,” he whispered, gripping her shoulders firmly, eyes his breathing ragged, his hear beating with love and protection. “Ye’re safe now. Dinnae move from me.”
She closed her eyes, letting her forehead rest against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart settle against his own. The lavender scent of her hair, mixed with the faint trace of smoke from the torches brought into sharp relief what he’d been fighting for. He lowered hishead, brushing his lips across her hairline, then her temple, finally capturing her lips in a fierce, desperate kiss.
The world fell away as he pressed her close, soft and alive.
She met his kiss with the same measure of intensity, as if each press of her lips was a promise that they had survived and would endure. His hands held her as if he could shield her from every threat in the world, his mind still reeling from the fight, yet entirely consumed by the woman in his arms.
Finally, when they parted just enough to breathe, Ewan rested his forehead against hers, whispering, “By the gods, Tyra… I thought I’d lost ye.”
Her trembling fingers clutched his tunic, tears glinting in the torchlight. “Never… never again, Ewan,” she breathed. “I dinnae want tae be parted from ye. Nae now, nae ever.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to her brow, brushing the hair from her damp face. Around them, the courtyard bore the signs of battle –scattered weapons, footprints in mud and dirt, the ugly, coppery scent of blood. But none of it touched them now. The danger had passed, the threat hovering like a dark shadow over them for so long had at last been extinguished. All that remained was the fierce, living pulse of love.
Ewan held her close a moment longer, letting the adrenaline drain from his body, feeling the warmth of her in the chill night. His hands traced the line of her shoulders, the small curve of her neck, reverently, as if memorizing every inch of her. Herlips brushed his again, softer this time, a quiet affirmation of survival, of life reclaimed from the jaws of violence.
“I swear, Tyra MacLaren,” he murmured into her hair, his voice low and rough with emotion, “nay man, nay threat… will ever take ye from me again. I swear it on me life, on me honor, and on the blood of me kin.”
She shivered at the weight of his vow, nodding against him, letting the tears slide freely now. Ewan’s own throat tightened as he swallowed back the emotion that threatened to shatter him entirely. The torchlight flickered across her face, illuminating every detail—every frightened, brave, beautiful line—and he knew he would carry that night, that terror, and that love in him forever.
Finally, he allowed himself a small, trembling smile. “Let’s get ye inside, lass. Ye need warmth and rest… and I need ye near me.”
She nodded, clutching his arm as he led her away from the courtyard, from the broken echoes of the fight, their bodies close, hearts still racing but beating together. Around them, the night held a fragile calm, the stars overhead winking down as if bearing silent witness to the end of a terror and the beginning of something fiercely, irrevocably theirs.
Ewan lifted Tyra into his arms, careful despite his exhaustion. “Ye need warmth,” he murmured.
Their chamber awaited with a roaring fire and the scent of burning pine. Ewan set her down gently, the bed’s warmth acomfort against the chill of the night. Tyra sat, drawing her knees close, and Ewan knelt beside her, brushing his thumb over the bruises that still bloomed faintly across her neck and shoulders. His fingers trembled slightly, and she caught his hand, pressing it to her cheek.
“I’ll nae hide from ye, Ewan. I believed there was nae hope,” she murmured, her voice steadying despite the lingering tremor of the fight. “Ye didnae give up. Again, ye were prepared tae lose yer life fer me…”
A heat rose in him at her words, a fierce, protective fire. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “By the gods, lass… ye dinnae ken how near I felt I was tae losing ye. Every moment, I felt the weight of the world, the terror that I might nae—” His words caught in his throat as her hand went to his face, tilting it so their eyes met.
They lingered there, breath mingling, hearts hammering in tandem. He was pulled from the edges of panic into something tender, intimate. He drew a slow, deliberate line with his lips from her temple to the curve of her neck, careful but reverent, and she shivered at the touch, leaning into him.
Tyra’s fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, and Ewan’s hands moved over her shoulders, tracing the path of healing and bruises, careful yet filled with desire born of relief and love. Each brush of skin, each shared breath, was a promise, an acknowledgment that they had survived and could finally exist without fear.
“Ewan…” she whispered, voice trembling yet confident, “I need ye… now. Fer us. Fer what we are.”
He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss soft at first, exploratory, tender, tasting the faint salt of tears mixed with the warmth of her skin. The kiss deepened gradually, building with the intensity of the night they’d survived, but never crossing the line into explicitness. Hands clutched at cloth and hair, and yet every movement was charged with the intimacy of love and relief. The firelight flickered across them, shadows dancing on the walls, echoing the tumultuous night outside.
They pulled back briefly, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. Ewan’s voice was low, hoarse with emotion. “I’ll guard ye, Tyra, every day, every night… fer all me life. Ye ken that, aye?”
She nodded, lips brushing his again, softer now, a quiet, intimate affirmation. “Aye… and I’ll be with ye, Ewan Mackenzie. Through all the storms and the nights like this.”
EPILOGUE
Eilean Donan Castle, four days later
Tyra snuggled under the fur coverlet, careful not to disturb Ewan sleeping restfully beside her.
