Bride of the Merciless Laird (Sparks and Tartans #14)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Near Castle Eilean Donan, Wester Ross

Shivering in the bone-deep cold, Tyra MacNeacail tugged the hood of her fur-lined cloak to cover over her hair from the steadily falling snowflakes.

Although not a great distance, the passage across the sea from her home on the Isle of Skye to Wester Ross had been rough.

She’d suffered terribly from seasickness, spending the voyage clinging to the rails of her half-brother Edmund’s birlinn, wishing for nothing more than to let the waves take her and plunge her to the bottom of the briny sea.

Yet, she’d survived, and here she was, en route to the Priory of Pluscarden at Moray, which was at least another three days’ ride. She shivered at the prospect of days on horseback in this freezing weather, when her legs were like jelly and her derrière already felt bruised and battered.

Dugald MacLeod, one of the two lads guarding her who had ridden ahead through the gathering gloom, grinned as he rode up to her, his bridle jangling. Judging by his ruddy cheeks and red nose he was feeling the cold as keenly as she was.

“The village is nae much further now, Lady Tyra.”

Her two stalwart defenders had been charged with keeping her safe at all costs.

Even though she would have felt safer with a larger contingent of men-at-arms, she knew they would draw attention.

To evade possible pursuit, this journey was meant for stealth, and she’d been whisked away from the castle and the island in secrecy.

She craned her neck, searching the dark, forbidding sky for a friendly spiral of smoke from a cottage chimney. But all was lost in the clouds.

“Thank ye Dugald. It will be good tae find a warm fire and something tae fill our bellies.”

Here in the rugged country, she was further from her home than she had ever traveled before, and to her great dismay, where she was heading was not at all to her liking.

Once they arrived at the priory, her life would be lived in quiet reflection and prayer.

It was a far cry from the bright, joyous, life she’d once believed would be hers. She sighed again.

It was not as if she had anything against nuns, but she’d always known the life of silent contemplation was not for her.

What she’d pictured for herself – not too long ago – was being wed to the man she loved, bearing his children, and creating a family of her own.

Even though her hopes of a happy home had been dashed most cruelly, a tiny part of her still hoped and dreamed that somewhere there might be some happiness she could call hers.

But that hope was kept locked away in the furthest reaches of her heart, surrounded by a high stone wall that no one would ever be permitted to breach.

Over the past months she’d received an angry swarm of unsigned missives, all of them filled with dire threats of a cruel fate awaiting her – even threatening her death.

At first, she’d said nothing, trying to ignore the letters, but as they became more numerous, they took a cruel toll.

The threats haunted her. She’d become fearful, unable to sleep, nauseous, fretting over food she’d once enjoyed, her clothes loosening as she grew thin.

When, finally, she’d revealed to her brother and sister-in-law what troubled her, Laird Edmund had made every effort to discover who was sending the messages.

Despite his efforts, the identity of the sender remained a mystery, yet as far as Edmund was concerned, they were sent by Laird Harris MacDonald, the man to whom Tyra had been betrothed.

But there was no proof that MacDonald was the culprit and, ultimately, she had no recourse but to reluctantly agree with her brother’s plan to send her to safety at Pluscarden.

She shook her head. The memory of her fiancé’s betrayal was still too raw, too cruel, to allow her thoughts to dwell there.

Her fingers plucked idly at the reins. These last hours on horseback since leaving the ship had tired her, and she looked forward to a rest from the journey and a few blessed moments to herself.

Eager to escape the weather, all three urged their horses into a canter as the curling smoke from the scattering of whitewashed cottages ahead finally came into view.

The village was tiny, the population consisting of only a handful of fishermen, the landlord of the inn, and his staff.

In only a few minutes they were clattering into the deserted inn yard of Thistle and Briar. Ghillie, her other guard, assisted Tyra to dismount and handed her reins to the ostler, who was standing by ready to lead their horses into the stables.

“Feed them well,” Tyra said, “We’ve three more days before we reach our destination and our horses – and ourselves – will be sorely tested over such harsh country.” She glanced around, theirs were the only horses she could see. “Are there others staying here?”

“Nay, milady, ye and yer lads are the only ones taking respite here from this foul weather.”

This was good news. The fewer folk there were to take notice of her little party, the better.

Dugal left them, striding into the inn to consult the landlord about their overnight accommodation and to arrange a meal for all three.

While Ghillie busied himself unstrapping their panniers, she stretched her arms and rolled her head to rid herself of the cursed crick in her neck. Her shoulders were tight with tension.

“I will walk a little way, Ghillie, I need tae stretch me limbs after such a long ride.” She gave a soft laugh. “Me poor legs are complaining that I have been sitting too long at me embroidery these past months.”

The man looked up, anxious creases appearing on his face.

“I’ll set this task aside, melady, and accompany ye. ‘Tis me first priority tae keep ye safe.”

Desperate to have a moment to herself, she tutted.

“Dinnae fash, Ghillie. I’ll be back in minutes.

I’ve nay intention of walking far, I just wish tae stretch me limbs after so long in the saddle and at sea.

‘Tis surely safe enough here. We’re far from Skye, and I doubt danger has followed us over the sea.

” Although she understood the need for caution, the constant surveillance left her on edge, adding to her sense of peril rather than alleviating it.

Ghillie hastily redid the belt on the saddle that held the pannier. She saw him signal to the ostler who was waiting at the stables but she was in no mind to wait for him.

Breathing deeply, exhaling small, steamy clouds into the icy air, Tyra tramped along the muddy roadway, passing a row of fishermen’s cottages along the seafront where several small craft were tied.

Some distance behind her, Ghillie was hurrying to try and catch up.

She nodded to an old woman who shuffled past, bundled into so many layers of clothing that only her eyes and a tuft of grey hair were visible. There were only a few villagers about, hurrying, heads down against the falling snow, most of them carrying baskets or sacks of provisions.

As a fisherman informed her, this time of year, there was little fresh produce available, and the villagers survived with bartering between themselves of salted fish, eggs and cheese, drawing on supplies laid up from harvest time.

Realizing with a jolt that she’d walked further than she intended and had passed the last of the cottages, Tyra turned back into the gathering darkness. She’d only walked a few paces toward the now distant lights, when she heard quick footsteps surging behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder just in time to witness the dark figure of a man emerging from the woods beside the road, rushing toward her.

Heart stuttering, she broke into a run, but before she’d progressed more than a yard or two a rough hand was laid on her shoulder, restraining her. A wild scream of terror and rage broke from her throat as she struggled against the man, trying to tear herself from his grip.

It was only a moment before she felt the point of a dirk pressed hard into her ribcage, the sharp edge just piercing her skin.

“Hold still, ye chit,” came a gruff, muffled voice out of the darkness, “or I’ll slice ye like a slaughtered lamb.”

She managed another piercing scream before a giant hand came up, crushing her lips against her teeth, brutally attempting to stifle the scream about to fly from her mouth. Pulling her head back, her screams reduced to mere guttural bleats, she looked around, helplessly, for someone who might help.

Her blood ran hot with elation as she made out the figure of Ghillie rushing toward her in the gloom. And, not far behind him was Dugal.

For once their surveillance was not a burden but a source of hope.

The foul-smelling man who was holding her must have caught sight of the two men rushing to her rescue with swords raised, for he grunted, dragging her backwards a few steps.

Dugal was shouting as he raced toward her, “Halt, ye swine. Let the lady go.”

The man snarled. “Come closer, and the lady dies.” She felt the sting as he dug his blade against her ribs.

While his attention was momentarily diverted by her lads, she made a sudden twist that caused him to him to fumble with the dirk. Struggling, she managed to keep out of reach of his weapon, yelling with all her might to her defenders. “Take nay notice, lads. Come quick. He cannae hold me.”

In a trice, Ghillie and Dugal closed in and her captor was forced to let her go, turning to face the slashing swords of her would-be rescuers.

Taking advantage of the moment, grabbing up her skirt, Tyra turned and raced back along the road, her ears resounding with men’s shouts, her rasping, indrawn breath and the deadly clash of steel on steel.

Glancing back over her shoulder as she ran, she was horrified to see two more men dashing onto the road. One of the newcomers engaged with her two men-at-arms, who turned to take the fight fiercely, while the third man set off in hot pursuit after Tyra.