Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
In the dim light Tyra could only just make out the tall figure of a man as he stepped onto the ice ahead of her, holding his claymore at his shoulder, ready to strike.
As silent and still as a statue, despite the treacherous ice underfoot, he reached a hand for her as her attackers fell back.
Shaking all over, she took the stranger’s hand and he helped her up.
“Behind me,” he ordered.
Her heart jumping wildly, she obeyed without question, slithering behind his broad back in a trice, while her pursuers took a step in retreat. It was clear that whoever that man was, he was no friend of theirs.
One of the men sprang forward, holding out a long dagger, crouching low, the fingertips of one hand holding him steady on the ice while the other aimed his blade at the intruder’s thigh, ready to bring him down.
With one terrible swoop of his claymore, the stranger cleaved the hand holding the knife from the man’s arm. Then, as the screaming man rolled on the ice, the stranger skewered him with the point of his blade with a lightning-fast move through his heart.
Tyra swallowed her breath as another man crept from the side holding a short sword aloft, preparing to strike. The stranger swiveled toward the man, wielding his deadly claymore once more.
His opponent had not a whisker of a chance. The tall swordsman, with one swift motion, sliced the creeping man’s throat with the long claymore before he could even draw close enough to land his blow. He went down, blood gushing from his wound, to lie motionless on the ice.
After watching both his companions dispatched to their fate, the third man managed to edge his way to the place where Tyra crouched behind her rescuer. He snatched at her arm and dragged her to stand as a shield between himself and the swordsman, shoving his dagger ruthlessly at her throat.
The warrior swiveled toward them, blood dripping from his claymore.
“Hold, where ye are,” Tyra’s captor growled. “I’m taking the lass wi’ me and ye’ll nae stop me.”
Her breath was coming high and fast in her throat as the man dragged her to the edge of the ice, the warrior standing by silent and still, able to do little more than watch.
She had no doubt the man gripping her arm so painfully with his dirk at her throat would not hesitate to plunge it into her neck if any move was made by her rescuer.
A heartbeat passed, then two, and with each moment she was closer to the edge and her captor’s escape.
Without a thought she let herself go limp, turning into a dead weight, giving no thought to the possibility of the knife ending her life. She already knew it would be forfeit if the man succeeded in taking her.
As she slumped to the ice, the man’s balance was upended, his feet slithered as he desperately sought to regain his balance, his hands flailed, the dirk fell onto the ice with a clatter. Before he could right himself, the warrior was upon him, with moves as swift as lightning.
In a trice the claymore severed the man’s head from his body, and blood spurting, what remained of Tyra’s assailant fell and rolled off the ice to lie the gravel and pebbles at the side of the burn.
There was no strength left in her legs to help her scramble to her feet as her savior lifted her from the ice where she lay.
His arm surrounded her waist and he held her tightly, here legs giving way.
She registered the strength in his arm, the hardness of his chest, his scent of sweat and leather filling her nostrils as she leaned into him.
Her heart stuttered at the knowledge that his man had risked his life to save her.
“Can ye walk, lass. I’ve a horse tethered nearby and I wish tae leave this place with all speed.”
“Aye, I believe I can,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe, still not quite sure if she was alive or dead. He supported her with his strong arm at her waist as she walked with him until they came upon the place where his horse was tethered.
“Are ye injured, milady? Have any of those brutes hurt ye or harmed ye?
“Nay.” She managed a soft laugh. “There may be a bruise or two on the morrow, yet, thanks tae ye I have all me arms and legs and me throat intact.”
He held her upright, waiting while she restored her balance, despite trembling from head to toe now that the ordeal was over.
“I thank ye, sire. I am deeply grateful tae ye fer rescuing me. If ye’d nae come when ye did, the Lord kens what would have become of me.”
“I did what I had tae, lass. I saw ye were in a dire situation.” He bowed from the waist. “I am the Laird Ewan Mackenzie, milady. As ye are on me lands ye are under me protection.” Through a sliver of moonlight creating a small, dappled place among the snowclad trees, she sensed his eyes on her.
Looking up, she caught his puzzled expression.
“I can scarce make out yer features, lass, yet from what I can tell ye’re nae kent tae me. Are ye nae from around here?”
She felt a moment’s relief. Surely the Mackenzies were nae friends to the MacDonalds of Sleat. But in the tumble of thoughts bedeviling her mind, she struggled to recall what she knew of the clan’s alliances.
“I am half-sister tae Laird Edmund of the MacNeacail Clan of Scorrybreac on the Isle of Skye.”
“I am well pleased tae be of service milady. But what were ye thinking lass, tae be abroad on such an inclement night as this in a place where those ruffians could attack ye?”
She huffed in indignation. “’Twas nay fault of mine that I was waylaid.
I had merely taken a turn tae stretch me legs after arriving at the inn with me two men-at-arms.” She sniffed loudly, recalling the dreadful fact that both Dugal and Ghillie were no more.
“I believed we were in a place of safety.”
He grunted as he untied is horse’s reins from where he was tethered.
“I can only apologize that ye met danger here on me lands. I didnae ken there were bandits hereabouts. I shall have me men patrol the braes and the glens tae ensure there are nay other ruffians here tae imperil travelers in me lands.”
She raised a hand, slanting him a smile. “Nay mind, Laird Mackenzie. I believe it was me those blackguards were pursuing.”
He glanced up at her in alarm. “How so?”
“I cannae say at this moment.”
“It seems a hidden menace may have caught up with ye.”
She peered at him warily. In the dim light it was not possible to see if his eyes were honest. While her body still surged with the shock of the attack, it seemed sheer foolishness to trust this man.
Though his words and brave actions identified him as a noble man, she had no way of being sure he was the laird he claimed to be.
For all she knew, he could be an ally of MacDonald.
Sucking in a desperate breath she continued to search her memory for any recollection of Clan Mackenzie and their alliances. Her head swam as she tried to remember anything she’d heard of the Mackenzies from Harris MacDonald when she’d been in his company.
She only knew MacDonald was a traitor who had betrayed her and her clan. His allegiances were not to other Scotsmen, but to English and southern barons who could buy him with gold and influence from their king.
No. She made up her mind. This man was not allied with MacDonald.
His hand was still on her waist and she found herself reassured by the strength of his arm. Even though, in the hint of moonlight she could only make out his tall, broad outline, there was something in that deep, baritone voice flowing like treacle over her senses that warmed and comforted her.
“We’d best be gone from this place.” He enfolded her in his wool cloak, keeping her close. Are ye fit tae ride before me on the saddle, lass? I’ll take ye tae the village.”
Tyra thought she could trust him to escort her to the inn. “Aye. I would be grateful if ye could take me tae The Thistle and Briar where me horses and belongings are being held.”
He held out his hand to assist her to mount. “There’s nay telling if those evil-doers have companions close at hand waiting tae finish the job they were set tae dae.”
She placed one hand on the saddle and he lifted her with ease. Once she was settled, he sprang up behind her.
It seemed natural to lean against him as the horse began its slow and difficult walk through the trees toward the roadway.
The uneven ground was blanketed with white and a smattering of snowflakes still swirled in the air.
Tyra was shivering now, her teeth chattering both with cold and the horror of what she’d been through.
Something stirred deep inside her. It had been so long since she’d been held and comforted, feeling the strength of a man supporting her. She allowed herself to sway with him, inhaling his scent of horse, leather and sweat, and even the faint, metallic, reek of blood.
Tyra MacNeacail, what on earth are ye thinking? Ye cannae let down yer guard, even fer a second, nay matter how tired and cold ye might be. Unseen danger is all around.
She stiffened, shifting in the saddle, creating distance between herself and the Mackenzie – if that was truly who he was – shocked at the power of her reaction to his nearness.
Her mind struggled with the question of what she should do once she reached the inn.
Should she seek to employ two men from the village to act as her guardians and continue on her journey? Or should she return to Skye? If Harris had, as she now believed, tracked her, there was no longer any call for secrecy. Wherever she went he would likely know her whereabouts.
She caught her breath, her heart foundering, as the danger she was in fully dawned.
Ewan swung his horse into the inn yard. The landlord who had been standing by the door, rushed forward to greet them, wringing his hands.
He nodded to Tyra and bowed to Ewan, tugging his forelock between fingers and thumb.
“Thank the dear Lord the lady is safe wi’ ye, Laird Ewan. When word came that two men had been slain and there was nay sign of her, we feared the worst.”
Ewan dismounted and lifted Tyra out of the saddle to stand, still unsteady, beside him. She inclined against him, still unsure of her footing, greatly relieved to hear the landlord addressing him as “laird,” verifying who he claimed himself to be.
“The lady requires a warm fire and a bowl of good broth tae warm her.”
“Of course, Laird Ewan. It is all prepared and awaiting her pleasure in the parlor, even though I was afeared she was lost tae us.”
Within the space of only a few minutes, Tyra peeled off her damp outer garments, placed a soft, warm rug around her shoulders, and was seated by a roaring fire, with a large steaming bowl of chicken broth beside her on a small table.
She supped on the delicious broth, savoring the taste of carrots and barley along with the chicken, slowly feeling the return of life to her fingers and toes.
All at once, both her prospects – a return to Skye, or the onward journey to the Priory – overwhelmed her, washing over her like a king tide. One false step and she’d be swallowed whole. For several long moments she felt herself deluged with hopelessness.
But soon she straightened her shoulders. This self-pitying would never do. She must make sense of what had taken place, summon her courage, and make plans.
After consulting with the landlord for some minutes Ewan strode back into the room standing tall before the fireplace.
“I’ve given instructions fer yer two lads tae be taken care of. If ye wish, I shall make arrangements for them tae be returned tae Skye tae their families.”
She nodded her agreement. It was painful to think of the terrible fate that had befallen her trusty companions. There would be much grieving in the MacNeacail keep at their loss.
He turned to her and dipped his head so that his face was captured in the golden light of the fire and she saw him fully for the first time.
His features were rugged and weather-worn, indicating a man who spent much of his time outdoors.
His nose was straight and proud, his cheeks had seen the angles of a sharp blade, and his mouth was wide and generous.
She would not call him handsome but something more compelling.
This was a man who stood his ground proudly, who would not quail in the face of danger, a man who could earn the trust of a lady, not demand it. He was unlike any man she’d ever seen.
Her heart jumped. His appearance was as distant to that of her former fiancé as day was to night.
Where Harris was tall and slender, this man towered, his shoulders and chest were expansive, while the great size and strength of his arms robbed her breath.
She’d seen him wield his hefty claymore as if it was nothing but a twig.
And, where Harris’s hands were elegant and soft, this man’s hands were broad, scarred, and calloused, hinting at the warrior she knew him to be.
For the briefest, most foolish moment, she wondered if those roughened hands might, at a touch, prove soft… even gentle.
What am I thinkin’? This is but a stranger I’ll ne’er see again.