Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After they had climbed under the covers and Ewan snuffed the candles, Tyra lay stiff as an over-starched petticoat, thankful for the bolster that kept them apart.
Inside, every smidgen of her being was vibrating and trembling, her blood running hot.
Her senses were reeling, her mouth still reacting to the feeling of his lips and tongue.
Her every breath inhaled his scent of leather, and smoke, reminding her of his taste of whisky and honey.
The sound of his voice as he had addressed her, gentle and strong, was ringing in her ears.
She knew now that she’d never had a proper kiss. Those limp, perfunctory, kisses she’d received from Harris that she’d so foolishly believed were how kissing was meant to be, were the merest shadows of what she’d experienced with Ewan’s kiss.
There’d never been those wild fireworks exploding, the darts of molten pleasure through her veins. And there was never that desperate longing for the kissing to go on and on until she was burnt to a crisp and there was nothing left of her but a puff of smoke spiraling up the chimney.
It had taken all her effort to hide her desire from him. Even so, she was unsure if she’d kept herself fully hidden. She groaned inwardly. The wanton way her body had behaved, reaching for the kisses she’d been craving for, for so long without even knowing they existed, would readily betray her.
She blamed the cèilidh. No wonder some people considered dancing to be a great wickedness.
When he’d held her and laughed with her, she’d been overwhelmed with myriad feelings that took away her usually measured reserve.
Why, she’d been transformed into a reckless lass, as giddy as any one of the young village lasses, laughing, shouting, skipping and twirling amid the chaotic fun.
She cautioned herself fiercely. Knowing so well the pain of heartbreak, she was loath to allow her feelings for Ewan to grow. He’d made it clear theirs would never be a love match.
Yet, despite this, she had begun to hope there could be more between them than the simple expediency of a marriage to gain protection for her and a useful alliance for him.
Despite the lateness of the hour, it seemed she would lie awake beside him all night, listening to his little murmurs, his steady breathing, and feel his warmth beside her.
Yet, she must have slept, for she awoke, surprised to discover Ewan was already up and pulling on his boots. She allowed herself a moment’s indulgence gazing at his strong arms and legs as he leaned down.
He looked up and grinned. “I thought that once we’d broken our fast, an early start would give ye an advantage over the other lasses.
Our trusty innkeeper has assured me he will wake the peddler and have him arrange his wares fer ye and me sister tae peruse before the other ladies arrive from hereabouts.
Ye shall have first dibs on the finery.”
She smiled at his thoughtful gesture.
There was no sign of either Isla or Duncan when they reached the dining room. Their meal was spread on the table awaiting them.”
“Let us proceed with this repast.” Ewan said. “Me sister is mayhap primping in her room while Duncan…” He shook his head. “Mayhap he’s still sleeping.”
They had broken their fast and were about to go in search of the peddler and his wares when Isla came sweeping in.
“Go ahead. I shall break me fast and meet ye. I am so looking forward tae sampling the goods the peddler has brought.”
Malcolm appeared and directed them across the yard to a small hut behind the stables, where the peddler was displaying his goods.
As they strolled through the cobbled yard Ewan reached for Tyra’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
He smiled at her and she found herself wondering what it would be like to be sharing this moment if theirs was a love match.
Would their passion continue or would his interest in her fade without the magic of romance.
They arrived at a small building behind the stables. The peddler was there, his packhorse and carthorse tethered nearby.
He bowed and swept from his grizzled head a green velvet bonnet adorned with a large feather. “Davie De Ville at yer service,” he said with a flourish of his cap.
Despite his rotund form, and several missing teeth, he was a dashing figure in layered clothing, well braced against the weather.
Tyra took note of the fine fabrics and the cut of his linen shirt and woolen over-tunic, his warm wool trousers, his chausses, and his leather boots.
All of which served as ringing endorsements for the quality of his goods.
His cart was piled with bolts of fabrics, while more were stacked beside them on a table and bench.
Tyra gasped in delight as she scanned the colorful array.
Grinning, Ewan waved a hand. “Choose whatever ye wish fer, Lady Tyra.” He turned to the peddler. “Please show the lady the best of what ye have.”
Tyra gave her head a slight shake. “Laird Ewan, ye dae ken I have many fine gowns still in me garderobe at Scorrybreac. I shall send fer them in due course. And I have coin tae pay fer me own choices.”
“Nay lass. This is what I want fer ye. I ken ye’ve only gowns that have been re-shaped fer ye. Now, ye can have whatever ye wish and it will be made fer ye and none other. And, as me betrothed I am the one tae pay fer whatever items yer heart desires.”
Her cheeks flushed warm. “Why thank ye fer such a kindness, milaird.”
David De Ville was only too happy to produce each bolt of cloth that took her fancy and unroll it before her.
She was enchanted by the silks from China, some as soft as gossamer and others heavier like damask.
Then there was wool, some of it so fine it was almost as light as the silk.
Her fancy was taken by a bolt of delicate, fine-woven wool in a vibrant saffron yellow.
“Ah, ye have excellent taste, Lady Tyra,” said Davie, obviously a man well versed in flattery.
“That is the finest woolen fabric in Europe. It comes from the Imperial City of Aachen, where the weavers are held in the highest esteem. The wool is from Spanish sheep which produce the most excellent wool.”
Ewan studied her. “Aye, that will look well on ye, Lady Tyra.”
She looked up, catching his eye and the intent expression on his face as he regarded her.
He looked away as her eyes met his, almost as if he did not wish her to see the admiration in his eyes.
She smiled to herself.
She was quite unable to resist three lengths of the Aachen wool in yellow, a deep indigo and a soft rose. She chose several headscarves in gossamer silk in the softest of colors, and two lengths of damask.
She dithered over two lengths of Italian velvet, unsure of which to choose. One in a magnificent royal blue, the other in forest-green threaded with gold,
Ewan laughed. “Why, take them both Lady Tyra. Ye will be equally bonnie whichever ye choose.”
When she went to protest, he nodded to the peddler. “Package them both along wi’ the rest.”
Her heart warmed at his concern and the sweet indulgences he was happily bestowing on her.
They were joined by a smiling Isla. She and Tyra put their heads together over several lengths of silk that had captured Isla’s eye.
“I shall leave ye two tae continue yer dallying,” Ewan said, calling over a couple of stable boys to keep an extra eye on the lasses and because there was safety in numbers, “while I shall seek out Duncan.” He turned to the peddler.
Please leave the packages wi’ our good landlord, Malcolm.
He will make the payment on me behalf and see tae it that the goods are delivered tae the castle. ”
By the time Isla had made her selection and the packages had been prepared by the peddler, Ewan returned with a bleary-eyed Duncan in tow.
Isla turned to Tyra. “Me younger braither has the appearance of having nae slept last night.” She flashed her a wry grin
Ewan glanced at the sky. “We shall still catch the tide at its lowest if we leave now.”
The grooms left to get their horses from the stable while Malcolm carried out the party’s small leather panniers.
Once they were attached to the saddles, they mounted and with a wave to innkeeper, trotted out of the innyard to the road leading them to castle Eilean Donan.
“Let us take me quicker route,” Ewan said, and they turned their horses to take the path through the trees, setting off at a good trot for the short ride to the causeway.
Tyra shivered as they wound their way through the trees along the narrow path, passing close to the place where Ewan had appeared in response to her screams and cries for help. Was it only a mere week ago that she had left her brother’s birlinn and journeyed there?
The were about to turn from the trees to the path leading down to the water when they heard a sharp crack, like the sound of a twig trodden by a horse.
At the sound, Ewan instinctively dropped one hand to reach for his dirk, while with the other he wrenched his claymore from its sheath beside his saddle. Duncan did the same.
Before they had time to take another breath, horsemen burst from the trees ahead of them, brandishing their short swords, cutting off the path to the causeway. The attack came like a storm breaking, steel flashing through the mist.
Ewan barely had time to draw his claymore before the first man was upon him. He swung low, the heavy blade cutting clean through mail and bone. The impact jolted up his arms. The man toppled backward from the saddle, blood spraying across the ferns.
Another rider pressed in fast, too close now for the claymore’s long reach. Ewan dropped the hilt to his left hand, snatching for his dirk with his right, his big battle-hardened warhorse unfazed beneath him.
But his enemy’s short sword was quicker. He’d scarcely had a chance to parry, their horses colliding flank to flank in a tangle of leather and hooves. The man’s steed reared, shrieking, almost unseating his rider.
Seizing his chance Ewan drove his dirk up beneath the man’s ribs, twisted, and shoved him clear.
“Form up!” he roared, spurring toward Duncan. “Keep the lasses between us!”
The two men turned their horses forward to meet their attackers, Ewan yelling to Tyra and Isla to move behind them.
The women’s terrified cries were almost lost beneath the thunder of hooves.
Tyra’s horse wheeled wildly, eyes rolling white.
Isla clung to her reins, her braid whipping across her face.
Duncan fought toward them, his claymore hacking a brutal path through the melee. “On me!” he shouted, his voice raw.
They forced their way together, horses shoulder to shoulder with Tyra and Isla securely behind them.
The remaining attackers regrouped, circling like wolves, waiting for an opening.
Ewan’s chest heaved. Blood slicked his palm where he’d gripped the dirk. “We need room,” he muttered. “Can’t swing these long blades in close.”
Duncan’s eyes met his, a grim understanding passing between them.
“Aye,” Duncan said, spurring forward. “Then let’s make the move.”
They struck as one – plunging out of the circle with a roar. The sudden charge drove the enemy riders back a few crucial yards. The moment the space opened, Ewan swung his claymore high. The blade whistled through the air, connecting with a crack that split helm and skull alike.
Duncan mirrored him, using the claymore’s full reach now that they’d cleared enough ground. The brothers fought side by side, each sweeping stroke precise and brutal - every swing buying a heartbeat’s more space for the women behind them.
Even though they were rudely outnumbered, in a trice two of the men lay bleeding on the sward, while a third and fourth rallied to come at them at.
Tyra drew her horse close to Isla’s and they clutched hands, their lips moving in a silent prayer. Isla had closed her eyes, her hand holding tight to Tyra’s as she attempted to steady the horses, tightening the reins.
The enemy pressed again. Two riders slipped through the flank as one man attempted to wheel his horse toward the Tyra but Ewan was too fast for him. He saw the movement and tore his horse around, blood roaring in his ears.
The first attacker raised his sword to strike. The might of Ewan’s claymore took him mid-swing, the sheer force knocking him from the saddle. The second man ducked low and thrust upward — the blade slicing across Ewan’s chest in a blinding line of fire.
He gritted his teeth, breath hissing between them. Pain flared, but rage drove him forward. He lashed out in a final, vicious arc, the heavy steel cutting the man clean from his horse. Moments later Ewan’s long claymore descended, and the man’s head rolled on the grass at his feet.
Meanwhile, Duncan had made short work of the last man.
Ewan sagged in the saddle, blood soaking through his tunic. Duncan turned beside him, his own claymore black with blood.
“Ye’re hurt,” Duncan said, his voice hoarse.
“Aye,” he rasped. “But it’s done.” He spat blood into the dirt, his tone as cold as the steel in his hand, his eyes scanning for the women.
They were there, pale, trembling, but alive, their terrified horses nudging flanks, their faces pale, their hands trembling at the suddenness of the attack and its brutal end. His concerned gaze swept over them.
“Are ye all right?”
They nodded. “We’ve nae been harmed,” Tyra breathed. “But ye?” Her gaze went to his chest, where blood gushed from the wound in his chest.
“Dinnae fash. I’ve had worse than this in me day.”
Duncan attempted to laugh. “Come wipe yer blade, Braither. Let us leave this friendly grove before we are joined by more of these evil wee caitiffs attempting to put a dent in our cheerful morning.”
Both men wiped the blood from their claymores and sheathed them again, Ewan wincing as the strap caught across his wound.
Without waiting, he insisted on leading them at a canter down the path to the causeway. The tide was turning, the water beginning to rush in from the loch, but it was still low enough for their horses to traverse the short distance to the island.
They kept up the pace, Ewan kept the lead, yet by the time they reached the gates his shoulders were sagging and the front of his tunic was saturated with his blood.