Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tyra slipped toward the training yard, hoping to glimpse Ewan there.
She breathed in the crisp, morning air, catching the scent of pine from the nearby forest and the briny tang of the sea.
The morning sun spilled over the loch, gilding the walls of Eilean Donan in a sharp, dazzling light.
The wind tugged at banners and tossed loose straw across the flagstones, waves lapped gently against the rocks below the castle, their rhythmic murmur underscoring the clang of wooden practice swords striking shields in the courtyard.
The distant call of seabirds echoed over the water, mingling with the occasional whinny from the stables.
Ewan stood among his guards, the familiar tension of command settling into his shoulders.
The men were arrayed in a semi-circle, weapons in hand, ready for the morning drills.
Each strike and parry fell into a precise rhythm, a kind of battle dance Ewan led with his commander’s authority.
Every motion was deliberate, controlled, yet charged with rippling strength that could break bone if needed.
The leather of the men’s gloves creaked and the metal of their swords sang as they met shield and blade.
He had already removed his tunic and she watched as he stripped off even his simple linen shirt so that he was bare to the waist. She sucked in a breath, taking in the coiled muscle along his arms and back shining with his sweat as he moved, cat-like, his every pivot and strike made with absolute precision.
She licked her suddenly dry lips. The scents of leather and sweat mingled with pine and the smoke from the castle hearth, a heady mix that made her heartbeat quicken.
The faint morning chill lingered on her skin, carried by the breeze that rustled through the banners flying above.
Tyra had wandered into the yard, under the pretense of passing by, but she paused at the edge of the circle, tingling at the sight of Ewan moving with such authority.
Every deliberate step he made captivated her – the precision of his stance, his slight shift of weight that turned defense into attack.
She could hear the scrape of leather boots on stone, the soft grunt of exertion, the sharp ring of steel meeting steel.
She lingered, tucking her woolen cloak around her, the cold seeping through the soles of her boots, her breath a cloud of mist in the icy air. Even after the time she’d spent at Eilean Donan, seeing Ewan like this – alive, commanding, untamed – still stirred something deep within her.
When the guards finished their drills and dispersed, stretching and wiping sweat from their brows, Ewan’s eyes found hers. His lips curved into a half-smile.
“Watching like a hawk, are ye?”
Tyra felt her cheeks warm. “I… uh, I was passing.”
“Aye,” he said, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Passing. Yet ye stopped by. I shall take that as a compliment.”
She straightened, trying to appear nonchalant. “Would ye… show me some of it? Teach me a few movements?”
He shook his head, a teasing grin on his lips. “Tyra, ye have nay need tae fight. Ye ken I will always protect ye.”
“I dinnae want tae be helpless,” she said firmly. “I want tae ken how tae defend meself if the time ever comes. If ye’re nae here.”
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?”
“I have time fer ye,” he said, stepping fully into the room. The air seemed to shift around him — warm, taut with tension, charged with the same energy that had followed them from the yard.
Tyra set down the comb, brushing a stray lock from her shoulder. “Time fer me?” she asked, teasingly.
“Fer ye,” he said simply, eyes darkening with something more intense than mischief.
He crossed the room with measured steps, narrowing the space until she felt the heat radiating from him. The tension was palpable, a charged wire running taut between them. Tyra’s pulse fluttered as his chest brushed against hers.
“Ye’ve changed,” he murmured. “Since arriving here, ye’ve… grown intae this place. Intae yerself.”
Tyra’s breath caught. “I’ve had a good teacher,” she said softly, thinking of the morning’s training – his hands steadying her, correcting her, guiding her.
Ewan’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I hope that is true. Otherwise, I fear I have guided ye too harshly.”
She laughed softly. “Too harshly?”
“Only in the sense that a skilled hand may bruise,” he replied, leaning closer. “Though ye have managed tae leave me both impressed and distracted.”
Tyra’s cheeks warmed. “Distracted?”
“More than ye ken,” he said, his voice dropping, husky with feeling. “Ye have a way of drawing me attention… and holding it.”
He reached for her hand, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. The touch was deliberate yet electric. Tyra felt heat gather low in her belly, a longing she no longer denied.
“Dae ye always speak in riddles or is it only when ye wish tae unsettle me?” she asked, teasing, her voice trembling.
“Only when I mean tae.” He gave a soft laugh, their bodies nearly touching, the air between them vibrating with unspoken desire.