Page 2 of Bride of the Mad Laird (Sparks and Tartans #12)

CHAPTER TWO

C ursing loudly, the man who was holding Lyra on his shoulder broke his stride. He flung her to the ground and reached for the axe he carried in his belt, while she struggled to her feet, her heart pounding.

“And who d’ye think ye are?” He snarled as two men strode forward and faced Red-beard and his men, preventing them from passing.

“We’re the men who will prevent yer kidnapping plan. Mayhap ye’ll ne’er find out who we are.” The man who spoke was as tall as Red-beard and almost as broad, but rather than the appearance of a shaggy beast, he was clad in a great kilt of fine woolen twill woven in a red and green plaid. His hair, black as a raven’s wing, reached his shoulders, and his eyes, shooting fire at Red-beard, were the gray-blue of a stormy sea. There was something about the man that drew Lyra’s attention, yet at the same time, his fierceness filled her with trepidation. One thing was certain – he was a handsome man, captivating in his brutality.

Each of the newcomers drew their claymore, hefting them in strong hands, prepared to fight.

It was clear these two, even though outnumbered, were skilled warriors, while the bunch of gallowglasses, lacking skill, relied on nothing more than their sheer size, strength, and brute force.

Lyra clenched her hands in terror, yet she could not tear her eyes away from what was unfolding before her. The four hulking gallowglasses launched themselves with a series of grunts and guttural mutterings at the two stalwart warriors blocking their path.

It took very little time and even less effort from the two warriors before two of the ruffians lay badly injured in the grass, groaning and clutching at their wounds, while blood flowed freely, turning the green grass red.

One of the remaining pair hurled himself at the second of the two warriors, holding his axe up high with two hands. Lyra flinched, her heart jumping like a jack-in-the-box as he brought down the axe with a mighty blow aimed at the head of the second of the two warriors.

But the lad was too quick. He feinted to the left and, leaning to the right, brought his claymore up under his opponent’s ribcage as swift as an arrow, piercing his heart.

With a deathly grunt, the brute toppled like a fallen tree, to lie unmoving at the warrior’s feet.

Meanwhile, Red-Beard was locked in battle with the tall, gray-eyed warrior. By now the barbarian was clearly tiring, swinging his battle-axe with less and less strength, failing with each attempt to land a blow. Every time he brought his weapon down, the warrior skipped nimbly out of the way.

The two men circled each other, Red-Beard’s face drawn into a terrible snarl. The other warrior maintained his calm, watching, parrying each wild swing of the axe, waiting for his moment to strike.

Although Lyra’s stomach roiled at the bloodshed and she trembled uncontrollably, she was strangely excited, hearing only the sounds of steel upon steel and the grunts and heavy breathing of the men. That these two warriors had come to her rescue just as she was despairing at her captivity, was surely meant to be. Her heart was in her mouth as she prayed for the victory of the tall, dark-haired warrior.

To her unbounded relief he took his advantage when it came, thrusting a fierce claymore through his opponent’s belly. Red-beard sank to his knees, blood spurting and, with a loud groan, he fell face forward and lay still.

It was over.

The two warriors hastily wiped the blood from their weapons and the slightly taller one of the pair turned to Lyra and bowed from the waist as calmly as if this was a mere Sunday afternoon pleasantry. She marveled at the cool way he had dispatched two men to meet their Maker, while her heart was hammering at what she’d been witness to.

“I am Tòrr MacKinnon. At yer service, lass. Ye’ve naught tae fear from these four unholy miscreants now.”

He turned to the other tall lad who also bowed. But where Tòrr was elegant, the second man was burly, his shoulders wide. “Me companion is named Edmund Sinclair.”

Still trembling, Lyra studied the two men. Both were good to look upon in their own way, although she had seen few men during her years in the Priory to make comparisons. Edmund’s strong face was marred by a scar that travelled from his temple to his jaw while Tòrr’s features were fine-boned, unblemished and aristocratic. Truth be told, there was something in Tòrr’s face that appealed to her more than Edmund’s, despite his fierce frown.

Hauling in a deep, steadying, breath, she curtsied, “I thank ye kindly fer yer valor. I dinnae ken who these wretches were, yet I feared fer me life when they took me.”

At that moment Mother Una came darting from the gate where she’d remained while the fighting took place. She carried the carved box containing Lyra’s precious items and the bundle of clothing they had put together. She seemed to recognize the dark-haired man.

She squinted, taking in the warrior’s features, a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I believe ye’re the Laird Tòrr MacKinnon, are ye nae? I remember ye from many years past. Now ye’re grown and have earned a reputation.”

Tòrr nodded, gravely. “Aye. That is me name.” He gave a soft laugh. “And, I ken some have called me The Mad Laird. I came here fer a meeting with the Abbott Finguine, who is one of me kin. We had business at the Monastery.” He gestured toward the distant Abbey, further along the path. “We were making our way back tae the village of Baile Mòr, planning tae take a boat over tae Mull, when we came upon these ruffians.”

“I thank ye most kindly fer yer intervention. Without it, I fear this lass would have been dragged with them tae a terrible fate.” Mother Una reached for Lyra’s hand. “I beg ye tae take the Lady Lyra wi’ ye tae the Isle of Mull.”

Lyra gasped.

What is this? I’ve only barely escaped from those barbarians and now Maither Una wishes tae foist me on tae these strangers.

In despair, she turned to Mother Una who spoke but quiet enough for Lyra to be the one hearing the words. “Lyra, dinnae forget the plan we made and the steps ye were tae follow if ye were in danger and needed tae escape.

Lyra nodded, recalling the instructions she’d memorized long ago. She had to flee across the water to Fionnphort. At the tavern there she was to ask for a man named Thorfinn Comyn, who would help her return to her clan lands.

She squared her shoulders and looked up at the Laird Tòrr. “I dinnae wish tae travel wi’ ye.”

Tòrr dipped his head. “Dinnae fash, lassie. I’ve nay intention of taking ye away from Iona. I’ve nay need fer a nun at me castle. The priest who bides at Dùn Ara is a solitary soul who’d nae take kindly tae a young nun disturbing his solitude.”

Mother Una quickly intervened. “Ye dinnae understand, me laird. This lady is nae nun but an oblate who has been wi’ us since she was a bairn. Enemies of her family have sought her out.” Here Mother Una caught her breath, signing the Cross. “She is in grave danger now they’ve discovered where she bides. She raised pleading hands. “I implore ye tae take her wi’ ye tae safety on the isle of Mull.”

Lyra observed this with a sinking heart. If she was taken to Mull in the custody of the Laird Tòrr, how would she ever be able to make her way back to the mainland, to her clan? She huffed with indignation.

The laird bowed deferentially to Mother Una. “I regret I cannae be of assistance tae the lass, Maither. I am nay sailing back tae Dùn Ara, but travelling tae me home on horseback.”

He turned to go.

Mother Una was wringing her hands in desperation, while Lyra looked on with a measure of satisfaction. She could hardly be blamed if Laird Tòrr was the one to refuse to take her.

“Look!” Mother Una cried out suddenly in great alarm, her hand pointing toward the waters of the Sound of Iona that separated Iona from the Isle of Mull. Although the light was fading and darkness would soon fall, it was clearly visible from where they stood. A boat was making its way toward the shore. “There are more of those evil men coming here. If ye abandon her she’ll be taken.”

Catching sight of the boat, Lyra felt a stab of ice through her heart.

Rowing hard against the tide were another eight men, dressed similarly to the four gallowglasses who had been defeated by Tòrr and his companion.

He groaned. “I see them. Ye’re right, there will be nay protection fer the lass.” He turned to Edmund who was nodding. “We must take her wi’ us. There’s nay choice fer I’ll nay leave the lass tae be taken by those vicious barbarians.” He reached a hand to seize Lyra’s arm. “Come, there’s nay time tae waste.”

Before she could so much as protest or even bid farewell to the Priory, Mother Una thrust her belongings into her arms and waved her away. “Go, quickly. Be safe. I shall send word tae yer clan of yer whereabouts, me dear.”

With that, the three of them hurtled down the path heading toward the village.

They raced along the shore; Tòrr held out a supporting hand to Lyra as she stumbled on the rocks, but she shook it away.

“Hurry lass,” Edmund urged. “We must reach our fisherman before the others reach the shore.”

Lyra ran as fast as she was able, Tòrr carrying her bundle and the carved box. Still her skirts tangled around her knees and the rocks underfoot caused her to tread too slowly. She felt as if she was a great burden to these men, a prisoner they’d been forced to take and protect.

When at last they came upon the boat they sought, the fisherman Tam who was to row them across the sound was waiting nearby. Lyra refused to stand by submissively, but bent her back along with the others as they hastily pushed the boat from the shore. Once they were in deeper water and Tam plied the oars, she took her place beside them without a word.

It was only as she watched the disappearing shore of Iona and the distant stone walls of the Priory, gulls wheeling overhead, that Lyra’s perilous situation truly dawned on her. Little did she know when the day had dawned, what would befall her by nightfall. Even her worst nightmare would not have prepared her for this day. Now, here she was, in the company of two strangers, fleeing from the only place she’d ever felt safe, having narrowly escaped being poisoned and kidnapped. She was heading for an uncertain future in a place she knew nothing about, except that it was taking her even further from her clan lands.

Trying to catch her breath, Lyra looked along the beach where the gallowglasses were just pulling their boat into the shore. As they reached it, to her horror, she saw one of them pointing in their direction. Several dun-clad men started along the beach heading their way.

“Quick, quick.” Her breath caught in her throat and her heart was pounding so hard she almost expected it to jump from her chest. She moaned as the men headed toward them at a run, shouting words she could not make out.

Tam, the fisherman, pulled hard on his oars while both Tòrr and Edmund unsheathed their claymores and hefted the heavy swords firmly in readiness. As the little craft skimmed across the water Lyra saw the men who were hunting her pushing their boat into the deep water.

“Can ye go faster?” Lyra tried to draw in a breath, but it seemed locked in her throat.

While she might escape, what would become of Mother Una and the sisters, now so unprotected in the nunnery. If the first four men had not hesitated to commit sacrilege by forcing their way into the nunnery and, even worse, striking Mother Una, she expected the others would show no mercy.

She grew cold, her fingers and toes tingled, her head was suddenly dizzy and her hands were stricken with a sudden, uncontrollable, shaking.

Edmund looked at her, a frown creasing his brow. “Are ye all right, lass?”

She shook her head, gasping, one hand clasping her chest as if to steady her heartbeat.

Tòrr caught her eye. “Dinnae fash, lass. We’re away. They’ll nae catch us now. Ye’re safe with us.”

He spoke kindly, but he did not understand. Her fear was not for herself, but for the sisters and Mother Una. She struggled to speak, but the words simply wouldn’t leave her lips.

They were still some way from the shore when Tam put up his oars. “Ye’ll need to slip over the side now. ‘Tis low tide and I cannae take the boat further in for fear of being jagged on those rocks.” He pointed to a row of sharp rocks exposed by the tide.

Edmund leaped over the side, the water well above his knees. Tòrr passed Lyra’s bundle and the wooden box over and Edmund began making his way toward the shore with her belongings under his arm.

Tòrr was tucking his kilt into his belt, paying her little attention. “There’s naething fer it, but fer us tae go into the water and wade tae shore. Tie up those robes, or else ye’ll be wet through.”

Lyra was still striving to draw breath and all she could do was shake her head while her fingers fumbled with her voluminous clothing. Suddenly it all seemed too much.

“Lass, we must away.” Tòrr threw one leg over the side of the boat, tipping it alarmingly, as he stepped into the water.

The boat righted itself and a shaking Lyra rose to her feet, still gasping, struggling to breathe evenly. She took a small step and raised one foot onto the edge of the boat which again threatened to tip. She gave a small, alarmed cry. Tòrr, who was standing in thigh-high water, urged her impatiently.

“Just slide yer leg over, lass, the water is nay deep. “Be quick if ye dinnae wish to be captured again.” He looked up at the sound of shouting from across the water. “They’re nae far behind us.”

Almost out of her wits by now, Lyra slowly lowered herself over the side into the dark water. As both her legs went in, she was suddenly afraid and clutched at the side of the boat, causing it to tip. She fell back, flailing, her feet scrabbling in vain for the seabed as the water rushed over her. Taking in a large, choking, gulp of salty water, she disappeared under the surface of the murky sea.

It was so dark. In her panic she quite forgot to hold her breath and the water rushed into her nostrils. She thrashed her arms and kicked her feet but she was weak and dizzy and it was impossible to tell which way would take her up to the surface and which direction would drag her to the bottom.

Her chest was burning as it filled with water. In one last desperate attempt, she managed to fling her arms wide, opening her mouth in a silent scream as the world became distant. She closed her eyes.

So, this is what drowning feels like.