Page 3 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Lyra pshawed loudly. “I willnae go wi’ the likes of ye.”
He rasped a laugh. “Good. Ye’re a feisty one. I enjoy holding a struggling lass. There’s more pleasure in it fer me.”
At that moment Lyra’s furious rage overcame the fear and trepidation that was almost too much to bear, and with blood running hot in her veins she spat a response at the barbarian.
“Dinnae touch me, ye son-of-a-low-worm. Ye smell rank as a fox’s den and ye look like… like…” She was almost lost for words. With his shaggy hair and his dirty red beard, she could only conjure the image of a Highland cow. But they were animals she was fond of.
“Ye’ve the appearance of a moldy bale of hay.” She gave a satisfied snort having found the image she sought.
“Enough.” The man gave her arms an extra twist upward. This time she couldn’t suppress her cry of pain as he dragged her toward the ruined gate. While she struggled, he simply slapped at her as if she was nothing more than a troublesome midge.
As he pushed her through the entrance, she writhed violently against the man whose grip never loosened.
“Let me go, ye piece of filth,” she yelled, to no avail. She resolved to say nothing more, as it was clear her struggles amused him.
The other three men gathered around, each of them leering at her and licking their lips in a manner that disgusted her. One of them reached a hand and pawed at her breasts through the fabric of her tunic and kirtle, causing her to shriek loudly.
With that, Red-Beard hoisted her in his arms as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley, and flung her over his shoulder.
She beat helplessly with her boots to his chest and her fists to his back, despairing that these men were taking her to an uncertain fate.
And then a sudden shout caught her by surprise. “Put down the lass,” came a deep, commanding voice. “Have ye ruffians nay ears tae hear what she says. She daesnae want tae go wi’ ye.”
CHAPTERTWO
Cursing 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.”
