Page 46 of Bride of the Mad Laird
“Aye. There was nae a soul wi’ her.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding.
Sohe was nae a prisoner of MacDougall’s men.
“Did ye see where this lass went after she’d slipped out of the gate?”
The night was dark and it would have been near impossible to see someone once they were further than a few steps beyond the gate. The response was a negative sounding grunt and a “Nay,” that sent Tòrr hurtling through the small, unlocked side gate, and tearing down the track.
There was only one direction she would have gone and that was toward the noost on the rocky shore below the castle.
Racing down the path with a sure-footedness that came from a lifetime of navigating the steep, perilous slope, he could scarce believe she was gone.
He groaned loudly. Had he scared her so with his coarse, lusty behavior that she’d fled into the night to escapehim?Was he as abhorrent in her eyes as the monstrous MacDougall?
He had to find her. He had to reassure her he’d meant her no harm. He had to explain – even without fully understanding it himself – that her very nearness aroused in him a deep, burning, need to hold her, to kiss her lips and take her to his bed.
God’s blood. How could I have been such a clumsy oaf as tae toy with such an innocent lass?
He had no answers for his own question.
With the wind howling in his ears and no moonlight to guide him, it was slow-going down the path, despite his familiarity with every slippery rock and hidden crevice.
He kept calling, “Lyra, are ye there?” but the words were flung back at him by the wind, which was now gusting so fiercely that every other sound was lost in the caterwauling.
When he finally reached the sandy shore, his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. He looked around him, desperately hoping he’d spy her small figure on the beach. But, except for the small fishing boats that had been pulled high on the sand, the long stretch along the shore was empty.
He ran down the beach, frantically calling her name. The sea was pounding high on the shoreline and his heart was in his mouth.
Where is she?
It was only when he ventured closer to the relentless waves that he was able to make out a dark shape in the water. He hauled off his boots, tossed them, and raced into the water. There was a muffled cry as he drew closer and realized there was a man struggling to the shore.
He raced in and dragged the man a few steps onto the strand.
“The lass…” the man waved a sodden arm.
Tòrr waded a few steps, screwing his eyes to peer into the darkness. It was then he heard the faint scream and saw the upturned boat further out.
His blood ran fast and cold in his veins at the sight.
Without even an instant of hesitation, he dived into the sea. Managing, somehow, to keep his head above the angry, choppy waves, he swam close to the little boat being tossed about so cruelly by the vicious swell.
Above the howling of the wind and the roaring sea, he heard a scream. The breath caught in his throat at the sound.
Lyra!
He could see her now, clinging tightly to the broken hull.
With one hand he grabbed the boat and pulled himself alongside, reaching for her with the other.
She seized his extended hand in a frantic grip. “Tòrr… thank the Good Lord…”
“Let go of the boat and put yer arms around me neck. I’ll hold ye.”
Whimpering, she still clung tightly to the plank with one hand.
“Trust me, Lyra.” He kept the terror out of his voice, holding steady and calm.
