Bride of a Scottish Warrior Page 12

  “Holy hell!” Simon gasped.

  Moving with surprising speed for such a large man, Simon twisted and tried to elbow Ewan in the gut. Ewan leaned to the side and the blow glanced off his ribs. Recovering, he caught Simon’s arm and wrenched it behind his back.

  “Ye appear to be lost,” Ewan hissed, yanking the arm higher.

  “Arghh.” Simon’s moans echoed through the corridor. “Let me go, ye ignorant bastard!”

  “Not until ye explain yerself.”

  “What are ye doing here? Ye should be in the bailey, sleeping with yer men.”

  Ewan felt a strong urge to choke the fool. Lord only knew what might have happened if he had followed Simon’s dictates and left Grace on her own. “I’m here to protect my lady from worms like ye.”

  Simon stiffened. “Release me at once.”

  “Or what?” Ewan challenged.

  “Lady Grace will regret it.”

  “Bugger that!” Ewan’s upper lip curled in a snarl. He gave Simon’s arm one more hard jerk, then pushed the man away. “Off with ye! Run back to yer chamber before I change my mind and gut ye like a fish.”

  “Ye know naught of what ye speak. Lady Grace favored me with smiles and coy glances all evening. ’Tis obvious the lovely widow would welcome me into her bed.”

  Ewan raked him with a glare that could start a bonfire. Such blatant disrespect toward a woman was unacceptable, and directing it at Grace added even more rage to Ewan’s growing ire. “Ye’re dreaming. The lady has no interest in ye at all. She was merely being polite.”

  Simon curled his lip. “Jealous?”

  “Of ye?” Ewan threw back his head and laughed. “Not in this lifetime.”

  Simon stood shakily on his feet, his hand clutching his shoulder. “Ye forget who ye are addressing, Gilroy. My men outnumber yers twenty to one.”

  “Dinnae ye mean yer uncle’s men?” Ewan taunted.

  “Ye dare to insult me?”

  “I speak the truth. ’Tis not my fault if ye find it hard to stomach.”

  Simon glared with outrage, his breath coming in quick, short pants. “Ye’ll regret those words one day, Gilroy. As well as yer actions tonight.”

  Ewan shrugged as Simon walked past him. “I highly doubt it.”

  He counted far better men than Simon Kilkinney as his enemy. He had survived being outcast by his own father and hunted as an outlaw by his half brother. Any threats from Simon were puny by comparison. Still, he remained on guard as Simon stalked away, nursing his aching jaw and wounded pride.

  Ewan paused and glanced at the door, expecting it to open at any moment, for no one could sleep peacefully through that ruckus. Yet minutes ticked by and nothing happened. Pressing his ear against the heavy oak, Ewan strained to listen, yet heard no sounds from the chamber.

  Ewan smiled. Once again, Grace had succeeded in surprising him.

  Aye, ’twould be a long night, but well worth it if it meant keeping Grace safe. Ewan squatted, then sat, grateful his mind and body had been trained for years to go without rest. He propped his back and head against the thick wooden door, and with a resigned sigh, waited for the dawn.

  Grace rose with the sun the following morning, glad that Edna was there to help her get ready. Initially she had resisted taking Edna on this journey, but the maid had insisted and Grace was thankful for her presence, for she afforded a much-needed dose of female companionship.

  “The gray or the blue, milady?” Edna asked, holding up the two gowns.

  “Gray,” Grace replied, yawning. Though the bed had been comfortable and the mattress free of vermin, she had not slept well. Her mind was still attempting to reconcile the fact that Ewan was leading her escort and she would be forced into his company for the next few days.

  And then there had been that commotion outside her chamber door in the wee hours of the morning, which had broken the fretful slumber she had managed. Her natural inclination had been to investigate, but then she remembered that Ewan was standing guard outside her door.

  Odd, how she trusted him implicitly with her safety. Yet with not much else.

  As she made her way down to the great hall, Grace decided she would not speak of the incident to Simon. His cloying, overbearing manner had been a bit tedious last evening, though she had wickedly taken a small amount of pleasure in witnessing Ewan’s ire.

  When she arrived, Ewan separated himself from the others gathering in the hall. His expression was serious as he hastened to her side. “Don yer cloak, Grace. My men are already mounted and ready to depart.”

  She raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. “Why are we rushing away?”

  “Best to leave before the weather turns.”

  “Before Mass? Before we break our fast?” Swallowing hard so she could modulate her tone, she added quietly, “Has something occurred that I should be made aware of, Sir Ewan?”

  He sighed softly, displaying a visible effort to be even-tempered. “I only wish to keep ye out of a soaking rain. Clouds are already hovering overhead.”

  Grace squinted, but could see only darkness through the narrow window slits that rimmed the upper stones of the hall. “Clouds? ’Tis black as pitch outside.”

  Ewan’s look sharpened, but before he could answer, Simon drew closer. He extended his arm, his face widening in an obscene smile. “Good morning, Lady Grace. Please, allow me to guide ye to our chapel.”

  Grace shook her head. She had an inkling she could use a blessing this day, but she was loath to challenge Ewan. Especially given his attitude toward their host. “Regretfully, we must depart.”

  Simon’s face fell. “Will ye not attend Mass in our chapel before breaking yer fast?”

  “We’ve time fer neither,” Ewan replied in a solemn, regretful tone, though Grace thought he looked anything but remorseful.

  “Surely ye cannot expect a lady to ride all day without sustenance?” Simon shuddered. “’Tis barbaric.”

  “Aye, even a crude, ignorant bastard such as myself knows such things,” Ewan chirped. “Yer cook most obligingly prepared a meal fer us.” He held two large baskets aloft. “A feast fit fer King Robert himself, I’d say. And more than enough for the lady and her escort.”

  Taut white lines appeared around Simon’s full lips, but Grace was in no mood to humor him. ’Twas nigh impossible to appease both men, she decided. She was done with trying.

  Thankfully it was Alec who guided her toward her horse and lifted her to her saddle. Grace noted the sky had lightened, but the clouds that Ewan had mentioned did in truth blanket the sky. ’Twould be a miracle, indeed, if they stayed dry today.

  A visibly perturbed Simon followed them into the courtyard. He gave her a strained smile, and somehow managed to touch his forelock and bow. She nodded her head in what she hoped was a regal pose of gratitude. Then paying no heed to Ewan or Simon, she gathered her reins and forced her thoughts to the day ahead.

  Once they cleared the gates of the keep, they rode hard, slowing the pace only when the trees and underbrush became a dense forest. Here the path continued to narrow until the riders were forced to reposition themselves into pairs. Grace glanced over, not surprised to see that Ewan rode at her side.

  “I noticed Simon sporting a rather nasty-looking bruise on his jaw,” Grace said by way of opening the conversation.

  “Aye.”

  “Do ye have any clue as to how it got there?”

  “I might.”

  She heard him shift in his saddle. “Is there anything ye wish to tell me, Ewan?”

  “Yer eyes sparkle with the brilliance of the stars lighting the night sky,” he crooned.

  “What?”

  “Och, is that not fancy enough fer ye?” He let out an exaggerated sigh, then scrunched his nose. “Yer flaxen hair is spun from the purest gold, while yer ruby lips remind me of the ripest cherries, red and sweet and begging to be tasted.”

  Distracted, she jerked her reins, causing her mare to dance nervously on the path. “My ha
ir is red, not golden, and if my lips are red it means they are cold. Have yer wits gone missing, Ewan?”

  He gave her a heart-melting smile, then grabbed her reins to steady her mount. “Well, lass, now that ye’re no longer in Simon’s company, I though ye might be pining fer a wee bit of flattery.”

  Grace opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of his jest, but then the overblown flattery registered in her brain and she smiled. The smile quickly grew into a giggle and then a full-blown laugh.

  “Ye had no right to strike him, though I cannae deny that Simon was a pompous fool.” Grace giggled again, then took a deep breath.

  Amusement lit Ewan’s stormy blue eyes. “’Tis good to hear ye laugh. And that is the honest truth.”

  She nodded, taking a strange comfort in their easy banter. There was little conversation between them after that, but the silences were almost restful and Grace felt no inclination to break them.

  The anticipated rain arrived just as they stopped to break their fast. Huddled beneath a canopy of dense leaves, Grace sat upon her horse as she chewed the crusty brown bread and nibbled on the sharp cheese. Despite the dismal weather, the men were in good spirits, especially Ewan. Apparently it took more than a gloomy, cool rain to dampen the spirits of a true Highlander.

  Returning to the road, they plodded onward and were rewarded by a lesser drizzle and then, as the afternoon grew longer, a rare glimpse of sun. They crossed a narrow bridge built over a fast-moving river. From there, the party rode through forests that suddenly opened into rolling hills and jagged rocks.

  The sun setting on the horizon was a glorious riot of purple, red, and gold. Ewan lifted his arm suddenly and Grace gazed at where he pointed, catching sight of a large bird in the distance, wings spread wide as it wheeled, spun, and soared through the clouds.

  “Magnificent,” he remarked.

  “Freedom,” Grace whispered, almost reverently. “I wonder if the bird realizes what a boon ’tis to live untamed and wild.”

  Ewan shook his head. “He’s free until a predator strikes and makes a meal of him.”

  “A disheartened thought.” Grace shivered. “Though it has long been the way of the world. The weak are preyed upon by the strong.”

  They rode for several more miles, but as night came upon them and the temperature began to cool, the men scouted for a safe location to make camp. Tents were raised; several fires were built. A kettle was placed over the largest to boil, then a group of men set about making the evening meal.

  Grace was amused to see Ewan working beside his men; skinning the hares they had trapped, chopping the vegetables from the sack of food supplies that Brian had provided, stirring and tasting the stew. They worked with no regard to rank, in an almost silent rhythm that bespoke of years of camaraderie.

  What manner of man was a knight who soiled his hands with the menial labor of cooking? Who ensured that each of his retainers had an equal share of food, who treated those who served him with respect and dignity? Who inspired, rather than commanded, loyalty?

  Ewan handed her a bowl. The delicious smell caused her stomach to growl. Embarrassed, Grace ducked her head, but ate heartily, feeling full and satisfied when she was done.

  Ewan settled himself beside her. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the popping and hissing of the logs on the fire. A gust of wind sent a sudden chill through her bones, causing Grace to gather her cloak closer.

  Ewan shifted his position, resting his thigh, warm and solid, against her own. Grace opened her mouth to protest this familiarity, then shut it without saying a word, refusing to be so mean-spirited. It was cold—any warmth was appreciated.

  “Try this,” Ewan said, passing her a cup.

  Grace obligingly took a sip, then sputtered as the liquid ran like fire down her throat. “What did you put in this drink?”

  “Hot water, whiskey, and a spot of honey. It warms ye first on the inside, then spreads to the skin.”

  “Lovely,” Grace choked out, before a fit of coughing overtook her.

  “Well, if ye balk at the taste, and ye’re still cold, I’ve other ways to keep ye warm, lass.”

  “I’m about to enter a convent, Ewan,” Grace remarked primly.

  “Aye. That’s why I figured ye could use the warmth. Ye’ll be giving up the comfort of a man’s arms forever.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Mayhap. But will ye thrive, lass? I think not.”

  Grace turned away, hiding a flush. The warmth that began on her face rapidly spread through her entire body, stirring her nerves to a tingle. She could feel her heart beating, but refused to give in to the feelings that were stirring inside her.

  Hastily, she jumped to her feet, stepping so close to the fire that she nearly scorched the hem of her gown. “I bid ye good night.”

  “Sweet dreams, Grace.”

  His voice sounded hoarse and sultry, filled with warmth and intimacy. Her eyes closed. Visibly shaking off the spell he was weaving around her, Grace stalked away, stepping inside her small tent. Edna lay curled in a tight ball on a pallet of blankets and furs, her gentle snores filling the space.

  Not wanting to disturb the maid’s much-needed rest, Grace prepared for bed on her own, electing to sleep in her linen shift. Kneeling beside her pallet, she recited her evening prayers, then climbed beneath the blankets, worried she would be unable to rest.

  The fur pelt tickled her nose each time Grace shifted her position, but gradually her eyelids began to feel heavy. The tent leaked in one corner, bringing an unpleasant dampness. The chilling wind howled, Edna continued to snore, yet ironically Grace drifted off to sleep with far more ease than she had the previous night.

  Chapter Nine

  The following days took on a familiar pattern. They rose early each morning, broke their fast with simple fare, and started their journey. The heavy carts of supplies and food stores packed to bring to the convent made it necessary to travel at a slower pace and on wider, defined roads. By unspoken agreement they rode through the small villages without stopping, passed by manors and keeps, electing instead to sleep in their own camp.

  Grace didn’t mind the rougher conditions, though she did long for a proper bath. She appreciated the efforts made each night to ensure her tent was comfortable—soft pallets for her and Edna to sleep upon, extra candles to light the interior, even a chair for her to sit.

  Ewan and his men were skilled hunters. There was freshly roasted meat each evening and a relaxed atmosphere of camaraderie around the campfires at night. During the day, Ewan usually rode beside her. He told her outrageous, comical tales of his boyhood and amusing anecdotes of his years serving King Robert, all of which Grace suspected contained mere grains of truth.

  No matter what the situation, the man did have a talent for making her smile.

  Living this carefree nomadic life with Ewan at her side was a rare treat, a grand adventure. She awoke each morning eager to begin the day, anxious to experience whatever awaited her, delighted she would be spending time with Ewan. ’Twas only on the evening of the third day of travel that Grace realized she was in no particular hurry to reach the abbey.

  The thought kept her awake for the next two nights.

  Ewan made no comment about the abrupt change in her daytime demeanor, though his increased efforts to entertain her let Grace know he had noticed. She tried to avoid him as much as possible, riding beside the cart that carried Edna during the day and going directly to her tent after the evening meal.

  Still, there were times when closeness was unavoidable. Her throat was parched and the water skins empty when they stopped to make camp. Intending to follow the man assigned to find water, Grace was dismayed to realize that Ewan had taken the task upon himself.

  Knowing she’d look the fool if she balked at accompanying him, Grace took deep breaths to calm herself. Her muscles tensed when he took her arm, but the thickening trees soon made it impossible to walk two
abreast.

  As they pressed their way down the narrow path, they stumbled onto a trickling stream. Though not deep, the clear water flowed steadily. It tasted cool and refreshing on the tongue and Grace savored every swallow.

  With her thirst sated, Grace filled her water skins, and retreated to sit on a large flat rock positioned at the base of a tree trunk to wait for Ewan. She surveyed the area with mild interest, noting the quiet tranquility. Beyond the forest, she could see the mountains rising around them in majestic splendor.

  Sighing, Grace turned her face up to the sunlight filtering through the trees, hoping they could walk slowly on the way back to camp. She had slept poorly these past few nights—emotion and exhaustion were starting to take their toll.

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, pulling Grace out of her languid state of relaxation. She turned to look at Ewan, who was crouched at the water’s edge, his back toward her. She saw him pull his tunic over his head and tossed it casually on the rocky bank. Grace’s eyes opened wider. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt. She let out a squeak and sprang to her feet.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked.

  “Washing off,” he replied, without bothering to turn around. “I swear I’ve got a layer of dirt on me an inch thick.”

  “Must ye do it now?”

  “I doubt I’ll find a better place,” he answered, cupping his hands and sloshing water over his face, neck, and bare chest. “We’ve each had a good long drink, and filled the water skins to near bursting. Now is the perfect time to get myself clean. Ye can turn yer head if the sight of my naked chest offends ye so much.”

  Grace fought back the urge to argue, clamping her mouth firmly closed. Offend her? Hardly. In truth, she was having difficulty keeping her eyes averted. Ewan’s sculptured body fairly gleamed, his firm muscles glistened with water droplets that reflected the sunlight like a hundred sparkling gems.

  She pulled her lower lip under her teeth. Why did men find it so effortless to remove their clothing at every opportunity? And why were they not embarrassed to be seen? Was modesty only a female trait, something innate to women? Or something only taught to women?