“I can think of no better solution, my wise Laird.”
Their eyes remained locked, as they had been all their years of betrothal. Ewan knew little of Janet’s character and dreams, but he knew her eyes. The attraction was magnetic between them.
“Tonight. Tonight I will tell her the fate which awaits her. I want to see it on her face. The fear, the anguish. I want her to know why. And I want to be there when her brother is told. I want to see him suffer.”
Ewan clenched a fist, and Janet ran an olive-toned finger across it before looking into his eyes again.
“If that is your wish, then suffer he shall.”
Later in the day, surrounded by his advisors, Ewan spoke of his plan for Iona. Cheers of support and agreement cradled his decision, and they discussed how her execution might occur.
“It ought to be done publicly, you cannae disagree with me on tha’ one,” suggested one of the men.
“Aye, Charles. Wallace has to hear of it and if it’s done privately, he’ll never believe it were so,” agreed another.
Ewan spoke in support. “It might be done in public, we are all agreed. But I will be the one to tell her brother. Or, better yet…” he began, an idea dawning on him for the first time.
“Aye?”
“We could invite him to get her. We could send word that we have her and he is free to come for her in exchange for gold and cattle. He will come assuming a ransom, but instead he would find himself witness to her execution,” he mused.
The men sat, considering the possibility before slowly nodding in agreement, one by one. Ewan had no particular desire to kill a human, but he greatly desired the suffering of Wallace for the sins of his clan. This plan accomplished that beautifully.
And that evening, shackled with no hope of escape, he would tell Iona every detail.
----
Dark descended on the tower and Iona remained barely conscious amidst the boredom, pain, and dimming light.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, startling Iona awake. The lock was forcefully undone, and the door opened in a swift and violent motion. The light of a candle flooded the room, illuminating the frail figure in the corner.
Ewan’s eyes found her, the flame casting a metallic glow on her copper hair. Piercing green eyes, the color of moss in the sun, slowly searched for features in the face of the silhouetted man before her.
He stood for a moment, awe evident on his face as he moved closer. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the candlelight and remaining pink glow outside the small cutout high on the wall. She was like nothing he had ever imagined.
Struck by the woman he had so violently captured, instinct led Ewan to rush to the beauty, crouching to her level and using his eyes to investigate every feature. His gaze trailed to the wound on her foot, and he saw it was aching from a festering infection. He gently felt for her porcelain ankle and Iona hissed in pain, pulling her exquisitely soft skin away from his eager touch.
Ewan swallowed the lump that was growing in his throat. She had not killed his family; she had done nothing to him. She did not deserve this.
With an inhale, Ewan forced his vocal chords to their purpose.
“I will have someone sent to you; to care for your wounds. And a basin of water, that you might be able to clean yourself. And new clothes. Yes, I will have new clothes sent for you,” he listed in a staccato rush.
Staring at her a moment longer, Ewan stood and exited the room in a swift motion.
Moments later, the guard came in, undid her shackles, and left once more, locking the door behind him.
Iona watched the door, for a moment not even realizing that it was visible. Ewan had left the candle, still burning. Light had returned to her eyes.
----
“Tell me, why is it that it has not yet been done? That’s all we ask, is the reason,” Ewan’s advisor asked.
“It is not yet time,” he replied vaguely with apparent frustration.
“You cannae wait forever, my Laird,” the man responded with equal irritation. His pale eyebrows squeezed together over chillingly blue, concerned eyes.
Ewan gave him a slight glare before turning his head away. He had no desire to continue the conversation, or to answer any more prying questions.
“It has been more than two weeks since the plan. So far, all you’ve done is have ‘er wounds cleaned and given her dresses. When will you have her head?”
“It will be done when it is done. Do not ask again,” Ewan ordered, making a firm fist and resting it on the driftwood table.
After the council had ended, Ewan made his way to the tower where he entered and sat with Iona as he had done every night. He placed a tray of extravagant fruits and a bowl of stew before her.
“Speak to me,” he urged. She would not answer him, keeping her eyes trained past his face with a look of arrogant determination.
“Speak to me!” he shouted, more demanding. He watched her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare with an intake of breath.
“I see you have returned with a new dress and more of your gruel,” she said bitterly, barely making eye contact.
“Yours was so destroyed by the incident, it seems only right that I should replace it for you,” he offered, ignoring her tone of disrespect. “How are your wounds? And the food? Is it better?”
Iona looked at him, finally. “The food is unnecessary, as are you. Am I to thank you for your hospitality? Am I to accept your dresses with gratitude?” She gestured to the pile of four dresses she left stacked beside the door. His pity gifts meant nothing to her. She had even allowed much of the food to sit by the door until it generated a foul odor that struck Ewan every time he entered until he would take it with him to have the dishes cleaned.
“You ought to be grateful. You know not what I had planned for you, what my advisors still have planned for you. I have kept you safe,” he said pitifully.
Iona rolled her eyes but refused to speak further.
“You will not speak to me?” he asked her with a voice bordering desperation.
Evident pleasure crossed her face at not responding to his pleas.
“Then I will leave you. But expect me again,” he said, irritation wavering in his tone. Ewan grabbed the tray and the food left from the previous day and exited. Iona remained where she was until she was certain he had gone for the night. Then she shifted her body into a more comfortable position, using the dresses as a mattress cushion as she had done every night. This new one made for an excellent blanket to guard against the chill. She would never let him know how these dresses had benefitted her, but she remained silently glad for them.
At the base of the stairs, Ewan’s eye was captured by Janet, who watched him come toward her from his place.
“Were you in the tower?” she asked casually.
“Only to tell her of her fate,” Ewan replied.
“You tell her of her fate often,” Janet retorted. “And I don’t believe threats generally involve figs and grapes and chicken stew.”
With her arms crossed, she turned and walked from Ewan, moving her body in a way to capture his attention to the curves beneath the black dress. The jealousy rose within her that a childlike Iona was seeing more of Ewan than his own betrothed. She had been his since she was seven. No rival woman would take her place, even if it meant she had to behead the ginger witch herself.
Ewan breathed in as he watched Janet walk away and took the tray to the kitchens where the maids would clean and likely eat the food. He couldn’t understand what so consistently drew him to the woman in the tower. Janet was beautiful; remarkably so. And she was his.
Yet, his hunger for vengeance had lessened and his need for Iona’s attention had become overwhelming. Why was she so disdainful? He had treated her well; he was caring for her needs. Her lack of gratitude confused and angered him.
He returned to his chambers and washed himself. He stared with his blue eyes, watching the steam rise from the bath water as he soaked in it. It felt go
od to relax in the warmth of it, but he knew he needed a release of energy.
Ewan decided he would go for a hunt the next day. What he needed was to be outside the walls of his castle, to be active and burn the energy that had filled to bursting within him. He had to get his mind off Iona or he would go insane.
He pulled his athletic body from the bath and dried before changing into his bedclothes.
“William, have my horse readied tomorrow by eight. We will hunt. We will go all day if need be,” he said suddenly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And send one of the seamstresses in. I want to have another dress made for Janet,” he said.
“Did she not like this one either?” the man asked.
“No, she said the color was not to her liking,” Ewan replied, swallowing with the lie. He had led his men to believe each of the dresses made for Iona had been for Janet. And the seamstress had not asked Ewan’s betrothed about it for fear of his wrath and awareness of her station.
This time, he thought, this time she would appreciate it. He would hunt, he would kill, and the work of his hands would be made into a grand meal for Iona. And this dress would be more extravagant than all the others.
Yes, this time she would be his.
Chapter Two
Iona remained huddled in the corner of her room, again braiding and unbraiding her hair for want of activity. She thought of her brother, wondering what had taken him so long in coming for her. Was he still searching? Was he still alive? Had he also been captured? Or was he sitting in his castle plotting her rescue?
The questions seemed endless, as did the days. She was tired of being locked up, tired of maintaining her fierce attitude whenever she laid eyes upon Ewan Macintosh and his eager brow, tired of rejecting tantalizing food simply because the source was her captor. Her strength of mind was beginning to wane despite her intentions to remain fierce.
The sound of trumpets blew beneath the tower. Ewan had returned from whatever venture had taken him in the morning. The feet of horses thundered now as they did hours before.
Iona knew the return meant a visit would come soon. She mentally prepared herself, readying her face for disdain. It took energy, too much energy. She stood and placed her hands on her hips, a dominating pose to help her regain her presence. She could not let him see her weak.
“Is it for the Laird?” asked a maid in the kitchen.
“Who knows anymore? It’s said he takes the grand meals to the prisoner. But maybe he’s just eating it himself,” came the reply from the robust head cook as she sliced thick slabs of meat.
“We feed him well enough without all the extra,” the maid mumbled.
“Let’s hope he’s not overdoing it. It’d be a shame if he ruined that figure of his with too much feasting,” laughed the cook. “Anyhow, it’s ready to take to him.”
The maid sluggishly shuffled to the tray of magnificent beast and rolled her eyes.
“One of these days I’m going to have a break,” she declared, lifting the tray and making her way towards Ewan’s chambers.
She reached the door to his rooms, and the guard let her in.
The Laird had just finished his bath and was drying himself when the food was delivered. He quickly robed himself and dressed in his finest clothes. The seamstress had gathered all her ladies and worked nonstop since the night before to complete a magnificent gown and had delivered it while he had been on the hunt.
“I have food for you, sir. From your hunt,” she said with a polite smile.
“Ah, yes, thank you,” he replied seeming slightly on edge. She was caught off guard by his lack of confidence.
“It was intended to come here, was it not, sir?” she inquired, trying to remain subtle in her prying.
“Where else would it have gone?” he demanded, looking at her with a glare.
“I meant no offense, sir. I will take my leave,” she said with eyes down and a small curtsy.
Ewan waited a moment, ate a few grams to look as though he intended to eat, and then turned to his men.
“I am not hungry after all. I will take this back to the kitchen. I do not wish to be in my rooms,” he said. He went to take the dress from its resting place.
“And I will visit Janet as well. To deliver the dress,” he said, trying to make his excuses as he left. His men did not reply, but he felt insecure that his actions were so different from usual. He was certain they could tell something was off.
Nevertheless, he had a beautiful gown and a tray of feasting for Iona.
Ewan was certain he would be accepted now.
Making the climb up the tower with the extravagant gown draped over his right bicep and the silver tray held in his hands, he considered the look of joy on the face of his infatuation. Certainly he had worn her down, certainly it was time.
At the crest of the ascent, he made brief eye contact with the guard who remained silent with suspicion. It was fear, only, that kept his lips sealed about what little he saw and heard of the Laird in the prisoner’s room.
“Open it,” Ewan ordered, unable to do it himself with his hands so full.
The guard undid the lock, and the wooden door inched open.
Iona sat illuminated by the glow of the candles Ewan had previously brought her. A glimmer of light still shone through the window above.
Her copper hair was in a half-braid and the flames glittered as gold flecks in her mossy green eyes. The glare of disgust was evident as she fixed her eyes directly on her captor. His hands began to tremble slightly with nerves, and the plate gave a slight clatter against the silver as he tried to steady himself.
“I have returned from a hunt,” he said in a strong voice, betraying none of the emotions which were so evident in his hands. In that moment of speaking, he steeled himself and his hands were suddenly as brave as his voice.
Iona did not reply.
“I have brought you the work of my own hands. I conquered the beast just for you. For your nourishment. You have not eaten nearly enough in the days I have come to you, but you must eat, and this is the best the whole kingdom has to offer. It is for you,” he divulged with determination.
Iona remained silent still. She looked back at her hair and continued the braid as though she were alone in the room.
“Iona…” he called softly.
Her hands paused for a moment and her eyes blinked at the foreign sound of her name. With her chest barely moving in subtle breaths, she continued the braid as though he had not spoken.
“I brought you another dress as well. As you have not been fond of the previous ones, I thought perhaps you may like this color,” Ewan offered. He crouched slightly and set the tray down, then spread the dress in his arms in hopes she would look at it.
Ewan could feel his face flush. He was a mighty warrior, a Laird, a handsome and strong and brave man. What had she reduced him to? What had this silent woman done to cause him such desperation for her attention? This was not who he was as a man and it was not how he would be seen.
The Laird cleared his throat and stood tall again, leaving the dress unnoticed on the floor before the captive beauty.
“Iona,” he began. “You are unhappy here. I see that. But this is where you are and this is where I have you for safe keeping. If I let you out, my advisors will kill you in an instant. I cannot let that happen, please understand. I am going to find a way for you. But you must give me time. And until you are released from here, you have to eat. You have to remain strong and healthy. And you have to allow yourself the indulgence of what I bring you for gowns that are clean and comfortable.” His staccato sentences came out in a steady stream as he worked through each thought passing in his mind.
Iona continued to ignore Ewan’s presence and remained in her fixed state. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to remain as though unaware of him or if she would rather let the irritation and annoyance be present on her face. She had not yet determined enough of the man to know which would be greater punishment for h
is current interest in her. She only knew that he was clearly suffering.
Ewan inhaled, finally giving up the final remainder of hope.
“I will leave you then. If there is anything at all that you need, anything which will bring you some comfort, please allow me to get it for you. Allow me to be your helper when you need it,” he offered gently.
Iona looked at Ewan, locking her eyes on his. In a moment, his heart gave a jolt from her acknowledgement of his presence. He watched as Iona stood to her full height, her slender, blossomed body stretching itself after being crouched for so long.
She took a few steps towards him and came a breath away. In a trance, he stood perfectly still and unable to move.
With sudden fierceness, Iona raged, “Send me home!”
A fluid motion brought the palm of Iona’s hand to the plane of Ewan’s cheek with a loud smacking sound. Her hand stung from the slap and his cheek immediately inflamed red from the contact.
His eyes grew wide in shock at what had occurred and Iona’s eyes shone with uncertainty at the consequence of her action. She was brave, but she also knew that this could be the end for her.
The hesitant tension of the moment was broken by Ewan’s right hand as it reached to the small of Iona’s back and pulled her into a desperate embrace. The fingers of his left hand slid to the back of her head, and he hungrily brought her lips to his. He felt the plumpness of her bottom lip between his and used his tongue to part her lips, finding its way into the sweetness of her mouth. The desperate action suddenly slowed and his grip became tighter with longing, yet softer without demand.
Iona felt a flip in her stomach with her desire for more of Ewan’s tenderness. Her anger gave way to admission and returned need. All those nights of remaining strong in her frustration melted into the kiss she so wanted to give and take. Her left hand rested on the strong shoulder of Ewan and her right ran along the edge of his jaw.
The two melted into one for their brief, yet eternal, kiss. They both felt that, in that instant, their lives had changed forever.
Historical Hearts Romance Collection Page 38
