Castles, Kilts and Caresses
Page 4
Taking refuge in a nearby alley, Ewan let go of the lad’s arm just as Alec turned the corner at a run.
“There ye are,” Alec grinned, panting a little. Reaching over, he punched the lad’s shoulder. “’Tis a miraculous day, this. I am in your debt. Ye’ve saved my life. Why—”
Ewan held up his hand. “There will be time for talk later,” he said tersely. “We must leave afore the English find us.” Waving at the river, he turned to ask the lad, “Can ye swim?”
But the lad folded his arms across his chest and objected stoutly, “I’ll not be leaving without my horse.”
“’Tis only a horse,” Ewan began.
“Dinna be such a pig-headed fool!” the lad interrupted, drawing his fine brows in an angry line. “I’ll never leave Diabhul behind, Ewan.”
At that, Alec gave a snort of laughter.
But Ewan paused and narrowed his eyes. “Ye speak as if ye know me,” he said quietly. “Who are ye?”
There was something in the lad’s eyes, an expression that Ewan could not interpret, but then the youth dropped his gaze.
Clearing his throat, he replied in a gruff tone, “I’m called Moridac. Moridac MacGregor. And I dinna know ye.” He paused and lowered his voice, raising his chin in challenge. “Aye, I didna know ye were such a stubborn ox. I’ll fetch Diabhul myself if I have to.”
“MacGregor?” Alec repeated, cocking his head as if he’d misheard. “And what cause has a MacGregor to aid us?”
Ewan lifted a suspicious brow. ‘Twas clear the lad was lying, but there was little time to delve into the matter. Instead, he said, “’Twould be an ill deed to leave ye on your own, Moridac. Let us be quick and fetch the horses, though ‘tis a mistake, I’ll warrant.” And with an abrupt gesture, he commanded crisply, “Lead on.”
Moridac nodded, and then turning swiftly on his heel, moved through the streets as the church bells began to ring.
No one paid them any heed as they wove through ox-drawn carts and peasants hawking their wares. And in no time at all, they stood before the stables behind a small wattle-and-daub inn at the edge of town.
The stable doors groaned, creaking loudly as Moridac pushed them back and disappeared into the dim interior.
Ducking a little, Ewan and Alec followed.
“Your horses. I bought three, but we’ll have to leave one behind,” the lad said, pointing to a gray and two dappled geldings. “The saddles and packs are on the post there.”
The interior was cramped, and as Ewan and Alec squeezed past the lad, the youth winced and pinched his nose.
“By the Rood, but ye both need a bath!” he exclaimed. “And right quickly.”
Ewan glanced down at the youth standing chest-to-chest. “Aye,” he agreed, surprised at the lad’s fine sensitivities. “We’ve been imprisoned for nigh on a month. ‘Tis no small surprise we’re caked with grime and reek of the dungeon.” Bathing had hardly been his topmost concern.
“Are ye such a lass that ye canna tolerate the stench of sweat?” Alec laughed, giving Moridac a good-natured shove, but his eyes widened as he spied the horse in the stall behind him. “That canna be your horse, lad.” He let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Aye, ‘tis,” Moridac said proudly. “I’ve raised him from a foal. Diabhul is his name.”
Ewan eyed the massive black stallion pawing the stable floor and tossing his mane. Nodding once in admiration, he agreed, “’Tis truly a fine beast. I see now why ye couldna let him go.”
“Aye then,” Moridac said, dusting his hands. Reaching over, he tugged the knotted rope tethering Diabhul.
“Are ye some nobleman’s son?” Alec asked conversationally as he moved away toward a dappled gelding.
Ignoring him, Moridac scowled at the knot and pulled harder at one end.
Ewan paused, noting the lad’s hands were slender and soft, just like the rest of him. Had he never done a day’s honest work?
“God’s Blood but this rope is cursed!” the youth spat in frustration.
Raising a brow, Ewan offered, “Can I help ye?”
He’d scarcely extended his hand before the black stallion flattened his ears and lunged, intent on nipping him. But Ewan was well versed in the ways of high-spirited horses. Sidestepping him easily, he caught the animal’s head with a strong hand.
“Nay, ye’ll not be tasting my flesh, ye black-hearted beastie,” he said without rancor.
The horse snorted and tried to yank his head free, but after several futile attempts, he decided instead to look away and ignore Ewan’s existence—at least for the moment. Tempted to smile for the first time in weeks, Ewan murmured, “Aye then, ‘tis a truce for now.”
Letting the stallion’s head free, Ewan glanced down at Moridac.
The youth was watching him, and his large expressive eyes were filled with emotion. Admiration? Or was it something else?
A little discomfited, Ewan reached for the knot, but as his hand brushed Moridac’s, the lad jerked back as if he’d been burnt.
Clearly flustered, Moridac took a quick step away and mumbled, “Aye, have at it.”
Raising a brow at the youth’s reaction, Ewan had the rope untied in moments and then moved to saddle his own horse. Adjusting the cinch, he watched the lad from the corner of his eye.
The youth moved with unusual grace, each movement fluid, almost like a dance as he strapped a quiver of arrows over one shoulder along with a bow. “And where do we ride?” he asked without looking up.
“South,” Ewan answered with a single word.
There was tension in the lad’s jaw. ‘Twas a delicate, smooth jaw. Not one sign of a single whisker. And then Moridac leaned over to check a buckle, and the curve of the lad’s neck caught Ewan’s gaze in a way that made his throat suddenly tight.
Shocked at his own response, Ewan hastily averted his gaze. He hadn’t slept well in weeks. He was obviously exhausted.
Clenching his teeth, he finished readying his horse and led it from the stall to fall into step behind Alec. They’d just stepped out of the stables and into the pale sunlight when Alec gave a blistering curse and froze.
Peering over his shoulder, Ewan spied a lank, greasy-haired man with an unkempt red beard. He’d been one of their crueler captors. Standing on the low garden wall at the back of the inn, the man had drawn his bow, and the arrow, notched on the string, was aimed directly at Alec’s chest.
“I’ll have your heads on pikes before this day is done!” the guard announced savagely. “Not another step. There’s no escape for you now!”
It was true. At that range, there was no way the man could miss. But still, Ewan had to try.
Moving out from behind Alec, he began, “Mayhap we can—”
Immediately the guard shifted, aiming his arrow at Ewan instead, and then Alec drew his sword and any chance Ewan might have had to talk sense into the man was lost.
Leaping forward, Ewan drew his sword also as the guard shouted and let loose his arrow. But as the arrow left the string, a new feathered shaft whistled past Ewan’s ear from behind to embed itself into the guard’s chest, causing the man’s arrow to fly wildly over Ewan’s head.
With a gargled gasp, the guard toppled back off the wall, his lifeless leg dangling over the side.
Stunned, Ewan and Alec froze for a moment and then whirled in unison to see Moridac leaning against the stable door, his bow still in his shaking hands. His brown eyes were round, and he looked like he was going to be sick.
The stricken expression on his face made Ewan pause with an odd twinge of conscience. It felt a lifetime since killing a man had affected him so. For a fleeting moment, he felt the senseless urge to reach out and touch the lad’s cheek in an offer of comfort. But then flinching at the strange thought, he grimly shoved his sword back into its scabbard.
“We’ve not a moment to lose. We ride south, at once,” he ordered a bit harsher than he’d intended. “Mount your horse, lad.”
Swallowing visibly, Moridac nodded. W
ith his fingers still trembling, he caught the saddle and hauled himself onto the stallion’s back. And as the flat of Ewan’s palm landed square on the great beast’s flank, the animal charged forward, waking the lad from his shocked stupor.
With the practiced ease of a superior horseman, Moridac wheeled the black stallion around, and leaping over the low garden wall, guided the animal to the narrow tree-covered road leading south toward Sowerby Wood.
They rode swiftly.
The lad was an accomplished rider, well suited to the black stallion he rode, and more than once, Ewan found himself wondering just who the young horseman truly was.
Several leagues later, they left the road and entered Sowerby Wood. The low-hanging branches whipped their faces as they pushed forward. For a time, they followed a river meandering through the darkening forest until wisps of smoke hanging in the air drew them to the small clearing, deep in the heart of a beech tree grove.
Three highlanders crowded around a small fire, two of them roasting a pheasant on a spit. A third sat nearby, whittling a chunk of wood in the afternoon sun.
Pulling his horse to a halt, Ewan raised his arm. “Well met, lads.”
“And ye made my supper, aye?” Alec dismounted with a wide grin. “Ye shouldna have taken the trouble. Now off with ye to find something of your own.”
“Ye can lick the spit,” one of the men offered as Alec laughingly joined them by the fire.
Leaping lightly down from the back of his horse, Ewan breathed deeply of the comforting smell of damp earth.
Aye, it had been too long since he’d smelled the fresh sweet air.
It was then that he saw Moridac, leaning against his horse. His face was white, and his eyes were closed. After a moment, he fell to his knees and retched in the grass.
“I’ll roast in Hell,” the lad panted, clutching his churning stomach. “I’ve killed a man.”
Ewan paused. He’d seen the same reaction on the battlefield time and time again. Crouching next to the lad, he grasped his shoulder in a brotherly gesture of support and said, “Ye canna be blaming yourself, lad.”
Moridac blanched and looked up at him in astonishment. “Are ye daft? Who else is to blame? ’Twas my own hand that shed his blood and no other. He bore no ill will toward me, and most likely not even for ye, Ewan.”
The man had been a cruel guard, but he knew what the lad meant, and he knew from experience what he was feeling. Remorse. Guilt. Sorrow. Dark feelings that could consume the soul.
“Aye, ‘twasn’t an honorable act of mine,” the youth continued, his voice quavering as his hands clenched tightly into fists. “I’ve shed a man’s blood. Aye, he was most likely a simple man fulfilling his duty afore he went home to his wife and wee bairns.” Tears glistened, sliding down the lad’s cheeks. “I killed a man who probably only believed in loyalty and honor.”
Ewan blinked.
There had been a time in his life that he had believed in loyalty and honor. He’d even believed that good would triumph over evil. But no more. Years of seeing the worst in men had left his heart colder than stone.
But there was something in the youth’s face that reminded him he hadn’t always thought that way. Something that threatened to unleash years of buried emotion.
‘Twas a startling thought.
Drawing back, he said stiffly, “The man wasna the loyal kind, lad. His heart was black. Enough of this. Ye saved my life and for that I’m grateful. ‘Twas no other way ye could have saved me.”
“Aye, and I dinna regret it, Ewan. But it doesna lessen the guilt,” Moridac whispered, dabbing his eyes with the corner of his sleeve.
The delicate gesture caught Ewan’s eye. Instinct almost lifted his hands to pull the youth close into an embrace of comfort.
Fortunately, sanity seized control seconds later.
“Breathe deep, lad,” he ordered crisply. “Such things happen. They just simply happen.” Then quickly rising to his feet, Ewan moved to join the others by the fire, asking himself under his breath, “Are ye bereft of all sense?”
Tossing a plaid under the shade of a tree, he lay back to wait for the arrival of the rest of his men. It had been nearly a month since he’d seen the sun. And for a time, he thought of nothing. He merely watched the leaves above outlined by the sky that gradually faded from blue to purple.
But as the shadows lengthened with the sinking sun, he finally sat up, resting his forearm on his knee.
Someone had gone hunting. The men were roasting meat—several large fish and a rabbit. Moridac turned the spit, his youthful face and his coal black hair aglow by the light of the fire. He was laughing with Alec, but his soulful brown eyes still held a sadness in them.
Curious, Ewan watched him from the shadows.
In the dim light, the lad seemed more a lass. Tall. Slender. And with full lips that made him wonder how long it had been since he’d kissed a woman.
There had been a time he'd enjoyed the glances of the lasses and stealing kisses in the summer sun. Before he’d been sent to battle. Defending kith and kin, he’d denied himself the softness of a woman and the joy of bairns. His relations with women had turned only into forgettable couplings as his inner demons rose to consume him. With the smell of death haunting his dreams, he had found it hard to find joy in anything. Even women.
Annoyed at the turn of his thoughts, he got up and joined the others around the fire. He sat there for a time, listening to their idle talk and on occasion, he caught Moridac studying him with an unusual intensity.
The third time, Ewan frowned and suddenly asked, “And where do ye hail from, Moridac?”
At once, the fireside conversation died as all eyes turned upon the lad.
Moridac cleared his throat and, glancing about almost nervously, replied, “I come from Glen Orchy, and I was on my way home from delivering a message to my kin when I heard there were good Scots unjustly imprisoned. I had to help ye.”
The words rang false to Ewan’s ears as the lad’s tone was even, flat, as if carefully rehearsed.
“There’s always good Scots rotting in Carlisle Dungeon,” Alec commented sourly.
This was greeted by a chorus of somber ‘aye’s’.
The conversation resumed and turned to other things, but it took only a few minutes before Ewan caught Moridac studying him once more.
Again, there was a flash of something in the lad’s eyes, something he thought he should recognize.
The thought gnawed. Finally, he asked in an abrupt tone, “Have we met afore, Moridac?”
The lad jerked a little, and his long lashes blinked rapidly. “Nay, I dinna think so,” he said.
Ewan narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Then how did ye know ‘twas me in the dungeon? And how did ye know my name?”
Again silence fell amongst the men as they waited upon the lad’s answer.
Moridac took a deep breath and his brown eyes began to flash. “Who hasna heard tales of Ewan MacLean?” he asked passionately. “There’s not a battle sung of in the Isles that doesna have some tidings of your heroic deeds.”
“The Isles?” Ewan asked, seizing upon the word. “And what cause does a MacGregor of Glen Orchy, and a scrawny one at that, have to be wandering the Isles?”
The lad drew his fine brows together in a scowl.
But before he could reply, Alec interrupted mildly, “Interrogating the lad is hardly a fit reward for such a daring rescue, Ewan. Enough now, aye?”
Ewan raised a brow as Alec tossed him a flagon of whisky. Catching it with an easy hand, he took a deep swig, before pitching it back.
“Ye’ll have to forgive him, lad,” Alec continued with an easy laugh. “He’s been sore angry this past month.”
“Aye, I can see,” Moridac replied in a slightly acid tone. He sent Ewan a piercing look from beneath his gathered brows.
Ewan paused. There it was again. Something in the lad’s expression that gave him the uncomfortable feeling that he knew him much more than he claimed.
But Ewan cut him short. “Enough,” he said, pressing his lips together to indicate the conversation was done. He didn’t relish hearing the tales of his so-called heroic deeds.
They only revived dark memories of the screams of dying men.
“And I suppose I owe ye enough to listen,” Alec said with a wide grin. “Ye saved my life more than once, even though ye spent the last month in a dungeon calling me an undisciplined sot over it.”
“Can ye deny it?” Ewan asked shortly.
“Nay, I canna deny it,” Alec agreed with an easy shrug. “’Twas my fault that we walked into the Cunningham’s trap. I’ll never live it down.”
And then the sound of snapping twigs and voices caused them to turn as two more of Ewan’s men arrived.
The men greeted one another with fond claps on the back, and as the newcomers offered the contents of the packs slung over their shoulders, an elderly gray-haired man known as Moris sought Ewan out.
“Tidings, Ewan,” he said gruffly. “The call went out while we rotted in Carlisle’s dungeons. The crown prince himself is now in Stirling and he’s taken up arms against his father, the king.”
This revelation was met by a somber silence.
Stooping, Alec picked up the flagon and taking a long draught, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “’The lion of Scotland shall be slain by one of his own’,” he intoned in a low voice.
“That was the prophecy, was it not?” one of the men asked.
“Aye, ‘twas the one that the king murdered his brother Mar over, years ago,” Moris replied. “And he slew the wrong man for it.”
“Then ’tis war,” Ewan murmured bitterly. “The king truly is a coward and a fool of the highest order to let matters go this far and to fight his own son.”