Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Ewan looked into her tortured eyes and taking her hands between his, gave them a gentle squeeze. “Lothar’s a braw man,” he answered truthfully. “The fact he lives still gives me great hope.”

  They stood there, holding hands a moment and then Merry jerked free and turned away. He followed her up the steps to the main hall in silence.

  The dying fire illuminated the hall only enough to reveal it as bleak and imposing as the rest of the castle. The rushes crackled beneath their feet as they picked their way over the sleeping servants to the main table lit by two tall tapers. But the candles did little to penetrate the heavy atmosphere of the place.

  Nearby, a dog growled, but a man’s sharp command from the darkness silenced it.

  “I wouldna have ye sleep here with the servants, my lord,” Iona’s sharp voice issued from the shadows before she stepped into the dim circle of light. She carried a goblet and a clay jug.

  “I’ll not be dissuaded,” Ewan replied. He was tired. The cut across his ribs burned. He wanted to see Merry settled, Lothar tended, his own wound cleaned, and then he wanted to close his eyes and sleep. If sleep were at all possible. With the recent events, he knew well that his dreams would most likely be haunted.

  Iona said nothing as she poured the wine into the goblet, and the enticing scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. And then smiling prettily, she offered him the cup with a little bow.

  Ewan eyed the goblet. She’d only brought one. Taking it, he offered it to Merry first. “Drink,” he said. “Drink deeply, lad.”

  Merry hesitated, but upon his insistence, took a deep draught, and when she’d finished, he took the jug from Iona and poured his own.

  Iona waited patiently for him to finish, tapping her fingers lightly on the table.

  And then wiping his mouth on his forearm, Ewan set the goblet down on the table with a bang. “I would see Lothar,” he announced before glancing down at Merry to add, “Stay here and rest. I’ll return soon.”

  “Nay,” Merry disagreed with a flash of her brown eyes. “I’ll go with ye, and that’s the end of the matter.”

  He almost smiled. That response was more the Merry he’d come to know. With a crisp nod of agreement, he glanced over at Iona only to see her watching them with a silent, curious gaze accompanied by a slight frown.

  But noticing his eyes upon her, she quickly smiled and offered, “Allow me to take ye there, my lord. ‘Tis not far.”

  Without further preamble, she led them out of the hall and hurried up the narrow spiraled stairs at a brisk pace before pausing in front of a wooden door.

  As she reached for the latch, Ewan stayed her hand.

  “I thank ye, Lady Iona, but ye may leave now,” he suggested. “I’ll see ye in the morn.”

  But she was persistent. “Shall I not sit with ye?” she asked, her red brows knitting into a frown.

  “Nay, ‘tis unseemly,” he replied and then insisted. “Go.”

  He bowed curtly, and then placing an arm around Merry’s shoulder, he opened the door and guided her inside.

  Thankfully, Iona did not follow.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Ewan paused upon the threshold. It was a small, dark chamber with smoke-stained walls and a single window shuttered against the night wind.

  Lothar lay unconscious on the bed. An elderly priest sat by his side as a maid with long red braids tended to the fire.

  Alec lounged against the wall near the door.

  The priest looked up as they entered. “God-willing, he’ll live,” he answered Ewan’s unspoken question before shifting his attention back to the needle he’d been holding up to the light. With a squint, he finished threading it and turned back to Lothar.

  Ewan closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel some measure of relief. He took a deep breath, but the effort caused his ribs to ache, and an unexpected wave of weakness assailed him.

  He had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling.

  “God’s Wounds, Ewan!” Alec’s voice cursed. “What’s this?”

  Ewan grimaced at his own clumsiness and opened his eyes to see his cloak had gapped open enough to allow Alec to see his red-stained shirt.

  “You’re—” Alec began, reaching out.

  But Ewan blocked his hand with a forearm and interrupted sternly, “Take care of the lad, aye?” He frowned and cast a quick glance at Merry standing by his side.

  Alec hesitated a moment and then nodded. But first he moved to the priest and whispered in the man’s ear.

  “Later,” Ewan warned with a scowl, but the priest had already risen.

  “Come, Moridac,” Alec said then, sweeping back to slide an arm around Merry’s shoulders. “Lothar will live. I’ve yet to eat. Come with me, aye? We can come back soon enough, if ye wish.”

  Merry didn’t resist as Alec fairly pushed her out of the door. She didn’t even glance Ewan’s way.

  And that bothered Ewan tremendously.

  But then the maid pulled a rough-hewn bench from around the bed, and the priest shoved him down onto it. And as they began to inspect his wound, he let his booted heels rest on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him.

  He closed his eyes, suddenly not wanting to even think.

  * * *

  It had been a long night, a night Merry felt would never end. Still drowsy from the spiced wine, she staggered tiredly after Alec down the dimly lit corridors leading to the dark and gloomy great hall.

  When they arrived, Alec suddenly asked, “And why do ye follow us, lurking in the shadows, cousin?” His voice rang unnaturally loud in the darkness.

  Merry tensed as Iona stepped out of the shadows to join them at the table, which was lit by two tapers. She’d drawn her plaid tightly about her shoulders, and she was holding a bottle of wine close to her chest.

  “I would speak to ye of Ewan, cousin,” she answered tightly.

  Reaching over, Alec wrested the wine from her grasp and, drawing the cork with his teeth, tipped it back to drink straight from the bottle.

  Iona sniffed in displeasure.

  “There’s naught for me to say,” Alec said once he’d decided he’d drunk enough. “If ye have questions, ask the man himself.”

  Her eyes flashed at that. “I canna be so forward,” she nearly growled. “Not yet. ‘Tis a delicate situation. Though I do believe—”

  Alec cast a quick glance Merry’s way and then interrupted his cousin with a sharp warning. “Dinna be so certain that he’ll fall into your net.”

  Iona snapped her mouth shut.

  “Beauty alone willna guarantee your heart’s desire,” Alec continued, his tone taking on a finely edged sarcasm. “Particularly the kind of sweet-temper and beauty ye possess. Beauty such as yours is a curse, I’ll warrant.”

  Missing the mockery in his voice, Iona arched her brows and graced him with a haughty smile. “Ye speak the truth. Beauty such as mine is the truest of burdens.”

  Alec grinned in outright amusement.

  “’Tis fair distressing to suffer the envy of every woman I meet,” she continued, heaving a sigh before adopting an even wearier tone to add, “And ‘tis fair exhausting to be the object of all men’s desire. ‘Tis no small wonder women dinna wish me to stay long in the company of their husbands.”

  There was no regret in the woman’s tone, only pride and conceit.

  Alec stared at her astonished. “I pity the man to be chained to ye. No one is deserving of such foul luck,” he said, shaking his head.

  Iona’s eyes hardened then. Suddenly suspicious that she’d been the victim of a jest, she gave a cold, thin smile and, pivoting on her heel, left in a huff.

  Merry was relieved to see her go.

  “A foul-tempered beastie is what she is,” Alec muttered under his breath.

  Merry frowned thoughtfully. She hadn’t really concerned herself with beauty before, but now that she thought on it, Iona did possess the creamy skin, blue eyes, and flaming red hair that many a man desired. And
she was a lady. She was small of stature, her hands were soft, and she moved with a delicate grace that Merry could not even hope to mimic, not when she’d spent her entire life riding across the moors on the back of a horse.

  Merry glanced down at her rider’s hands and grimaced. Aye, she was too tall, too strong-featured, to lay claim to beauty.

  Turning back to Alec, she saw his wide grin in the dim candlelight, and with a shake of her head, murmured, “She’s bonny, a fitting wife for an earl.”

  Alec choked. “Bonny?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock. “Are ye daft?”

  Merry frowned at him. “You’re a man,” she growled. “What would ye know of such things?”

  A merry glint entered Alec’s green eyes. “More than ye ever could, ye wee fool,” he answered with a wink, and then all trace of laughter fled his face, and his mood soured swiftly. “A sorry wretch is what I’m destined to be, I fear. I’ll live the remainder of my days pining for love and destined to be left wanting …” His words trailed off, and he fell silent.

  But Merry was no longer listening. Sitting down at the table, she lay her head down upon her arms and closed her burning eyes. It seemed so long ago that she’d thought to cut her hair and set out on this grand adventure, masquerading as a lad.

  But she was weary of it now.

  She missed Skye. She missed the grandeur and beauty of the moors, the gulls riding the wind over the sea-stacked rocks of the MacLeod’s Maidens, and the crisp air filled with the tang of the sea. Soon, the selkies would be barking on the shell-covered beaches.

  She had thought to have an adventure. She hadn’t expected such sorrow. Her heart swelled with sadness over Lothar’s suffering. And Ewan’s too. Aye, she felt sorrow for Ewan’s haunted dreams.

  But he should have warned her that he was betrothed. It was like an arrow to her heart. That is, if she still had one. At the moment, there was naught but an aching, empty spot where her heart had been.

  A deep loneliness swept over her as weariness descended upon her.

  Sleep came then, but it was a restless sleep, filled with images of Ewan and Iona, their legs entwined, sharing long, breathless nights. And when the dawn arrived, she welcomed the rough shake of her shoulder and looked up into Alec’s emerald eyes in relief.

  “Let’s wash afore the others, aye?” he suggested with a grin.

  Rising to her feet, Merry stretched and glanced around the great hall. The place looked just as gloomy in the daylight as it had at night.

  Alec led her to the kitchens, and even though the door was open to let in the morning sun, the place seemed dank and dark, nothing like Dunvegan’s neatly scrubbed kitchens with their vaulted ceilings and jolly atmosphere. Here, the tables were cluttered with unwashed pots and trenchers bearing half-eaten food from the day before. Several scullery maids sat in a circle, plucking chickens. The white feathers flurried about Merry’s feet like snowflakes as she passed by.

  A lad stood by the hearth, ladling hot water into a bucket from a large cauldron boiling over the fire. Looking up as they approached, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder to a half-filled barrel in the corner. A table stood next to it with a linen towel, a bar of tallow soap, and an ox-horn comb tossed upon its surface. Above it, a shelf held a razor and a small polished silver mirror.

  An empty wooden bathing tub had been shoved under the table, and Merry eyed it wistfully. There would be no bath for her. Not if she must play the part of a lad. She inspected her hands, observing the dirt embedded under her nails.

  Alec seemed to read her mind. “Ye can wash your face, at least,” he said with a warm smile.

  Kneeling, they took turns plunging their arms into the barrel, washing not only their faces but their arms, shoulders, and hair as well. It was invigorating, refreshing, and by the time she’d finished, she felt alert once again.

  Rising to her feet, she briskly dried her hair and was combing through the wet, snarled mess when she noticed Alec’s eyes locked over her shoulder. Following his gaze, she saw Ewan framed in the door, backlit by the morning sun.

  He looked haggard, his skin was pale and lines of strain were apparent between his brows. He’d changed into a long bleached linen shirt that hung loosely over breeches that fit snugly over his sinewy thighs. The clothes were flattering, calling attention to his hard muscled body, the body of a warrior.

  With a dreamy sigh, she wondered what it would be like to slide her hand under his shirt and run her fingers along the ridges of his stomach. And then the comb snagged in her hair, and suddenly aware of her thoughts, Merry quickly averted her gaze and turned away.

  She was ashamed. Ewan was betrothed, and he’d never given her reason to hope. It was her own foolishness that had allowed herself to become attracted to him. Nay, if she were honest, she’d admit that her own foolishness had let herself fall in love with him.

  And then she saw that he’d joined them by the barrel. In silence, he pulled his blond hair back into a ponytail and helped himself to the large bar of soft, yellow soap.

  “Lothar?” Alec asked, offering him the razor and pointing to the mirror.

  “He’s sleeping,” Ewan replied, working the soap into a lather. “He has a fever, but not a treacherous one. We can only pray ‘twill stay that way.”

  “Then, that is well,” Alec replied.

  Ewan agreed with a grim nod. “He’s a braw man. He’ll live.”

  Merry said nothing. Stepping back, she watched from under her lashes as he took up the sharp razor and skimmed the blade skillfully over his jaw, contorting his face to shave his upper lip.

  She swallowed another sigh.

  Everything about the man was a distraction, from his broad shoulders to the lithe line of his thigh.

  And then the familiar scent of lavender and roses wafted through the air and glancing over, Merry saw Iona standing a mere arm’s length away.

  Her eyes were locked on Merry, and for a brief moment, her face was unguarded, and the distaste, the disdain, was easy to see. Clearly, the woman didn’t like her. She’d like her even less should she discover Merry’s true gender.

  But then Iona pushed by her and stepping up to Ewan, ran a hand over his shoulder as if to brush off the lint. It was an overtly possessive gesture.

  Ewan moved back at once and raised a brow in a cool but polite inquiry.

  “The clothing fits ye well, my lord,” Iona said with a bright smile.

  He just stood there, looking down at her with his blue eyes narrowing.

  The silence stretched, becoming awkward.

  And then Iona cleared her throat. “I have tidings, my lord,” she said.

  Ewan frowned. “They are?” he asked crisply.

  “My father will return to Hermitage at the week’s end.” All at once, she seemed a little hesitant, unsure.

  “Then, that is well,” Ewan replied and returned to his shaving.

  “Aye, ‘tis time we settled the matter,” Iona practically purred. She let her gaze trail down the length of Ewan’s body.

  “Aye,” Ewan agreed readily enough.

  She appeared to like that response. In fact, she looked quite giddy. With a fluttering of her lashes, she curtsied and quickly exited the kitchen but not before sending a scornful smile Merry’s way.

  Merry grimaced. As bonny as Iona was, it was clear she was a two-faced woman. Merry could only shake her head. No doubt, Ewan was blinded by her beauty.

  “A giant fool I never took ye for, Ewan,” she murmured under her breath.

  “Fool?”

  Merry jerked, surprised she’d said the words aloud. From the corner of her eye, she saw him peering down at her curiously. He stood close, smelling of soap and leather. It was fair difficult to think clearly. But pretending to possess a calm she didn't feel, she masked her feelings and finally replied, “I wish to congratulate ye, Ewan. Iona will make ye a fine bride.”

  Ewan’s brow lifted, startled. He stood there a moment, as if grappling for words, but then with a frustrated
breath, slammed his fist against the wall. Turning on his heel, he then left the kitchen without a word.

  “Then ye know,” Alec’s voice said from behind her.

  Merry didn’t reply.

  Reaching over, he patted her on the head as if she were a wee lassie. “Dinna judge him too harshly, lass. ‘Tis a complicated matter. He’s a man sealed within himself. At times, he’s not easy to know.”

  “I’m sure ‘tis a strong match,” Merry grated.

  “The mere thought of it turns my stomach foul—” Alec began.

  But Merry couldn’t hear anymore. “I dinna wish to speak now,” she said gruffly, refusing to meet his eyes. “I must tend to Diabhul.”

  She ran out of the kitchens then and made her way to the stables. The lads there were quite relieved to give over Diabhul’s care and showed Merry his stall at once.

  Relaxing, Merry ran her hand along the black stallion’s back and settled down to groom his coat to a sheen and to braid his mane and tail. As usual, Diabhul’s company soothed her, giving her the peace to collect her thoughts.

  It was time she returned home.

  Mayhap she should send Ruan a letter first. It might defuse his anger—or give him ample time to nurture it. She wasn’t entirely sure what his reaction would be.

  She had succeeded in rescuing Ewan, even though he’d run straight into the arms of another woman.

  With a frown, she picked up Diabhul’s large hoof and brushed it clean.

  Channeling her thoughts back to Ruan, she wondered how long his wrath would last. Would he understand she’d felt a life-debt? Most likely, he’d be so relieved to find her safe that he’d speak only a few harsh words.

  Aye, she needed to return home. Where she wouldn’t see Ewan again.

  The thought was depressing—as was the frequency with which Ewan intruded upon her thoughts. The man had grown on her. Knowing Iona would be seeing him daily did not help matters either. And not just seeing him—but being in his arms.

  “Ho, there, Moridac!” Alec’s cheerful voice intruded upon her solitude.

  Merry straightened to find Alec sprawling comfortably against the stall as if he’d been there for some time.