by Carmen Caine
The shocked and slightly outraged expression in her brown eyes gave him hope.
“Tell me where Alec lives in your heart,” he whispered, his eyes burning into hers. “I havena the patience of a saint, Merry, nor is my heart made of ice.”
On the ramparts, Alec hadn’t offered a word of explanation. He’d merely turned upon his heel and strode away. Ewan had been too sick at heart, and simply too weary to follow. His wound burned more than it should. He’d soon be lying in bed with a fever if he didn’t rest soon.
Merry’s expressive brown eyes had softened a little. “Alec’s a pleasant lad,” she answered with a shrug. “But that’s the end of it. Aye, I wouldna want him in …” Her voice trailed away, and she quickly averted her gaze as she realized what completing that sentence would imply.
He lowered his lashes then, and his blood began to sing in his veins. Spanning his hands about her waist, he growled softly, “Then you’re too far away, lass.” Aye, even an inch was suddenly too far. “Come a little closer,” he demanded.
Her eyes widened, and her soft full lips parted in surprise as he crushed her close.
She didn’t resist, in fact, she melted against him. Her shirt had been ripped, revealing the long graceful curve of her neck and the strips of cloth binding her chest. He caught his breath as long-forgotten feelings of passion ignited deep in his soul. A longing of sweet torment washed over him as he ran a hand up her back and pushed her even closer until he could feel the softness of her breasts mold into his chest.
And then she tilted her head back and running the back of her hand down his arm, willingly offered him her lips, ripe lips that would drive him to the edge of madness if he did not immediately taste them.
Any shred of control he had thought to retain was immediately lost.
No longer thinking or caring to wait for Ruan’s blessing, Ewan whispered a warning. “Keep your wits about ye, lass, if ye can.”
“Wits? What do ye think—” she began.
But a savage growl erupted from deep within his throat, and he interrupted her with a swift, hard kiss.
It was a kiss of passion, a bold assertive kiss that commanded full surrender.
She gasped, and he unrepentantly took advantage of her surprise to run his tongue across her teeth. Aye, her lips were soft and yielding beneath his, and as deliciously intoxicating as he knew they would be. He savored the surge of sensation, his want deepening with each passing moment.
And then she pulled her lips away, enough to breathlessly whisper, “Ewan, we … I …”
He tried to listen, but ‘twas nigh impossible. Especially when her softness melded against him in every imaginable way. He waited a moment, watching her struggle for words before he could resist no longer.
“I’m not finished with ye yet,” he murmured, gruff and thick-tongued. “Ye can speak later, aye?”
Her eyes turned liquid and nodding, she bit her bottom lip, and he was hard-pressed then to restrain the desire rushing through his veins like molten lava.
Dropping his head, he nuzzled the side of her neck, leaving a trail of kisses up the graceful curve of her neck before his mouth returned to demand more of hers. And this time, he took her lips in a slow, gentle plundering of the mouth both at once tender and assertive. For a time, he continued a slow sweep of his tongue until she collapsed against him.
He smiled into her mouth.
But then, dimly, he grew aware of shouting in the courtyard outside, and it took him longer than was his wont to recognize his own name.
The door to the stables crashed back, and the voice shouted again, “Ewan!”
It was Alec.
Merry tried to pull away, but Ewan held her fast, long enough to trace her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, and then with a ragged groan, he tore his lips from hers and peered over Diabhul’s strong back.
Alec strode their way with large, forceful steps.
Ewan arched a curious brow.
And then Merry stepped back a little unsteadily, and he eyed her kiss-swollen lips with a mixture of pride and possessiveness.
But then Alec was there, his keen eyes taking in every detail.
A charged silence followed, one in which Merry kept her eyes locked straight ahead.
Finally, Ewan broke it with a crisp query. “Tidings?”
“Aye.” Alec nodded, marshaling his expression with apparently little difficulty. Only the twitching muscle on his jaw betrayed his discomfort at finding them together. “A missive bearing the king’s seal and addressed to ye, Ewan. The messenger awaits ye in the hall.”
Alarmed, Ewan lifted a brow. It boded ill. The king had little cause to write to him.
Sending a hurried half-bow Merry’s way, he pushed past Alec and exited the stables. Quickly, and with Alec at his heels, he strode across the courtyard through the rain and the darkening day to duck inside the castle. Stomping the rain from their boots, the two men made their way into the hall.
It was vacant, save Iona and the messenger, both waiting at the high table in the gathering gloom. The messenger was an older man in the Stewart plaid. A broad leather belt encircled his waist, and in his hands he held a rolled parchment with the king’s red wax seal.
Behind him, Iona hovered in a tightly fitting green dress. She eyed the missive with open curiosity.
As Ewan approached, the messenger bowed. “I will await your reply, my lord,” he said, and then turning on his heel, he disappeared from the hall in the direction of the kitchens.
Immediately breaking the seal, Ewan quickly scanned the words.
His brows rose in surprise.
Ach, he could scarce believe what he read. Cunningham. Alec had been right. Hugh Cunningham was a treacherous viper.
Furious, Ewan tossed the parchment onto the table and, planting his hands upon his lean hips, thundered, “Fires of Hell, but that man is a rutting, crook-pated, swag-bellied—”
But then a movement near the door caught his attention, and spying Merry, he choked, checking his rage with great difficulty.
Alec followed his line of sight and after beckoning for her to join them, turned back to Ewan with a wry smile. “The lad’s heard worse, I’m sure, Ewan,” he said, inclining his head at the direction of the missive. “I gather the tidings are …?”
But before Ewan could reply, Iona chose that moment to interrupt in arch tones. “I might remind you there is a ladypresent,” she stressed, the tips of her ears pink with outrage.
Surprised he had forgotten her presence entirely, Ewan nodded a belated apology.
And then Merry stepped up to the table, and Iona swung around, startled and angry to find her there. But noticing Ewan’s gaze directed her way, Iona quickly replaced the crease between her brows with a coy smile.
Their differences struck him then. Iona was a cold, icy beauty. She was nothing compared to the tall, raven-haired lass whose brown eyes were a tempest of temptation and who could bewitch him with a single smile.
Aye, he wouldn’t wait for Iona’s father to tell her. He’d inform the lass himself that there would be no wedding. He was weary of her games.
He glanced back at Merry perched on the edge of the table, lightly chewing her bottom lip. He couldn’t resist. He allowed his eyes to boldly journey down the length of her before he became aware he was openly ogling.
Quickly, he averted his gaze.
But Iona didn’t miss it.
Neither did Alec. Slapping his hand upon the table, Alec’s expression vacillated between amusement, irritation, and impatience as he demanded, “Tell me the tidings, Ewan! Do ye enjoy tormenting a man?”
Thinning his lips, Ewan focused his attention on Alec once again. And then in a low, stern voice, he cautioned, “I’ll tell ye, Alec, but first swear ye’ll not be riding off without my expressed command, aye?”
A look of dismay washed over Alec’s face. “Then the tidings must be of the worst kind,” he said.
“Aye, but I’ll have your word first,” Ewan
insisted.
Alec was a passionate man, one given to acting before thinking, but he was a man of his word. It took him a moment to agree, protesting under his breath, “Aye, but I’m sure I’ll regret it.”
Ewan nodded grimly. “Yester eve, Hugh Cunningham happened upon the king campaigning for supporters near Selkirk.”
Alec tensed at once, clenching his fists.
Keeping an eye on him, Ewan continued, unable to hide the hint of anger in his voice, “And he demands justice from the king for his men unfairly slaughtered in the woodlands.”
“Are ye speaking of Hugh Cunningham, the same man who has sworn to fight for the prince against the king?” Alec asked in a low voice laced with disbelief.
They exchanged a long look.
And then Ewan said, “I canna say where Cunningham’s loyalties lie now. The king is a fool for listening to him. ‘Tis time for the prince to take the throne. We’ve suffered long enough from a monarch who canna see men use him for their own designs.”
Alec measured him with a grim eye, and then said, “And I notice ye are careful not to say who Cunningham claims slaughtered his men.”
Ewan heaved a sigh, but he didn’t stop Alec from snagging the parchment from his hand.
“Sweet Mary!” Alec swore, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “’Tis rubbing salt in the wounds. He claims I slew his men unprovoked? I’ll throttle the man with my bare hands this very night—”
“Ye swore to abide by my command,” Ewan reminded him firmly.
“And ye expect me to just stand by and let matters take their course?” Alec objected with fury in his green eyes. Jabbing a finger at the parchment, he asked, “How will ye explain yourself to the king if ye dinna deliver me to Cunningham to face justice as he’s ordered ye? It will provoke the start of the war!”
Ewan clenched his jaw. “I’ll think of something,” he said.
His head was beginning to pound, and the pain from his wound was now throbbing. Wincing, he gripped the edge of the table and drew in a steadying breath.
And then he felt a soft touch on his arm, and he glanced down, surprised to find Iona at his side.
“Allow me to provide ye refreshment, my lord,” she offered, sliding her hand up his arm.
It was a possessive gesture and one he didn’t welcome. He lifted his hand to pluck hers free, but the movement caused pain to lance across his ribs. Ach, he needed to rest. He glanced down at his shirt, wondering if he’d reopened his wound.
Iona thrust a cup of mulled wine into his face then, and he was tempted to slap it away. Aye, the woman was a mightily vexing one. Instead, he forced himself to accept the wine with a curt nod of thanks and set it on the table untouched, and then casting his eyes in a quick search, he saw that Merry had gone.
But then Alec caught his arm. “Ye’d best visit the priest, Ewan,” he advised, nodding at his shirt.
Ewan glanced down. A small patch of blood had appeared, and it was spreading. With a grim nod, Ewan excused himself and made his way to Lothar’s chamber in search of the holy man.
He’d deal with Iona after.
Then he would find Merry.
And he could only pray that Alec would remain a man of his word.
He took the spiraled steps at a slow pace and, peering into Lothar’s chamber, found the man awake. The redheaded maid sat on a stool by Frank’s side, darning a pair of woolen hose. But upon seeing Ewan, she rose to her feet without a word, and bobbing a quick curtsey, moved to stand by the fire with Lothar’s eyes following her every move.
Ewan smiled down at the man’s gaunt face. He was still pale as death, but he appeared a wee bit stronger.
And ever a man to not waste words, Lothar opened his dry lips and whispered, “I’m useless, Ewan.”
Ewan frowned and shook his head. “Nay, Lothar,” he disagreed in a calm, reassuring tone. “’Tis not a bad thing to give up the sword. Find yourself a lass and come to Mull. There’s land aplenty for ye, and ye’ll see that life is yet worth living.”
Ewan paused then, realizing that they weren’t just empty words of comfort anymore. To return to the Isle of Mull, the place of his birth, and to walk along its shores with his hands entwined with Merry’s seemed not only a life worth living but a life to give everything else up for.
He almost missed the man’s next words.
“Would you give up the sword?” the Frank asked weakly.
“Aye,” Ewan answered without hesitation. Leaning down, he clasped the man’s shoulder warmly. “And mayhap sooner than ye think, Lothar.”
And then the door opened, and the aged priest stepped inside. “Alec bade me find ye,” he said, pursing his lips as he spied Ewan’s red-stained shirt. “Come, lad, ye should be lying abed.”
After giving Lothar a hasty farewell and a promise to visit again soon, Ewan allowed the priest to guide him down the corridor to another dark wooden door. It opened up to a chamber with herb-strewn rushes upon the floor, a large four-poster bed in the center, and a small tapestry on the wall. A warm fire crackled upon the hearth.
Moving to the bed, Ewan sat down, a little breathless.
“The Lady Iona prepared this room for ye,” the priest informed as he pushed Ewan back onto the pillows. “Ye must stay off your feet, lad, and give this wound a chance to heal. Otherwise, ye’ll burn with a fever for certain.”
Ewan said nothing. He knew the priest was right, but he had no intention of staying in the chamber a moment longer than necessary. Iona would doubtless think it an invitation to join him.
In silence, the priest unwrapped his wound, exposing the jagged cut surrounded by bruised skin. Several stitches had indeed come undone, and leaving the man to his work, Ewan glanced away to stare at the fire, caught in the hypnotic spell of the dancing flames as he let his thoughts wander to Merry.
The simple desire to be near her was an overpowering one.
A smile stole across his lips.
Aye, he wished she lay at his side. Her presence alone made him breathe easier. It was as though a weight had fallen off his chest. Her laughing brown eyes warmed his soul. And the passion in her kiss … he couldn’t let himself think of that now.
Instead, he cleared his mind and listened to the peaceful sound of the rain drilling onto the roof mingling with the occasional crack of the fire.
Exhaustion swept over him.
He closed his eyes, promising himself it would only be for a moment.
* * *
It was dark when Ewan lifted his lashes.
And then he heard a soft footfall and felt a light touch upon his shoulder. Still only half-awake, he smiled and murmured, “Merry?”
There was a harsh intake of breath, and he realized the fingers moving across his chest possessed none of Merry’s warm sensuality.
Ewan sat up abruptly.
As he feared, it was Iona.
She stood by the bed, some of her hair woven in an intricate braid and her fingers bedecked with rings. Her red curls spilled over her bare shoulders, and her skin was creamy white in the dim light of the single candle that flickered on the mantle. She wore not even a shift but had wrapped herself only in a plaid, which she’d allowed to slip provocatively low.
Ewan expelled an exasperated breath. Pushing back a woolen blanket that someone had draped over him, he swung his legs from the bed and said flatly, “’Tis unseemly, my lady. Clothe yourself. I’ll not be sharing your bed.”
She stiffened but quickly hid all trace of displeasure and sent him an inviting smile instead.
“My lord, ‘tis not unseemly,” she said with a petulant pout before lowering her voice breathlessly. “‘Tis what takes place atween a man and a woman—a husband and a wife.”
“Aye, a husband and a wife,” Ewan answered in exasperation as he hastily dressed. “And ye should save yourself for your husband. I’ve already informed your father that we’ll not wed. There is nothing atween us.”
He watched awareness grow in her eyes, and then sh
e stifled a gasp. Moving to the window, she turned her back to him and opened the shutters.
“Truly?” she asked, her voice taking on a hard edge, and then she turned upon him. The displeasure was evident in her eyes as she accused, “No doubt, ‘tis because of her. Ye stare at her like a besotted fool.”
It truly wasn’t because of Merry. He’d never intended to wed Iona to begin with, but he wasn’t certain if she’d like that explanation any better. Instead, he merely noted, “Then ye know she’s a lass.”
She stood, steeped in the moonlight pouring through the open window as it cast the room in shades of blue. “But what of me? Why not wed me?” Tears began pooling in her eyes. “What have I done to turn ye against me, my lord?” she gasped, choking a little.
She moved as if to throw herself into his arms, but he quickly sidestepped her and strode to the door. “Ye should go, my lady.”
But she wasn’t so biddable. She stood in the center of the room, struggling to regain her composure. “Have ye lost your mind altogether?” she asked, choking out a thin laugh.
“Nay, I haven’t,” he said with his hand upon the latch.
She darted forward then and, staying his hand, pressed her back against the door so he could not open it. “Ye should ponder the matter at length,” she said. Her voice took on a wheedling tone. “Dinna make so hasty a decision—”
“There was nothing hasty about it,” he said, peering down at her. “Nay, I only delayed in telling ye it would never happen. For this, I am truly sorry. Forgive me.”
She let her plaid fall to the floor then and desperately ran her hands over his chest.
Annoyance mingled with pity. “Do ye care naught for your reputation or station?” he asked harshly, his voice rough even to his own ears.
And then disengaging himself from her searching hands, he kicked the door open and strode out of the chamber.
“I curse the day I ever heard of you!” her voice followed him, rising in pitch with each word.
He would have to leave Hermitage and right soon.
Moving through the dark corridor, he made his way to the hall. There was little light, but he could barely make out the dim shapes of the servants sleeping upon on the floor. Aggravated with himself for falling asleep in that accursed chamber, he settled back against the wall and crossed his arms.
