by Carmen Caine
Ewan’s brows ascended in surprise.
“Then find a priest, Ruan—” Merry began.
“Nay,” Ewan cut her short, holding up his hand. “I’ve not asked ye yet, lass—”
“Ach, do ye think I’m of a mind to say nay?” she interrupted him in turn. Lowering her lashes, she asked, “Will ye hither to my side whenever I call ye for the rest of your days?”
“Aye,” he said, frowning a little. “But ‘tis I who should be doing the asking. And I would wait for a proper wedding. I willna wed ye in the clothes of battle—”
She reached up then and silenced him with a kiss. He shuddered at the delicate touch of her lips upon his and the soft teasing trace of her hand as it slid across his chest and dropped down the length of his arm.
Pulling her lips away, she nodded in satisfaction when he remained silent.
“You're outmatched, lad,” Cameron said then. “’Tis wise to give into your fate.”
Ruan simply threw his head back and laughed.
“Aye, then I’ll be wedding ye now, Ewan, this very hour,” Merry said, her dark eyes sparkling. “There will be plenty of time to attend feasts later. If you’re quick, I’m sure the monks can help ye find a tub and a fresh plaid.”
“Come, Ewan,” Ruan said with smiling eyes. “Ye have an hour. If ye wish, I’ll even help ye ride as far as ye can from this wee beastie. It seems I’ve erred, aye? ‘Tis ye I should worry for, lad.”
It happened quickly after that.
Within the hour, he’d scrubbed the battle grime away, revealing an array of bruises and small cuts. His arm was bound in order to aid in the healing of it, and at the last moment, Julian arrived with a fine linen shirt and a crisp MacLean plaid.
And then under a bright crescent moon above the rim of the horizon, Julian and Cameron escorted him to the side entrance of the chapel where a monk with white hair and dark bushy brows waited.
No one spoke.
They stood there in silence for a few minutes.
But when there was no sign yet of Merry, he began to wonder if she’d regretted her haste, but he’d scarce thought it when a loud crash rang through the night.
Swearing, Ewan whirled, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword out of habit.
But it was only a priest who had dropped a candlestick on his way into the main chapel where the king lay in state.
“Ach, your warrior instincts are too ingrained in ye, lad,” Julian said with a soft laugh.
Ewan frowned and expelled a long breath. “I’ve grown weary of the familiar scent of battle. My days of drawing the sword are done,” he said, his tone resoundingly final. “From this moment on, I will live by the words: what ye can kill, ye can also save.”
“Well said,” Cameron commented, arching an elegant brow at him. “Then will I find ye joining me at court, lad?”
Ewan shook his head quickly. “Nay, I dinna plan to leave the Isles. I’ll fill my days with other concerns now.”
Returning home. He’d thought of it often, but now it would happen. In his mind’s eyes, he saw his parent’s astonished—and greatly pleased—faces upon discovering he hadn’t returned home alone but in the company of his own wee wife, a lass he loved with his entire heart.
“Then methinks ‘twill not be long afore I hear news that ye’ve produced an heir to the Earldom of Mull,” Julian said with a low chuckle. “Your father will dance with joy.”
And then the expression on Cameron’s face caught Ewan’s eye, a look of love and yearning. Following the earl’s gaze, Ewan spied Kate moving toward them, but then all other thoughts fled as he caught sight of Ruan behind her with his arm looped through Merry’s.
He could only watch as Merry glided toward him, a vision in a gold and moss-colored gown that clung to her curvaceous form in such a way that stole his breath. He stood there, drinking in every exquisite inch of her, from her slim white throat to the soft swell of her bosom rising from the voluminous skirts gathered about her waist.
And then Ruan placed her hand into his, and the priest began to speak, uttering words that bound them together for life.
But he scarcely heard the man.
He was lost in the mischievously dancing eyes of his soon-to-be wife.
And then it was done. She was his.
He stood there, entwining one hand with hers as he reverently twisted one of her short ebony curls around the fingers of the other. And then he bent his head, his lips hovering a scant inch above hers for a moment before closing the distance in a warm, eager kiss. He could have tasted the sweet softness of her lips for an eternity, and it took every shred of his remaining strength to finally tear his mouth away from hers.
Cameron was then shooing them to the waiting horses, and they all mounted for the short journey back to the castle. Ewan rode in silence, overwhelmed by the events of the day.
He was fair exhausted in both body and mind. But the moment Merry’s hand clasped over his to lead him up the dark winding stairs of Castle Stirling to their assigned chamber, his weariness began to fade and his heart grew lighter with each step.
And by the time they’d reached the chamber door, he found his lips smiling as he swept her up into his arms. Kicking the door open, he carried her inside.
The chamber was a welcoming one, a large curtained bed stood in the center with a fine brocade cover. A crackling fire burned on the hearth and near it stood a table laden with wine and platters filled with things he didn’t really care about at the moment.
Pulling her to his chest, he wrapped his arms around her tightly and buried his face into her hair.
At long last, she was his.
He could scarce believe it.
Slowly, he slid his palm down her back and then up to her neck before moving a finger to lightly trace her collarbone.
Her long lashes dropped then, and he moved to nuzzle her behind her ear. He was rewarded by a soft, fragile moan escaping her lips that made him smile even as his blood began to heat.
Dropping his hands to linger on the curve of her hip, he claimed her in a kiss, reveling in the sweetest torment of her lips.
She responded by sliding her hands beneath his shirt and running her fingers across his chest. Her touch was light and airy, maddeningly so, as her hands splayed across the expanse of his chest in a way that burned his skin even more.
He kissed her throat then, tilting her back and tasting her soft skin that only made him ache to feel her bare flesh against his.
‘Twas nigh impossible to resist the urge to rip her fine dress right off and to ravish every inch of her skin with his lips.
And then she tossed her head of ebony curls, lifting her brows ever so slightly in a teasing challenge.
It was his undoing.
Grasping the fabric of her bodice tightly in his hands, he heard the cloth rip and the gown ballooned softly to the floor to pool at her feet. She leaned into him then, placing one hand upon his chest, and then with a primal growl, he caught her in his arms and carried her to the bed.
* * *
Merry woke up to an arm holding her firmly in place. She smiled at Ewan’s blond head buried in the pillows next to her, eyes closed, and with his other arm arched gracefully above his head.
Sliding out from under his hold, she peered at his chiseled chest and frowned. The collection of bruises, cuts, and quite a few faded scars stood out as a testament to the dangerous life he had lived.
Had lived.
She’d see to it that the most dangerous thing he did from that moment onward would be to spend his evenings in her bed. Aye, and such a thing would be dangerous indeed. He would be in severe danger of never leaving her side.
He was breathing slowly, peacefully, signaling he still slept.
She didn’t mind. It afforded her the opportunity to stare at him as much as she pleased.
Softly, she ran her finger an inch over the firm line of his jaw and softly whispered a vow, “The only blade I’ll see ye raise, Ewan MacLean, is a razor to
shave your beard.”
He startled her with a low chuckle.
The sound was astonishing, not only because she was surprised to discover him awake, but mostly because it made her realize that she hadn’t heard him laugh in such a light-heartedly pleasant way since she was a wee lassie and he’d arrived as a gangly lad at Dunvegan.
“And how are ye awake so soon, lass?” he asked in a voice roughened by sleep. “I must not have honored my husbandly duties properly last night, aye?”
In a flash, he’d rolled his taut body on top of her and looked down into her eyes with a glance that was warm and possessive.
“Last night was a wee bit of a blur,” Merry murmured, sliding her hands up his chest.
“Do ye need to be reminded then?” he asked with a self-satisfied smile.
She laughed then. “Ach, ye men are too easy to lead about by the nose—” she began.
But he silenced her with a kiss. And then his hot mouth was on her skin once more, eliciting exquisite sensations as they surrendered to unfettered passion.
* * *
It was several days later, after the northern clans had been routed home and the newly made king had retired to Edinburgh, that Ruan, Merry, and Ewan bade their farewells.
It was time to return to the Isles.
Ruan had decided to ride with them to Mull first, before returning home to Skye, and so on a particularly bright summer morning, they readied their horses in Stirling’s stables.
Patting his horse on the rump, Ewan had just reached down to adjust the cinch of his saddle when he heard a horse’s snuffle from behind and felt a hard push on his shoulder.
He dove just before the teeth snapped.
Whirling on his heel, he could only eye Diabhul in wonder and ask his bride, “Do ye think he’ll ever forgive me, Merry?”
Merry stepped around the horse’s great rump and sent him a warm smile. “He gave ye one chance, Ewan, and ye betrayed him. I dinna think ye’ll get another.”
“Mayhap. But there is still time,” Ewan murmured with a smile. Turning to the horse, he lowered his voice, “Lad, I understand ye better than ye think. We just need to find ye a high-spirited lassie who can lighten that heavy heart of yours and then we’ll see ye frolicking on the moors, aye?”
“Frolicking on the moors?” Merry asked then, lowering her lashes. And then she drew his head down and whispered in his ear, “If ye were to frolic on the moors, Ewan, would it be with or without your plaid?”
He looked down at her then, allowing his eyes to drift lazily over her soft curves.
Aye, she was an incredible lass.
Pulling her close, he delivered a gentle kiss on the side of her neck.
And then she smacked him on the side of the head. A soft smack, one that ended with her fingers threading through his hair.
“We must be leaving, ye daft fool,” she murmured, pressing against him in a manner that threatened only to ensure the fact that they wouldn’t be leaving at all.
“Enough of that, the two of ye,” Ruan called from over his shoulder. “We’ve miles to ride.”
They pulled apart, slightly embarrassed and then sweeping Merry off her feet, Ewan tossed her onto Diabhul’s back. And then pausing only long enough to tie the reins of his own horse to Diabhul’s saddle, he swung himself up behind her.
“I’ll not ride alone,” he whispered in her ear.
Diabhul stamped his foot, but with Merry riding upon him, that was the end of his resistance.
Then wrapping his arms tightly around Merry’s waist, Ewan galloped after Ruan under Stirling Castle’s gates and down Castle Hill’s winding cobblestoned lanes for the last time and headed across the fields for the highlands rippling across the horizon.
Taking a northerly road, they ran their horses over the swelling and falling moorlands with the scent of damp heather filling the air. The miles passed, and they rode long into the day, traveling across fields of upland flowers and through stands of birch growing on the shores of the narrow, winding lochs.
But Ewan scarcely noticed the time.
His heart was light and warm, unencumbered by thoughts of war, and he had his bride in his arms. Leaning down, he buried his face in her ebony curls. She responded at once by pressing back against his chest to nestle her head against the curve of his neck.
He cradled her closer. Aye, they belonged together. They had from the very start.
Epilogue
Ewan lounged back in his chair and stretched his long legs out before the warm crackling fire in Duart Castle’s hall. It had been a few months short of a year since he’d returned to the MacLean family stronghold, which perched like an eagle on the high cliffs of Mull.
This spring evening was a particularly lazy one in the immense stone keep.
In the corner, the minstrel strummed softly upon his lute. The evening meal had just been served, and even though the enticing scents of rosemary-roasted meat pervaded the air, Merry and his father still sat by the window, oblivious to the fact the food was growing cold.
His parents had instantly fallen in love with Merry when he’d first brought her home. As she had with them. But the bond she’d formed with his father was a particularly close one, and she spent many hours by his side, listening to his never-ending hoard of tales regarding Mull’s fairy and witch folk.
And this evening, Merry was once again enthralled as his father regaled her with yet another tale of Cailleach Bheur, the divine hag of Mull.
Ewan didn’t mind waiting.
He quite enjoyed letting his eyes travel slowly over her lithe form, lingering especially often upon the soft growing swell of their unborn child.
Then a scuffle at the far entrance to the hall drew his sharp blue eyes.
But it only proved to be Lothar.
Spying the saddle upon the huge Frank’s shoulder, Ewan smiled at once, seeing that the man’s undertaking had been a successful one.
From across the hall, Lothar lifted his arm in greeting, no longer minding that he’d lost his hand, but then Ewan knew that his fiery wife had much to do with that. At Hermitage, the man had fallen deeply in love with the redheaded maid who had nursed him back to health. And they’d settled in Mull several months ago and would soon be having a wee bairn of their own.
After planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek as well as her expectant belly with a gentleness at odds with his fearsome demeanor, Lothar strode toward the high table, the saddle still balanced upon his shoulder.
Tossing the remainder of his wine down his throat, Ewan rose to his feet to greet the approaching Frank.
“Success,” the man announced simply, dumping the saddle onto the high table next to the platter of fish and venison.
Ewan eyed it in appreciation.
It truly was artfully wrought, a fine work of leather and silver thread.
And then he heard Merry’s gasp near his shoulder and smiling, he turned to see her standing there with her jaw dropping open in recognition.
“My saddle!” she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. “The one I sold to save ye from prison! Wherever did ye get it?”
“It took a bit of doing to find it.” Lothar laughed.
And as the once-silent man so spare with words settled back to revel in telling the tale of his journey, Merry slipped her hand through Ewan’s and pulled him out of the hall and into their chamber but a few steps away.
Once inside, she slipped her arms around his neck and burrowed as close as she could. “I canna believe ye’ve been searching for it this entire time,” she said in a husky voice. “Now I’m fair tempted to ride.”
“Nay,” Ewan chuckled, patting her belly bumping into him. “Ye have the bairn to think of, lass.”
“Aye, I know. I only said I was tempted, ye daft fool,” she said, reaching up to pinch his nose. And then her eyes took on a devilish look. “Since I canna ride until after the bairn comes, mayhap I would see ye ride Diabhul in my stead.”
Ewan frowned. “Ye know q
uite well that I’m not going anywhere near that horse. I’ve come to realize that he is the devil.”
He’d long given up any ideas of making peace with the beast.
“Ach, now, would ye disappoint your wee wife?” Merry asked, planting her hands upon her hips.
“Wee?” Ewan raised a differing brow. “There are only a handful of men on the Isle that ye dinna tower over and well ye know it.”
“Aye, but to ye I’m wee, aye?” she asked with an impish flutter of her lashes.
“Aye, ‘tis true enough,” he admitted, sweeping her close into his arms. “But I can think of better things to do than risk my life riding that devil of a horse for your amusement.”
And then lowering his lips, he kissed her hungrily.
“Aye,” she murmured in agreement, threading her fingers in his hair. “I suppose I can wait an hour to see ye ride him.”
The End
Heather House: Witch of the Moors
North Berwick, Scotland
1590
Alec Montgomery threw his head back and laughed, his green eyes twinkling in mirth.
“Ach, Taran, ye sound like Old Bertha,” he quipped, looking down his aristocratic high-bridged nose. “What was it she said?”
He slammed his tankard down with a crash and grinned as his tall, dark-haired cousin greeted his display with a scathing glance.
“Ah yes.” Alec ignored the stare and continued, shifting into a storyteller’s voice. “She swore I was cursed for dying with the name of the wrong lass upon my lips nigh on a hundred years ago. And because of it, my true love is now mine enemy.” His handsome face creased into an even wider grin as he ran his hands through his sun-burnished hair. “And an enemy that I could lose my life for in rescuing her from the flames. What sense does that make, aye? The woman is mad.”
His brooding cousin curled the corner of his lip in disdain. “And what has that to do with me?”
Staring directly into the man’s unnerving gaze, Alec wriggled both brows and whispered loud enough so that all could hear, “Ye both are mad.”
