“How many ye be?”
“Seven, with our horses and all,” Duncan said.
Dugall sidled up to Yvette. She cast him a worried glance. His smile did little to reassure her.
A squat man’s shape appeared limned in the open doorway. He stepped onto the lopsided porch. “Did I hear the name of McTavish? Ewan, be that ye?”
“Aye, Paddy.” Ewan edged Shaidae frontward a bit. “Me and me bretheren.”
Paddy stepped off the porch and trundled toward the newcomers, beaming. “Welcome to ye. Come in the house, man, get out of the weather.”
Releasing a huff of air, Yvette turned her attention to dismounting. Lord above, was she even capable of getting off this horse? Her backside felt aflame. And her legs—could she even stand?
Dugall must have sensed her disquiet, because he reached to pluck her off the beast.
Before he touched her, Ewan growled, “Nae.” He nudged his brother aside with Shaidae. Giving Dugall a grim look he admonished, “The lad can get off the horse.”
Dugall’s eyes rounded, and he dipped his head. “Aye, Ewan. ‘Tis very sorry I be.”
Ewan rode his charger round the other side of Yvette’s horse, away from the curious eyes of the guards, and dismounted. His tone low he said, “Evvy, I can’t help you dismount, not without drawing attention to you. Can you get off your horse yourself? I don’t want anyone to know you’re a woman.”
The other riders surrounded her, alighting in a flurry of distracting activity, loud voices, and waving tartans. Gritting her teeth, Yvette drew her leg over the saddle. Pain, sharp as a blade, coursed the length of her leg. “Sweet Jesus,” she hissed through clamped teeth.
Biting her lower lip till it bled, she turned over. Lying on her stomach, she slid off the side of the horse. Her legs crumpled when her feet touched the ground. She grabbed the saddle to stay upright.
Ewan’s hands steadied her. “That’s my lass.”
Despite the frigid rain and blowing wind, the sight of Yvette’s bottom, tipped upward face level, as she sprawled on her belly across the mare, caused Ewan’s pulse to quicken. He sucked in a great gulp of moist air watching the delectably rounded derrière wiggling its way off the horse.
Curling his hand into a fist, he restrained the urge to reach out and smooth his hand over the supple mounds before squeezing their tempting fullness. Though he’d forbidden his hand from enjoying her luscious curves, he allowed his mind to fully indulge in the act. He tilted his lips into a grin.
Gripping the saddle Yvette rested her forehead against it, croaking, “Lord, I feel dreadful. I can hardly stand my legs ache so.”
Her comment jerked Ewan back to reality. He was a knave, ogling her when she was so miserable. He’d bet his finest mare, her death grip on the saddle was the only thing keeping her from slithering onto the boggy courtyard. That and his hand at her elbow.
“Evvy, this is a most unsavory public-house. Keep your eyes lowered and talk to no one. I hope to get you tucked into a room without revealing your gender. ‘Tis not what you are accustomed to, but ‘tis better than outdoors.”
She turned a bit, still clutching the saddle. “All right. My hatbox?”
Ewan’s let loose of her arm. “It will look odd if you carry it in. Hugh will smuggle it in later.”
Hugh nodded. “Aye, lass. ‘Tis not a problem to drape me tartan about the pretty box. I will see ye gets it.”
His voice low, Ewan said, “Look lively, lads. We don’t know who may be inside this night. Keep Yvette to the middle and watch your backs. Weapons at the ready, all of you. Dugall, you and Gregor see to the horses and find your way inside. Be quick about it.”
Yvette didn’t know where she found the strength to hobble unassisted into the boisterous inn. Only God could have carried her to the dismal entrance, for surely no flesh and blood effort would have sufficed. She was flanked on either side by Hugh and Duncan, with Ewan forging the way. Alasdair’s hulking form brought up the rear.
She stumbled twice. Each time a steadying hand was there to catch her, releasing its hold on her the instant she regained her footing. Stepping across the grubby threshold, she was momentarily stupefied, by the light, by the noise, and most of all, by the women.
Curious, Yvette peeked upward through her lashes. Merciful God! A light-skirt sat on the counter, or rather, was draped across the mutilated surface. She might as well have been unclothed from the waist up, so immodest was the atrocity of a kirtle she wore.
A disheveled man, obviously in his cups, staggered to the bar, then buried his grizzled head between the harlot’s drooping breasts. The tattered kilt he wore hiked upward exposing most of his hairy backside. The hussy’s shriek of laughter clawed along Yvette’s nerves where it clung, its sharp sting echoing in her ears.
She shook her head trying to dislodge the din banging in her head. The humming persisted, whether from the bellowing thunder outside, the clamorous crowd gathered within, or the stomach-churning, relentless pounding in her temples, she didn’t know.
Her throat convulsed as she gulped against waves of nausea. She needed to sit. Now. This place was vile.
Another wench, spying the good-looking, affluent newcomers, sashayed her way to them. She slapped away the many grimy hands groping her scantily covered, but more than ample bosom and bottom.
Cozying up to Ewan, she purred, revealing stained yellowed teeth. “Laird, ye be wantin’ some company tonight? I be most pleased to see to yer manly needs.” Rubbing against him, the tart skimmed her hand along his inner thigh, brushing and cupping his manhood.
Yvette felt a wave of color sweeping her face. Beneath the cap’s low brim, she narrowed her eyes in outrage. How dare she? The . . . the ladybird.
The proximity of the strumpet assailed her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Does she never bathe? The reeking combination of cheap perfume, whiskey, stale tobacco and another repugnant scent caused Yvette to gag. She swallowed, coughing reflexively to dislodge the bile accosting her throat.
Lud, she felt ill.
The slight cough caught the attention of the fleshy floozy who grinned. “Well now, does the laddie need to be taught the pleasures of the flesh?”
Good Lord, no.
Before anyone realized what she was about, the harlot reached around Ewan, and snatched the cap from Yvette’s head. A sudden, foreboding hush encompassed the room as her mass of waterlogged curls cascaded to her waist.
“Merde.”
“Shite.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Only Duncan remained silent, deftly pulling his broadsword from its leather scabbard.
“Sweet Lord above,” Yvette gasped, horrified, her gaze darting to Ewan. This didn’t bode well. She glanced about the room, recoiling from the leering, lust-filled men gawking at her. No, this didn’t bode well at all. Where was her hatbox when she needed it?
Gregor and Dugall barged in, the door banging shut behind them. Both froze when their eyes met Ewan’s. Without a word they moved to stand with their kin, settling into defensive stances.
“Damn it, McTavish, ye know that bawds is the only women allowed.” Paddy’s angry, blotchy face bobbed above the bar he had been tending.
“Mayhap she is their private putain,” a clipped, cultured voice offered from a shadowy corner at the rear of the tavern near the kitchen.
“I’d be willing to pay extra for a go at her. Name your fee, McTavish. I’d welcome some fresh arse. These diseased sluts spread their thighs for any man. I’ve no doubt half of them are riddled with clap.”
Several men chortled their agreement.
“Ye filthy plug tail,” screeched one of the strumpets.
Yvette cringed and slipped closer to Ewan.
Dugall grabbed his dirk. Hugh laid a restraining hand on his son’s ar
m. “Easy, son, keep yer head. Just watch the laird.”
Quaffing back a dram, Paddy belched. “Ye mean to share her?”
Aghast, she met his bleary scowl. Share her? Sweet God in heaven, he doesn’t mean—
Ewan simply said, “Nae,” and laid a hand on his broadsword.
His clan followed suit.
Shouts of outrage rang throughout the pub, the rumblings growing more threatening in volume. Without warning the tart who had fondled him seized Yvette’s hair. She yanked viciously.
“No. Stop.” Yvette yelped, seizing the trollop’s hand. “Let me go.”
Her head snapped backward with the next cruel jerk. Blast it, the hair was being torn from her scalp. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she ceased struggling. The wench drug her to the center of the room.
Ewan’s growl of fury didn’t stop the infuriated harlot. She turned a belligerent glare on Yvette, shouting, “She nae be so special. Who wants her first?”
First? Yvette renewed her struggles. The trollop slapped her across the face. Yvette’s injured lip stung anew from the blow.
The tavern erupted in chaos as nearly every man present vied for the privilege. Several fights broke out. Glass shattered and whores screamed their outrage. Two young derelicts groped and tugged at Yvette, each trying to gain possession of her.
Terrified, she slapped at the hands accosting her. Raising her eyes, she met Ewan’s unflinching gaze. His face was a mask of fury. She raised her hands in entreaty.
Help me.
Why didn’t he do something?
One man mashed at her breast. A tormented cry tore from her throat. “Ew—an.”
Ewan fired his pistol in the air, drawing his broadsword simultaneously. Wood and straw exploded. His clan held weapons in both hands, prepared to wreak havoc. A piece of straw, feather-light, floated from the rafters, settling on the filthy floor of the now eerily quiet room.
His words penetrated to the far reaches. “Unhand me wife.”
Yvette heard Dugall’s sudden intake of breath and saw Alasdair elbow him in the stomach. She paid them little mind, focusing her blurry gaze on Ewan.
Wife? Lawks, was there no end to the lies Ewan would tell?
He stared at the men restraining her. She stared at him. He looked like a man possessed. His eyes were black pools of rancor. Lord help anyone foolish enough to cross him.
Angling his broadsword menacingly, his voice dripped with wrath. “Ye are touching what be mine, idiots.”
Yvette tugged against their grasps, but they held tight.
Ewan stepped closer, the tip of his sword wavering between the two. “Do ye mean to die tonight?”
The response from the two despots was immediate. They released her and scuttled out the door like a pair of insects, fear distorting their mangy faces.
Driven by fevered fury, Yvette turned on the whore. Raising her hand, she let fly with more strength than she knew she had. The impact of her hand connecting with the light-skirt’s cheek rang throughout the silent room.
“Don’t—ever—touch—me—again.” Yvette clasped her stinging palm in her other hand.
Holding her flaming cheek, the taunting harlot slithered into a dingy corner to hide in fusty disgrace.
Yvette gripped a chair to keep from crumpling to the floor. Her head swam in dizzying waves. The chair she clutched was the only thing keeping her upright.
Good Lord, did he really say wife?
Paddy paused in lifting a cup to his lips. “Wife? She be yer wife?” He looked down, perplexed, apparently trying to absorb this new, confounding information. “Ye be married to the lass, Laird McTavish? Ye took her as yer wife?”
“Aye, I have taken Yvette as me wife.” Ewan looked her straight in the eye. “To love, honor, and cherish, till death do us part.”
Paddy turned a skeptical eye on her, then sniffed before wiping his nose on his stubby forearm. “Ye be his wife, lass? Ye agreed to marry the laird?”
Yvette flicked a look to Ewan. She read the concentrated message in his eyes. She scanned the taproom. Several men leered at her lewdly. She nodded, her wet curls swinging back-and-forth with the motion. Ouch. She ought not to have done that. She pressed a hand to her throbbing scalp.
“Yes. I . . .” Her eyes met Ewan’s again. She swallowed.
Say it.
“I’m married to Laird McTavish. I’m his wife.”
The world tilted around her. Oh, Lord, have mercy. Now we’re pretending to be wed. Lud, first a false betrothal, now these people thought they were actually wed. What a bumblebroth.
She cast a glance in Paddy’s direction. Lines of doubt creased his forehead, and his mouth was curved downward in disbelief. Didn’t he believe her? He had to believe her, or else these men . . . She shuddered at the thought.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she added for good measure, “We exchanged vows. We’re married, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.” She’d never lied so much in her life.
Dugall made an inarticulate sound in his throat. Yvette sent him a quizzical look.
Why are Ewan’s relatives grinning like inebriated, oversized baboons? Did Dugall wink at me? This is nothing to be laughing about. Were all Scots touched in the head? Only Ewan looks serious. Why? She felt a smattering of alarm in the recesses of her muddled mind.
Lord above, whatever in the world is going on?
Paddy cackled in glee, then slapped his podgy thigh before gulping the fiery liquid he held in his stumpy hand.
“If ye weren’t before,” he chortled, “ye are now.”
Chapter 21
Yvette tottered across the room, stumbling into Ewan’s waiting arms. Pressing her aching head into his chest, she begged throatily, “Please, take me away from here.”
Ewan felt the fear shaking her slight figure. Her entire body was wracked with tremors. It was fear causing her trembling, wasn’t it? “Paddy, is my chamber ready?”
“Aye.”
Scooping her into his arms, her loose hair swishing an inch from his muddied boots, Ewan turned to Hugh. “Can you acquire warm water so I can bathe her?”
Hugh gathered Yvette’s sunny locks, carefully twisting them into a rope before laying them across her bent body. She lay against Ewan with eyes closed, face white as death. His lips thinned. “Aye, son.”
Ewan looked to Duncan. “We need to eat. Bread and cheese are fine if Paddy has naught else.” His eyes scanned the grimy parlor. “Buy a round for all. Don’t spare the coin. Mayhap we can avoid any more complications this night.”
“I’ll see to it,” Duncan assured him.
Before he turned to climb the stairs, Ewan met the two older men’s eyes. “I need to speak to you as soon as I’ve seen to Yvette.”
“Is the lass very sick?” Hugh touched her forehead.
Frowning, Ewan glanced at the bundle in his arms. Sick? Is that why she shivers so? “I don’t know.”
He prayed she wasn’t. Munlocky’s was not the place to get ill. The riff raff here would kill you in your sickbed between drams of whiskey and tussles in the sack.
Ewan reached his usual chamber, then slid Yvette to the floor, his arm supporting her limp form. He unlatched the well-worn door. Toeing it open, he left it ajar, allowing the dull light from below to lend a faint glow to the room’s interior.
Lifting her again, he strode to the bed, then set her tenderly on the rope mattress. He made quick work of lighting the candle on the bedside table before lighting two more wall-tapers.
He withdrew a wicked looking knife from his boot. He might have need of it yet this night.
Yvette lay back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed, too tired to attempt to remove her sopped plaid. The drumming in her head had reached an apex, and
it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Lord, her head hurt. She fingered the bed. A fine covering lay smoothed across the bumpy surface. She’d wager a month’s worth of pin money the sheets were satin.
She quirked her mouth, the movement pulling at the dried blood on her lower lip. She ran her tongue over the cut. The cut was the least of her injuries from the grueling trip. It had been excruciating getting off that blasted horse.
She sniffed, as much against her stuffy nose as the room’s staleness. There was no doubt the chamber was seldom used. The air was musty from lack of circulation.
Ewan strode to the lone window, throwing open the shutters. “I’ll close the window once the room has aired.”
Yvette rather liked the damp, refreshing air. She remained silent though. She was too weak and tired to talk. He frowned when she didn’t respond. Sighing, she levered to her elbows.
There, that should please him. Through a haze she watched him cross to the door and push it closed with a hollow thunk, then slide the bolt into place.
He removed his tartan, hanging it on a peg, before approaching the bed. “Let’s get some of those wet clothes off you.”
She didn’t say a word as he lifted the drenched plaid from her. She felt remarkably light without the weight of the saturated tartan. Ewan kneeled before her and removed her boots, then her soaked socks. She didn’t remember closing her eyes.
They popped open when he exclaimed, “Your feet are freezing.”
She almost laughed. Well, what had he expected? Instead she shivered.
He lifted one foot. “I’m going to rub your feet to warm them.”
She slouched, staring at him.
Placing the foot on his knee, he began to rub it, forcing the blood to circulate. As her foot warmed, pins and needles galloped relentlessly through her icy veins.
Lud, that hurts.
Glancing up, his gaze fell on her lip. Switching to her other foot he asked, “What happened to your lip?” His face darkened. “Did she do that to you?”
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