Yvette arched her brows in surprise. He hadn’t notice her lip below stairs? “No. I bit my lip when I dismounted.”
His rough hand lingered on her instep. “I’m sorry. I never thought . . .”
A light tapping interrupted him. He set her foot down, then rose. In three strides he was at the door and opening it to admit Duncan and Hugh. Hugh held a bucket, a cloth, and what appeared to be crudely fashioned soap. Yvette’s hatbox was tucked under one arm.
The dear, he’d remembered her hatbox.
Duncan carried a shabby, one-handled tray sporting a bottle of wine, a crusty loaf of bread, some hard cheese, and a knife.
Glancing over the tray, Ewan’s face broke into a smile. “Thank ye, uncle.” He slapped Duncan on the back. “Put it on the table, will ye?”
Duncan moved to the table. “Cock-a-Leekie soup’s about ready below,” he said. “Paddy’s daughter is a fine cook. He keeps her hidden in the kitchen. Anything else ye have need of?” He looked to Yvette, a small furrow of worry between his full brows.
Ewan followed Duncan’s gaze. “Tea, if they have it.”
Oh, that would be wonderful.
Ewan took the bucket and soap from Hugh. “Evvy cannot drink wine. It makes her ill.”
Duncan moved to the door. “Aye, I will check on the tea, though I doubt they have much call for it.”
Hugh still held her hatbox. Raising it in the air, he sent Ewan a questioning look.
Ewan slanted his head in the direction of the bedside table while depositing the bathing goods on the washstand. “Over there, please.”
Yvette slouched through the whole exchange feeling detached. The ringing in her ears had subsided into a steady low-pitched roar. She’d gone from shivering with cold to sweltering hot. She swung her gaze to the window. Yes, the window was open. She fingered her jacket and breeches. And, yes, her clothing was soaking wet. Why ever was she so warm?
Sweet Jesus, had she caught a fever?
Ewan crossed to her. Crouching before her he said, “Will you be all right for a few moments? I need to speak to the others.”
She nodded her head the tiniest bit. More vigorous movement sent shards of pain stabbing throughout her skull.
“That’s my lass.” Ewan patted her knee, then straightened. He left the room, closing the lopsided door behind him.
Yvette clutched at the bedding to stop the swirling in her head. Why did her head feel so heavy? She flopped backward onto the bed. Staring at the crude ceiling above her, she watched it cavort, spinning and dipping, before sucking her into a dark, comforting vortex of oblivion.
Ewan knew Munlocky’s revelry would continue until the wee morning hours. Most of the carousers would sleep where they passed out, sprawled on the floor or drooped across a table. Few had sufficient coin to rent a room. The bawds lived in a small cottage behind the inn, but most nights shared a bed with a paying customer.
He didn’t trust the rabble rousers. He knew their type. Those who had been intent on enjoying Yvette’s favors earlier would feel thwarted and deserving of some recompense. He wouldn’t put it past some of the more daring, unscrupulous ones to try to snatch her for ransom—or worse.
He’d already asked his kinsmen to take shifts guarding his door. Gregor volunteered to stand the first watch. As luck would have it, the room opposite Ewan’s was vacant. The others would rest there, requiring no more than their tartans to sleep comfortably.
He took Hugh and Duncan aside. Less than twenty minutes later, two riders thundered from the cottage’s soggy yard into the blustery night.
Entering his chamber, the first thing Ewan saw was Yvette stretched across the bed. He halted beside her. Was she asleep or unconscious?
“Evvy?” He caressed her cheek. The devil take it. Her skin burned with heat. He tried again, tapping her shoulder. “Evvy?”
Almost incoherent, she mumbled, “Let me sleep. I’m tired.”
“Petite, you need to bathe and eat.”
“Uh-uhm. Just sleep.” She rubbed her hand across her flushed face. Her bent arm plopped across her eyes. The rough fabric of her coat caught her lip. It began bleeding a tad.
Ewan moved to the washstand, then dipped the cloth in the bucket of warm water. Returning to her, he dabbed the blood from her lip. She had begun shivering again.
He tossed the cloth on the bedside table, saying, “I need to take off your wet clothing.”
“Nooo,” Yvette protested, “sleeping.”
Ewan chuckled. She had a stubborn streak.
“Stop laughing, brute.”
Restraining the chuckle that surged to his lips, he reached for her jacket. “Sorry, petite, it must be done.”
“Bully.”
He grinned. If she was this feisty, she couldn’t be too ill, could she?
After slipping the jacket from her shoulders, he began working the buttons of her shirt. Underneath, she wore a lacy ivory chemise tucked into her breeches. It stuck to her like a second skin. Her rosy nipples protruded, protesting the cold.
Casting the shirt aside, he then released the fastenings of her breeches. Already skin tight, soaking wet they had to be peeled from her quaking form. Yvette groaned as he tugged them off her.
“Merde,” Ewan swore beneath his breath.
Bruises were beginning to form on the tender flesh of her legs, disappearing at the juncture between her thighs. He suspected if he turned her over, her derrière would be covered with the offending blotches too.
He lifted the fluttering candle from the bedside table. Holding it aloft, he stood over her. The added light clearly revealed her injuries. “Bloody hell.”
His eyes were drawn to, and lingered at the shadowy triangle from where the marks emerged. Dozens of angry purple and red lesions lay across Yvette’s satiny inner thighs. Welts from upper thigh to below her knees were raised in ugly protest. Shivering, she tucked her legs to her chest, curling into a ball.
Ewan tugged the bedspread over her. He closed the shutters, then collected the items to bathe her. “Evvy, I’m going to wash you. I’ll not be overly familiar, but your skin is too cold. The warm water will help rid you of the chill.” As if caring for a newborn infant, he bathed her, everywhere except where her filmy chemise covered her.
Levering her limp form into a sitting position, Ewan toweled her hair, removing much of the moisture. Her curls sprang about her head and shoulders. They crept round his fingers and arms like living vines. He lifted her chin, searching her cloudy eyes. “Can you manage your—”
He paused, taking a different tack. “If I leave, are you able to finish bathing? There’s hot soup below stairs.” His gaze roved over her pale face. “I’ll have Gregor fetch some, and I’ll give him your clothing to dry before the fire. I want to get some ointment for your legs too. I shall be but a few minutes.”
“I can manage,” she rasped, averting her gaze.
Brows pinched, Ewan considered her. A blush crept across her fevered-flushed skin. “I’ll be but a few moments, chérie.”
After gathering her wet clothing from where he’d strewn them on the floor, he left the chamber. Gregor was already on duty in the corridor. He looked up when Ewan left his chamber.
“Find Alasdair and ask him to take Yvette’s clothing and hang it before the fire below,” Ewan said, passing the garments to Gregor. “He is to stay with them until they dry. I can’t leave her,” His gaze flicked to the closed door, “and she has naught else to wear. The ruffians below will steal her garments.”
Gregor draped the wet clothing over his arm. “Aye. How is the lass?”
Ewan ran his hand through his nearly dry hair, then cupped the base of his neck and shrugged. “She’s weak as a newborn kitten and needs to eat. There’s hot soup below. Fetch some for us, would you please?”
“Of course.” Gregor started for the stairs.
“Ah, Gregor,” Ewan began.
Gregor, paused after a half step. “Aye?”
“Have ye yer medicines with ye? Yvette needs a healing ointment. Her legs are . . .” Ewan shook his head in self-condemnation. “I never should have allowed her to ride astride.”
Gregor placed his great hand on Ewan’s shoulder, “Ye canna have known. I will fetch the ointment.”
Ewan nodded his thanks, then slipped into his chamber. He closed the door, eyeing the lump in the middle of the bed. Better to leave her be for now. Supper needed to be prepared anyway. After slicing the bread, he cut the cheese into bite-sized pieces.
As he uncorked the wine, he visually searched the table for a cup. Blast, there wasn’t one. There was nothing for it then. Raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a healthy pull. He shuddered and grimaced, re-corking the bottle. Inferior stuff, that.
A knock sounded. Ewan opened the door.
Gregor stood without, awkwardly balancing a tray with two bowls of soup, a teapot, and a cup with a cracked saucer. A small jar of salve was also on the tray. “Here be the rest of yer meal and the ointment too. Spread the medicine on her legs morn and night.”
Thank you.” With his shoulder, Ewan shoved the door closed. He strode to the bed. “Chére, I’ve hot soup. Sit up so you can eat.”
A tussled blonde head appeared from beneath the covers. Yvette sniffed and her stomach growled. “It smells delicious.”
Ewan smiled. Good, she was hungry.
She climbed from her cocoon, then sagged against the wall, bedspread pulled to her chin.
Ewan twisted his mouth. “That’ll never do.”
He placed the tray on the chair, then plucked the cover from her hands, ignoring her gasp of surprise. He wrapped the bedspread about her shoulders. Hands on his hips, with his head cocked, he stood back and eyed his handwork. “That’s better.”
Yvette stared at him, glassy-eyed.
He poured a cup of tea. “Drink,” he ordered, as he passed it to her.
Yvette refrained from making a face at Ewan. Only the pounding in her head, and the fact sitting upright was taking every bit of strength she had, kept her from doing so. He had taken to ordering her about, and she didn’t like it in the least.
He took the cup from her lap, and replaced it with a plate of cheese and bread. She shook her head. “I’d prefer the soup, please.”
She didn’t tell him her throat hurt dreadfully. It was doubtful she would be able to swallow a single bite of anything solid. Just speaking was painful.
Without a word, he handed her a steaming bowl of soup.
Knowing he watched her, she tried to eat the tasty broth. She managed to swallow several spoonfuls before weariness overtook her. Slumping, she rested her head against the wall, fighting to keep her eyes open. They kept fluttering shut of their own accord.
She dozed off, rousing when Ewan blurted, “The devil take it!”
Yvette opened her wooly eyes, and tried to focus on his much too serious face. The bowl in her lap must have tipped, and he’d caught it in time to prevent the contents from ruining the bedding. She lowered her gaze to the bed. The sheets were satin. Of course they were.
“You’ve had enough, I think.” He put aside her bowl, then showed her a small jar. “This is ointment, for your legs. The ride left you with some abrasions and bruising.”
She let her eyes drift closed again. “I shall be fine. I only want to sleep.” She began to scootch lower into the bed, intent on succumbing to the muzzy sensation enveloping her.
“Nae, lass, I insist.” The bed squeaked and dipped with his weight. “You’ll be worse in the morning if I don’t tend you tonight.”
Ewan was becoming a bully. Too exhausted to argue, she retorted, “Oh fine, since you insist.”
Flipping aside the coverlet, she lay on her stomach. His soothing hands, feather light, rubbed the salve on her legs. The gentle kneading was relaxing and after a few minutes, Yvette noticed she was far less uncomfortable.
She shifted restlessly when the soothing strokes of his hands skimmed across her sore buttocks. Something foreign flickered within. God in heaven! She bit her lip to keep from gasping aloud. Ewan had to stop or she would be groaning in pleasure. He had to stop before she embarrassed herself.
Voice thick and rasping Yvette murmured, “Thank you, Ewan. I’m better. The salve has been helpful.” Lord, even ill as she was, she responded to his touch.
The movement stopped, though his fingers lingered. She fought the urge to press her bum into his hand as sleep claimed her.
Ewan was careful not to put pressure on Yvette’s tender skin or jar her overworked muscles. Despite her pitiful condition, he found her inarticulate gasps and sighs arousing. His manhood stiffened. Ye gods, man, control yourself. He needed some brandy, or whiskey. He eyed the bottle of wine. No, not that weak swill served with supper.
Yvette sighed, then turned over, wincing in her sleep.
He scowled watching her restless slumber. She was in this hellhole, in this condition, because of Marquardt, Fielding, Pauline, and the spymaster. Ewan was convinced there was a common thread amongst them. Yvette appeared to be it, though how she figured into it the whole scheme, he had yet to discover.
He smoothed her hair away from her face. Even in her sleep, her features were pinched in pain.
Wasn’t this what he’d hoped for? That she’d be useful in forcing the spies’ hands? Yes, but that was before he knew who he was up against, before he realized the risk to her.
His conscience was having none of it. It chastised him soundly. What a Banbury story of cock and bull. Truth to tell, he’d suspected the risk but had been confident of his ability to keep her safe. Now, even with his clan members at hand, doubt wormed its insidious way into mind.
Yvette moaned in her sleep. He’d not done a tip top job of it now, had he? The guilt simmering within flared to life, serving to curb his lustful tension as no self-denial could.
A brief rapping pattered at the door once more. Ewan tugged the coverlet over Yvette before sauntering to the door. He cracked it open. Alasdair stood there, with Yvette’s dry clothing draped across one bulging arm. In his other hand he held a large wooden cup, worn smooth with constant use.
Ewan edged the door open farther, then sniffed the contents of the cup. Ewan grinned. It was no crystal snifter, but the burnished amber floating within was received with exuberant thanks. “How did ye know?”
Alasdair snickered. “If I had to sleep with a very bonnie lass without dipping me wick?” He hefted his massive shoulders. “I filled the cup to the top with Scot’s whiskey for ye cousin. I don’t know if I could keep me hands off such a tempting armful, especially if she be me wife.”
Ewan raised a finger to his lips, looking over his shoulder at the sleeping bundle nestled in his bed. He nudged Alasdair out the door. In the hallway, he looked to Gregor leaning against the rough planking of the grungy wall, then shifted his gaze back to Alasdair. “Don’t speak of it in front of her. I need time to tell her, to prepare her.”
A teasing smile playing about his lips, Gregor asked, “How is the lass?”
“Better now she’s bathed and eaten.” Ewan puckered his brows. “She’s nae herself though.” His hand on the door latch, he paused. “Duncan and Hugh?”
“Left more than an hour ago,” Alasdair offered, passing over the clothing and brew.
Ewan nodded. “Excellent. Till the morrow, then.”
In the chamber, he paused to take a lengthy swallow of the pungent liquid. It raced a heated path to his gut, spreading sizzling warmth throughout his innards.
“Ewan?” The word was scant more than a raspy croak.
Surprised Yvette was awake, he sat
on the edge of the bed. She lay curled on her side, one hand cupping her face, the other wrapped around the pillow.
Laying a hand across her heated brow he gazed down at her. “What is it? I thought you were asleep.”
She considered him before her gaze shifted to the candle on the table. “Is your room nearby? This place frightens me.”
“This is my room. You cannot sleep alone here.” He drew the bed covering over her shoulders. “‘Tis simply too dangerous.” My kin stand guard outside the door even now.”
She licked her dry lips. “Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “You’ll share this bed with me?”
Ewan sighed, not relishing the idea of sleeping on the floor. “I can make a pallet if the idea of sharing a bed with me disturbs you.”
“Oh.”
He stood. “I’ll fetch another blanket.”
“There’s no need. There’s room enough.” To prove her point, she rolled to the far side of the small bed. Her attempt at a brave smile wrenched his heart.
“My clothing needs to dry. I’ll have to remove all of it.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll blow out the candles before undressing. Does that meet with your approval?
“Yes.” Her response was so soft he strained to hear her.
Blowing the candles out, Ewan could not contain a self-satisfied smile. He took another stiff drink of the whiskey, shuddering in disgust. Nasty stuff, but it would help him sleep and keep his mind off other more carnal pursuits. He hoped.
When the bed dipped with his weight, Yvette sucked in a quick, short breath. Was she afraid? The notion didn’t settle well with him. “Chére, are you sure?”
Silence greeted his question. What had he expected? He scooted to the edge of the bed, halting when she laid her hand on his arm.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He lay down, then draped the sheet over his lower body.
Highlander's Hope Page 18
