Ewan was so close Yvette could smell him. He smelled of strong drink, rain, and the familiar spicy scent she had come to associate with him. It was a pleasant, comforting aroma.
When he rolled onto his side, she knew he stared at her. She lay on her back, looking at the ceiling. Her eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark yet. All she could see was blackness. She’d sucked her lower lip into her mouth in a vain attempt to stop her trembling.
Ewan stirred beside her. “Evvy, if you’re afraid I’ll sleep . . .”
“No. I’m not afraid, just cold.” She swallowed, then winced. “I cannot seem to warm up.” Each word was torture to her inflamed throat.
He shifted closer, drawing her against him. “Let me warm you, petite amie.”
Oh, it did feel wonderful, snuggled next to him, sharing his body’s warmth. Her conscious wasn’t one to let the matter go. It twinged in protest, convicting her.
Sweet Lord above, she was in bed with a naked man, again.
Only now, she was pretending to be his wife.
Chapter 22
The storm blew by leaving cloying air in its wake. Throughout the night, Ewan kept Yvette tucked to his side. His worry increased as the moon, like a mistress who’s no longer desired, slipped away, and the sun rose in cheerful resolution.
Yvette shivered and mumbled in her sleep, striving to push the covers off her sweat-slickened body. Twice during the night, he rose and wiped her with the cooled water from the bucket.
Near dawn, she settled into a restful slumber. He slipped from the bed, then opened the shutters before dressing with practiced efficiency. Opening the door, he poked his head out the door, and signaled Alasdair. His chair propped on two legs, his cousin relaxed against the wall whittling.
“Have ye broken your fast?” Ewan asked.
“Nae one’s about yet.” Alasdair lowered the chair.
“Rouse the others.” Ewan opened the door a bit father. He rested his forearm above his head on the doorjamb. “See if you can round up some tea and perhaps porridge. Some Scotch pies and oatcakes to take with us too. If need be, wake Paddy’s daughter, and pay her handsomely. I want to depart within the hour.”
“Aye.” A wicked glint in his eye, Alasdair smirked, “How did ye sleep?”
Ewan’s answering grin revealed nothing, and everything. “Well enough, man.”
Yvette struggled through layers of dense mist. Her eyelids felt made of stone. With gritty perseverance, she forced them open, and immediately regretted it when blinding pain sliced through her head. Taking slow deep breaths, she ventured a tiny peek through narrowed slits.
Ah, much better.
Ewan stood at the open door speaking to someone.
Sweet Jesus, she ached everywhere.
She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. A drink of water would be heaven. Her gaze lit on the teapot from last night. Or cold tea would suffice. Sitting upright, she waited until the room stopped whirling before sliding her throbbing legs off the edge of the mattress.
Gripping the bed, she took several tentative steps toward the desperately craved liquid. Lord, please give me the strength.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Ewan questioned sharply.
Startled, Yvette spun about to face him. Already light-headed and off-balance, the motion sent her flailing. He caught her before she crashed to the ground. Her bare limbs lay exposed to an amused Alasdair. Mortified, she pressed her face into Ewan’s chest alerting him to his leering cousin.
Ewan, glanced behind him. “You wouldn’t be ogling me wife, would ye cousin?”
She wished he wouldn’t call her his wife, it was a lie.
“Aye, I would,” Alasdair answered with a low rumble of laughter.
Yvette peeked over Ewan’s shoulder as his cousin sauntered down the corridor. She steered her gaze to Ewan once more. His eyes were fixated on her bosom. Her chemise gaped open, revealing her breasts, complete with puckered tips, to his heated stare. She sucked in a sharp breath. The air on her raw throat caused it to twinge in complaint.
She snatched the chemise to her chest, as the heat from twin streaks of crimson skating its way across her face. “Let me up.” She shoved against his unyielding embrace.
“Not without my assistance. You’re not well.” Supporting her with his strong hands, he asked again, “What were you doing?”
Yvette shrugged her shoulders, the motion sending her hair swinging. “I’m thirsty. There is no clean water, so I thought to have some tea.”
“‘Tis cold.”
“I care not. I’m parched.”
He leaned away, studying her. “You’ve taken a chill. I don’t want you attempting anything more strenuous than a sneeze without my assistance.” Gripping her arms, his gaze bored into hers. “Do you understand me, Yvette? Not a thing!”
Yvette? What happened to Evvy?
Perhaps it was because she felt wretched, but something sparked, then simmered mutinously within her. She narrowed her eyes to mere slits and pursed her lips in irritation.
Ewan was dictating to her—again—something he’d done almost from the moment she’d met him. She had a lifetime of suppressing her feelings, of being docile and compliant. Straightening, she shrugged from his grasp.
“You seem to forget, my lord. I am not your wife, nor am I one of your underlings to order about. Necessity may have forced us to share this chamber, but that doesn’t mean you can dictate to me.”
Necessity that now had her reputation in tatters. She was ruined.
Stepping behind the ramshackle chair, she gripped the back until her knuckles were white, essential to both still her shaking and to remain standing. Lest Ewan see any show of weakness, she straightened her spine and angled her head. “I’m capable of tending to myself this morning, my lord. As for your assistance, ‘tis neither required nor appreciated. Do I make myself clear?”
He scowled. “Let me . . .
“I won’t delay our departure if that is your concern.” She knew it was folly to remain here. Sick or not, they must leave.
“Fine. I shall return in fifteen minutes. See to it you’re dressed and prepared to eat.” With that partying shot, he left her to dress.
Yvette felt awful, emotionally and physically. How she was going to struggle into her clothing was beyond her. She flopped on the bed, then yanked a thick sock onto her foot. Her gaze fell on her marked legs.
Lord Almighty, ‘tis no wonder she hurt so. How in the name of heaven would she be able to ride today?
She cringed at the thought. Her stomach dropped as her head began to spin in what was becoming a familiar turbulence. She lifted the ointment, and after removing the cap, dabbed the greasy, pungent cream on her sore legs.
She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and stay there for days. With grim, willful stubbornness, she determined to refuse to allow Ewan to even suspect how miserable she was.
Never at her best when ill, her ability to temper her rebellious tendencies was difficult to suppress. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to defy him. Perhaps it was because she had no control over her life since Ewan took charge of seeing her to Vangie’s. Again, a man was telling her what she could and could not do, and it frustrated her no end.
Papa had been a wonderful father, and he’d provided her with everything a woman of her status could possibly desire. But he’d been overly protective. It had bordered on smothering control.
She suspected the reason he hadn’t insisted she marry was because he’d no longer be able to protect her. Mayhap it was because she’d nearly died in the carriage accident that took her mother’s life.
Pausing, she rubbed her greasy thumb and forefinger together.
In any event, Papa had shielded her from everything unpleasant and ugly in the world
. She adored him, so she’d never done anything outside of his will—even when it meant squashing her own desires.
She wouldn’t quell her preferences anymore.
Sighing, Yvette’s more compliant nature surfaced. She supposed she was being unfair. Ewan was only concerned for her well-being, wasn’t he? Why he riled her so, she could not begin to understand. He had the ability to infuriate her, and yet when he looked at her with those eyes, she turned into a quivering lump of lemon curd.
Ewan marched up the wobbly staircase, wholly prepared to find Yvette in her shift, contrite and apologetic, and grateful he had returned to assist her. Either that or splayed unconscious on the floor. Yvette was acting like an intractable child. Stubborn chit.
His heart had done something painful and foreign when he witnessed her tumbling toward the floor. Though not a great fall, she was frail. She might have been injured in her weakened state and delayed their departure. To linger at Munlocky’s was dangerous. He needed to get her to Craiglocky forthwith. His anxiety had caused him to speak harsher to her than he intended.
His staccato rattled the door, a might more enthusiastically than was required.
“Come in,” Yvette called.
Ewan was surprised, but pleased, to find Yvette sitting on the bed, fully clothed, right down to her boots. She was tying a ribbon at the end of her long braid. Her hatbox rested beside her on the rumpled bedding. He shouldered his way into the room, holding another time-worn serving tray.
He placed the tray on the table. Two bowls of steaming porridge, a small pitcher of cream, and more tea teetered on the surface. A mug held ice-cold well water.
Yvette licked her parched lips. She had gulped some cold tea, only to promptly gag it up. The porridge was grayish and globby, but if one didn’t look at it, smelt quite good. She was about to reach for the water, and thank Ewan for his thoughtfulness, when he spoke.
“You cannot ride astride today.”
She tucked her hairbrush, Bible, and salve into the hatbox, then replaced the strands of ribbon and tooth cleanser. Her dagger and pistol followed. Having drawn the same conclusion herself, she was unwilling to admit it to him.
Perversely, she argued, “Oh, my lord? How else will I travel to Craiglocky?” Blast it, she swore inwardly when her hoarse voice cracked.
Ewan sat beside her. “Evvy, stop calling me my lord.”
“Your lordship, unless I sprout wings and fly, my only recourse is horseback.” Feeling truly rebellious, she stretched and peeked over her shoulders. Pointing to her shoulders she said, “No wings, milord. ‘Tis plain I shall have to mount a horse.”
Clearly annoyed, Ewan ran a hand through his hair. “Those below believe us wed. A Scot’s wife doesn’t call her husband ‘my lord’.”
Arching her brow, Yvette dared, “Who gave them reason to believe we were wed, my lord?”
Ewan looked at her hard. “These people must believe us wed, else you’re in grave danger.”
Yvette reached for the cup, then took a grateful swallow of the sweet water. The icy coolness soothed her irritated throat and emboldened her. “So you say, Lord Sethwick. Perhaps it was only a ploy to publicly ruin me, so I’d have to marry you. I overheard Lord Ramsbury at the inn.”
She lowered her voice in imitation of the earl. “‘A wealthy wife is always an asset. I’d say you’ve done quite well for yourself, old chap.’”
Ewan stiffened. The line of his mouth flattened and his eyes darkened.
Merciful God, did she truly say that? It must be her illness speaking.
He removed the cup from her shaking hand and set it on the bedside table. She could not tear her gaze off his eyes. They were bottomless pools reflecting to the depths of his soul. And he was angry, in fact livid with her. His moon-shaped scar ticked rhythmically.
She’d gone too far. “Ewan—”
“Yvette, remember what happened the last time you didn’t use my given name? I’ve counted no less than five,” he held up as many fingers, “times you’ve intentionally defied me.”
She could not swallow past the constriction in her throat. She’d done it up brown now. Holding her hand before her to ward him off, she shook her head.
In a movement so swift, she didn’t even have time to gasp, he lay atop her torso, pinning her with his weight. His gaze pierced hers before he lowered his head. She felt a soft, fluttering touch and a slight sting on her sore lip as his mouth brushed hers.
“One.” Playful and tender. He nibbled at the corner of her mouth until it slackened beneath the onslaught.
“Two.” Inquisitive and inviting. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, pulling the lower one into his open mouth, tugging gently.
“Three.” Breathless and gravelly. Angling his head, Ewan’s open mouth and teasing tongue mesmerized Yvette until her lips parted, allowing him to taste his fill.
“Four.” Low and strangled with desire. Head descending, his hot mouth connected with her welcoming one.
Long-repressed passion welled forth and burst its banks. The floodgates were open, the dam broken, and there was no restraining the onslaught of desire. She wrapped her arms around his muscled back, tugging him ever closer, unmindful of his weight pressing her chest and shoulders into the disheveled bed.
“Blister it, I made your lip bleed.”
His soft curse brought Yvette sailing back to her senses. She lay dazed, staring at him. She quipped weakly, “That was more than five,” before averting her face, coughs wracking her.
Ewan propped her up before retrieving the cup of water. He held it to her lips, and she took a lengthy drink. When she was done, he set the cup down, then dabbed the blood off her lip. He pressed a cup of warm tea into her cold hands. “Try to drink some tea, please.”
The latter seemed an afterthought. Yvette smiled. It pleased her no end. She took a tentative sniff of the dark contents of the chipped cup. The aroma was fragrant, faintly spicy, earthy. “What is it?”
Ewan stood, then began gathering their belongings. “‘Tis a special brew Gregor prepared. It has healing qualities.”
To please Ewan, she took a hesitant sip. Tart, tanginess ambushed her tongue. There was sweetness to the tea too. Mayhap honey? Only lukewarm, the liquid glided down her throat. She sensed a slight numbness on her tongue before noticing the throbbing in her throat had begun to ease. “‘Tis good.”
She glanced at their cooled breakfast. The porridge was congealed and less than appetizing. She grimaced in distaste, her stomach churning. She couldn’t eat that.
“Never mind, chérie,” he said, approaching the bed. “We shall eat on the way.”
Walking slowly, and holding Ewan’s arm, Yvette left the chamber. Dugall and Alasdair were waiting to escort them below. Gads, what must they be thinking? She blushed but smiled bravely at them in greeting. “Thank you for standing watch last night. I hope you’d a chance to sleep yourselves.”
Alasdair responded, “Aye, lass, we did.”
Dugall’s face broke into a roguish grin. Winking at her he teased, “How did ye sleep, sister?”
Her gaze flew to Ewan’s. Good God, did Dugall think . . . ? This time the heat crept from her feet to the top of her head.
“Dugall,” Ewan’s tone held censure.
Dugall bent to speak to Yvette. In a loud whisper he advised, “Me brother’s a bit touchy in the morn. I had better take ye below.” The scamp stepped in front of Ewan, and led her away by her elbow.
Yvette sent an apologetic smile over her shoulder, faltering at Ewan’s fierce scowl. “You oughtn’t to have done that, Dugall.”
Dugall’s response was another unabashed flash of teeth and to start whistling a ditty. She was grateful she didn’t have to attempt small talk. Staying upright on her aching legs was taking every ounce of her strength. Three times
she touched the wall to steady herself when blackness threatened.
At the bottom of the staircase she wiped away the moisture glistening on her upper lip. Ewan came up behind her and steered her expeditiously through the open door. Not, however, before she noticed several prostrate bodies in the common room.
The radiant sun reflected brilliantly off the wet ground. Puddles of muddy water littered the courtyard. Even they glistened with hope. By day’s end, every sign of the violent torrent would be gone. Yvette squinted, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the brutal brightness shafting from the now clear, blue sky.
What met her pained gaze caused her to halt mid-step. She opened and closed her mouth in astonishment at the vivid array displayed before her. At least fifty mounted, tartan-clad Scots milled about the yard. Another dozen stood in small groups chatting and laughing.
Hugh and Duncan conversed with two men. The foursome crossed to her and Ewan as they stepped from the threshold of Munlocky’s. A shortish man, with sand-brown hair and a jagged scar from his right eye to the corner of his mouth, gripped Ewan’s arm. “‘Tis pleased I be to see ye, Ewan McTavish.”
“And I ye, Roby McIntyre,” Ewan said.
Another man, slender with solemn hazel eyes, grasped Ewan’s forearm in greeting. “Ewan.”
Ewan grinned. “Shamus O’Donovan, thank ye.”
Yvette swayed ever-so-slightly before dissolving into a fit of coughing. Putting a bracing arm around her waist, Ewan drew her to his side. She was grateful for his solid form to rest against. Nevertheless, she colored. His possessiveness in front of this many curious men was disconcerting.
“Ewan, are these men relatives?” She grasped his arm to steady herself. Take a deep breath. There that’s better. She swayed again, catching herself but only after stepping on his foot. The arm round her waist tightened.
“Aye. By blood, marriage, or choice, these are some of my kin.” The soft burr of his words wrapped around her vulnerable heart, marking her for all time. She stared at him transfixed.
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