The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (15 page)

Her eyes dipped over his body. ‘Twas powerfully proportioned and lethally hard.

Mayhap she didn’t
quite
want the same Ewan she’d always admired. Nay, she’d prefer a more passionate Ewan, one who would kiss her until her knees collapsed, one whose hands would touch—she swallowed, suddenly discovering his gaze boring straight through hers.

She tore her eyes from his and glanced away, slightly embarrassed to realize she’d been openly staring.

“Huntly, Erroll, Marishal, and Glamis no longer support the king,” Hugh was saying.

Turning back to Hugh, Ewan replied in a clipped tone, “If Julian has convinced Huntly to abandon the Loyalists then the king is truly doomed. He’ll not last the summer.”

Hopelessly distracted from the somber tone of his words, Merry permitted herself a small smile and closed her eyes. Aye, she could listen to the soft melodic lull of his voice forever.

They spoke more of battle plans then, and supporters lost and gained, but Merry paid little heed.

Instead, she let her thoughts cavort around Ewan—a bare-chested, ardent Ewan, devouring her with kisses and licking every inch of her skin. She smiled privately and wondered how shocked he would be could he see into her thoughts for one brief moment.

The food arrived then.

And though Alec staunchly refused to take even one bite, Merry found it too tempting to resist. She sat, sipping her wine, grateful for the warmth it spread through her veins as Alec folded his arms and stared straight ahead with a determined set of his jaw.

Finally, Hugh gave a short bark of a laugh and said, “Aye, and I’ve no dispute with ye, Ewan MacLean.”

Ewan didn’t reply but instead reached over and casually helped himself to Hugh’s dirk. Unsheathing the weapon, he balanced it in his hand for a moment and ran his finger along the blade.

They all watched in uncomfortable silence.

“Alec is dearer than a brother to me,” Ewan murmured softly, his eyes still on the dirk. “And I look after those I name as such.”

Hugh gave a stiff nod.

Twirling the dirk, Ewan handed it back, hilt first. “A nice blade ye have. ‘Tis sharp enough to slit a man’s throat quick, aye?” His eyes locked unblinkingly on Hugh’s.

The veiled threat couldn’t be missed.

Hugh visibly swallowed. “Aye,” he said, taking the dirk back and sheathing it quickly.

After a considerable pause, Ewan rose to his feet. “Then we’ll be on our way. I thank ye for the tidings and the meal.”

As Hugh exchanged final words with Ewan, Merry and Alec returned to the horses.

Planting a kiss on Diabhul’s cheek, Merry checked the cinch and then, rummaging through the saddlebags, found a dry bannock from the day before.

Whistling at Alec, she slapped the saddle to get his attention. “Take this,” she offered.

“Thank ye, kindly,” he murmured, choking a little on the first bite.

“Aye, ‘tis dry.” She smiled and, stepping around Diabhul, reached over to pound Alec on the back and hand him her waterskin.

He eyed it suspiciously.

“I swear ‘tis just water from the burn,” she promised with a chuckle. “It has a right peaty taste to it though.”

Tilting his head back, he took several generous swallows and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Assessing her up and down with a keen eye, he leaned close and murmured, “Ye’ve yet to tell me your name, lass.”

Merry withdrew with a scowl of warning.

But there was no way he could have been overheard. The wine had lightened the spirits of the men about her, and the air was peppered with loud laughter and ribald jests.

Suddenly, she became aware of Ewan’s eyes upon her and as she watched, he detached himself from Hugh and strode over to join her.

Hugh followed.

Extending a leather mug to Alec, the Cunningham asked in a sarcastic drawl, “Did ye feed well, Montgomery? Would ye not care to drink now?”

Alec’s nostrils flared and he struck the offered cup out of the man’s hand. “I’ll not be falling prey to ye and your men, Cunningham,” he hissed.

Leaning forward, Hugh replied in an equally menacing tone, “Ye’re fool enough to, I’ll warrant.”

“Enough,” Ewan warned, his face reserved and forbidding as he caught Diabhul’s bridle and backed the horse between the men, forcing them to stand apart.

The two men glared at one another from across the black stallion’s saddle.

And then Alec lifted his chin in outright challenge. “The Cunninghams are a festering boil on the arse,” he said with a deep growl.

As Hugh’s face took on a murderous expression, Ewan rounded upon Alec. “Not another word from ye. Not one!” he raised his voice, and pointing to Lothar still feasting under a nearby tree, he added, “Make yourself useful and fetch Lothar. Be quick about it.”

Alec obeyed at once.

But as he strode away, Merry caught a malicious glint in Hugh’s eyes. 
She shivered. 
The sooner they were gone from the Cunninghams’ company, the better.

“And where are ye bound?” Hugh asked, once Alec had gone.

“My destination is my own,” Ewan replied roughly, adopting a rigid stance.

Hugh’s eyes narrowed, clearly displeased. “I only ask to warn ye,” he said stiffly. “The rivers are swollen from the recent rains, and the bridge to Stirling is washed out, if you’re headed that way.”

“Then, I thank ye for the tidings,” Ewan replied, his arms crossed and his feet still widely placed apart.

A deadly pall settled over the conversation.

And then Alec returned with Lothar in tow, but upon spying his horse, the Frank pulled up short, swearing under his breath.

“I’ll not be riding that beast nor wearing that cloak,” he announced, drawing his thick brows into a frown. “’Tis ill luck.”

All eyes followed his to see a raven perched upon the horn of his saddle. One black foot resting upon the worn leather and the other upon the cloak Lothar had tossed over the saddle for safekeeping.

“Do ye still believe that superstitious drivel?” Alec rolled his eyes. With an impatient sigh, he shooed the crow away. “I’ll trade ye horses and cloaks then. I wish to be gone from here.”

Lothar grinned, pleased.

And with a final nod of farewell, they mounted their steeds and left the place, setting a northerly course.

But they had gone no more than a league before Lothar whistled to Alec.

“I care not for this horse, nor this cloak,” he grumbled. “I’ll take back my own.”

“And what of ill luck?” Alec teased.

“’Tis upon your shoulders now,” the Frank replied with a rare smile. “You sat in the saddle and wore my cloak afore I did.”

They bantered back and forth until they finally settled the matter by exchanging horses and cloaks once again.

But only a few minutes later, Ewan abruptly drew rein, and cocking his head to one side, announced softly, “We’re still being followed.”

Everyone froze.

“Shall we fight?” Alec asked, his hand dropping to his sword.

The muscle on Ewan’s jaw twitched. “Nay,” he replied. “Let that be our last recourse.”

Twisting in the saddle, Merry scanned the trees, seeing nothing. “Are ye sure?” she whispered.

But the words had scarcely left her mouth before five men clad in dark cloaks burst through the trees behind them.

“Cunninghams!” Alec yelled, and then spat.

“Then we fight,” Ewan said in a voice that rumbled like thunder. Twisting back to Merry, he added, “I’ll not see ye harmed. Take cover in yonder wood.”

Circling her waist with a hard arm he swept her down to the ground without waiting for her to agree. She wouldn’t have argued anyway. She could shoot arrows much better from a distance.

As she ran for cover, Ewan wheeled Diabhul around with a blood-chilling war cry, and drawing his sword, met the men head on. 
But at the last moment, their attackers evaded him entirely, swerving to the side to descend upon Lothar like a swarm of flies. And as Merry reached the nearest tree, she heard the hideously sickening sound of blade upon bone followed by Lothar’s bloodcurdling scream.

Shaking, she notched an arrow to the string and whirled, just in time to see Lothar fall from his horse into the grass.

And then Ewan was there, moving in a blur. He dispatched the first attacker and seizing his weapon, launched it like a javelin straight into the heart of the second before either realized what had happened. Spinning Diabhul around, Ewan attacked again, engaging the third man as Alec beheaded the fourth.

But the headless man’s horse collided into Diabhul, causing the frightened stallion to rear, and Ewan was thrown to the ground.

Merry gasped in horror, but Ewan leapt to his feet in an effortlessly fluid motion, and raising his sword, faced the horseman racing toward him with his sword aimed low.

Merry cried out in warning.

For a moment, it seemed as though Ewan had been struck. He flinched, stepping back, and her heart leapt into her throat.

But then his strong arm snaked out and catching the Cunningham’s leg, he tore the man from the saddle and the next moment, the man lay dead at his feet.

There was only one attacker left.

With a virulent curse, Ewan set off toward him at a dead run, giving a growl of such ferocity that the man went pale and ran his horse back the way it had come.

And just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

With her heart hammering fiercely in her chest, Merry ran to Lothar’s side, arriving the same time as Alec and Ewan. 
The Frank was still alive, but his face was as white as death. Multiple wounds cut across his chest, and blood soaked his clothing. He was cradling his arm tightly to his chest.

It took her a moment to realize, but then she understood.

Lothar had lost his hand.

Turning her head away, she was sick.

“There’s no honor in a Cunningham!” Alec shouted, raising his sword above his head. “I’ll ride back and slay them all—”

“Dinna follow,” Ewan ordered him sternly. “There will be time enough for vengeance later. We must see to Lothar now.” And then kneeling next to the injured man, he began tearing his cloak into strips all the while speaking in calm, low tones. “I’ve seen worse, lad, and in far weaker men. We’ll get ye to Hermitage. There’s a priest there who is blessed with the gift of healing. He’ll have ye on your feet soon enough.”

Lothar’s frightened eyes locked onto Ewan’s, taking comfort from his composed strength.

“Your wounds are not deep but for the hand,” Ewan judged after a quick inspection. “And ‘tis a clean cut. With the priest’s aid, ye’ll not suffer from the deadly fevers.”

The Frank swallowed, and his white lips trembled. “And what use is a warrior without his sword hand?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“If ye still wish to fight then take up the sword with the other,” Ewan answered in a rough yet gentle tone as he began to tightly bind the man’s stump. “But if ye are a wise man, ye’ll find yourself a lass and fight battles of another kind, aye?”

As he continued to speak in a slow, measured manner to the shocked man and bind his numerous wounds, Merry turned away with shaking knees. 
She’d never seen so much blood, nor had she known the smell of it. She only wanted to retch.

She stumbled to where Alec stood a short distance away, looking dazed.

“So quick,” she whispered, drawing a shaky breath. “It happened so quickly.”

“There’s no honor in a Cunningham!” Alec spat viciously.

She was inclined to agree.

Closing his eyes then, Alec whispered, “I am to blame. They went after him, thinking he was me. ‘Tis the only thing that makes sense. They dinna see that we’d traded the horses and cloaks back, not until ‘twas too late.” He choked. “They were coming for me—”

Merry felt the horror of what he said, knowing he spoke the truth.

“Enough, Alec,” Ewan said, rising to his feet. He cast an eye toward the darkening sky. “Hermitage is just past yon hill. Ye’ll stay here with him until I can return with a litter and the priest. I’ll not be gone long.”

“Aye,” Alec whispered, grimly looking down upon the Frank trembling with pain.

Then turning to Merry, Ewan waved toward Diabhul standing nervously a short distance away. “Mayhap ye should bring him close. He’s not likely to trust me again for a time.”

Wordlessly, Merry followed his bidding, calmly mounting the horse and walking him over to Ewan. And once he’d eased himself slowly into the saddle, they set off.

Dark clouds shrouded the sun as they headed down the narrow glen at a gallop, leaping over the low shrubs and taking a narrow path through the ferns and bracken.

Merry heard the river long before seeing it. Swollen by recent rains, it had overrun its banks, and drawing Diabhul up short on the edge of a small overhang, Ewan paused only long enough to shout a “Hold tight!” before digging his heels into the horse’s side. 
With a heart-stopping wrench, the horse jumped off the ledge and plunged directly into the cold rushing water.

Merry gasped as the icy water splashed over her head. And then they broke the surface, and she could feel Diabhul’s strong muscles working beneath her as he swam through the dark swirling current. It didn’t take long before they were pulling themselves out of the water onto the other side, slipping over the moss and lichen-covered rocks.

It was difficult to see through the gathering darkness, but they galloped onward, and less than a league later, a castle materialized in their pathway, rising up from the bleak moorlands surrounding it.

It was a sinister-looking place. Hart’s-tongue fern grew from the crevices of its damp walls, and Merry spied a cat slinking along the ramparts. As they drew closer, they came upon a corpse hanging from a tree, left to rot, and they had to hold their sleeves up to their faces to ward off the stench.

Finally, they reached the black portcullis, weary and still soaked to the bone.

The gate was closed, but from somewhere deep inside the gatehouse, a faint light glowed, and after a moment, a burly, bald-headed man stepped out. Holding a torch aloft, his callous expression shifted into one of welcome the moment he recognized Ewan.