The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (16 page)

“Show me to your mistress at once,” Ewan ordered without preamble.

With a nod, the man led them to a brightly lit courtyard nestled between two tall towers, and they’d scarcely dismounted before a side-door swung open, and a delicate woman rushed out to greet them.

Her eyes were bright blue, her skin a creamy white with a sprinkle of fine freckles dusting her nose, and the curls bouncing around her face were a flaming red. She wore a crimson gown covered by a mantle of soft smooth wool trimmed with lambskin, and her thin waist was circled by a silver-threaded belt with a ring of keys dangling importantly from it.

“My lord, ‘tis a wondrous pleasure to receive ye,” she welcomed Ewan graciously. There was a refined quality to her speech. She was clearly a lady.

Ewan dismounted and dipped into a courtly half-bow. “I need men, and right quickly. We were attacked by Cunninghams, and one of my men lies gravely wounded on the far side of the river.”

“Say no more!” she cried, clasping her hands. “My man will provide ye with whatever ye need.”

As Merry swung down from the saddle to join him, Ewan turned to her and said, “Stay here and rest. I’ll be back soon enough.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. Spinning on his heel, he followed the bald-headed man and disappeared into the darkness.

Giving Merry only a cursory glance, the lady addressed a maid standing by her side. “See this lad tended to and then prepare a fine chamber for my betrothed.”

And then she left, leaving the delicate scent of roses trailing behind her.

It took Merry a moment to understand what she’d just heard, and then the meaning hit her like a bolt of lightning, tearing her heart asunder.

Betrothed.

Ewan was
promised to another
.

Chapter Eight – What the Heart Wants

The distant thud of thunder heralded more rain as Ewan plodded wearily under Hermitage Castle’s portcullis once again. It was long past midnight. Behind him, Alec and the others brought Lothar, barely conscious as he lay upon the litter hung between two horses.

As they reached the inner courtyard, a slim figure stepped out from a shadowed doorway to greet them.

It was Merry.

“I feared ye’d met with danger,” she said, her fists clenched tightly by her side.

Ewan studied her from his horse, struck by the deepening lines of fatigue etched upon her face. She’d lost weight since Carlisle, her curves were more delicate now. She was pale and covered in mud and grime. But by far, he found the most striking change to be the sorrow in her brown eyes, a sorrow that hadn’t been there before. 
A wave of yearning rippled through him, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, hold her close to his chest, and whisper words of comfort into her ears.

But it was his duty to see Lothar settled first.

The man’s face was deathly pale, and his closed eyes were ringed with dark circles. For a moment, Ewan wasn’t certain he still lived, but as the litter was carefully removed from the horses’ backs, Lothar gasped.

The sound renewed Ewan’s hope, and leaning down from his horse, he encouraged in a rough, yet gentle tone, “Ye’ll be on your feet again soon, lad. The worst is over.”

Lothar didn’t answer. His eyes remained closed as Alec and the others carried him into the castle. But as they passed her by, Merry’s gaze dropped to the bandage covering the man’s stump, caked with dry blood.

Swallowing hard, she looked away.

Ewan expelled a long breath.

And then willing himself to ignore the pain burning his side, he gritted his teeth and swung down from his horse. The red stain on his shirt had spread. He grimaced. If only he’d moved a little faster, he wouldn’t have been injured, but there was naught he could do about it now. The jagged cut under his ribs wasn’t a life-threatening wound, but he knew it should be tended.

But after the priest had seen to Lothar first.

Drawing his cloak closer to hide the blood, he stepped around his horse and faced Merry. 
Her eyes were downcast. She seemed strangely remote and unreachable, but he understood why.

Witnessing a battle was a gruesome thing.

He strode purposefully to her side and clamped a steadying hand upon her shoulder. “Hot-spiced wine is what ye need. Come with me,” he said softly.

She didn’t move, not until his hand slid up to cradle the nape of her neck and softly guide her into the castle.

They’d taken but a few steps inside before Iona rushed around the corner, nearly colliding into them. Her red hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, and the soft plaid artfully draped over her shift gave the impression that she’d just risen from bed. Or it would have, had not her lips been freshly stained with berries and her hair brushed to a sheen.

She’d clearly spent the hours since their greeting preparing for a seduction of some sort.

“Ewan!” she gasped, placing a hand on the creamy swell of her heaving bosom. “I’ve been fretting over ye.”

Ewan frowned. She would know the truth soon. He’d never truly intended to wed her, and he regretted now that his indifference had let matters progress this far. But he couldn’t tell her now. He had to inform her father first, and he wouldn’t publicly humiliate the lass. He owed her that, at least.

It took him a moment to realize that she was still speaking. 
“And I’ve prepared your chamber, my lord. Come with me, and I’ll see your needs well met.” She held out her soft hands, gesturing for him to follow.

Merry’s shoulders tensed beneath his fingers, and Ewan glanced down to see her usually expressive face blank and shuttered. Aye, the lass seemed drained of life. She’d waited for them in the dark, wet and exhausted. Concerned, he squeezed the back of her neck in a comforting gesture. “Let’s get ye that spiced wine, aye?”

Merry nodded stiffly.

“Forgive me.” Iona’s voice startled them both. “I seem to have forgotten your name, lad?”

At that, Ewan tensed, and suddenly aware his fingers still lingered upon Merry’s neck, he hastily withdrew his hand. ‘Twould be best for Merry to remain a lad still.

Stepping back, he replied gruffly, “I’ll be sleeping in the hall with my men, my lady. Have warm spiced wine sent, would ye?”

Iona nodded, but her keen eyes flickered over Merry expectantly.

“Moridac,” Merry replied then, clearing her throat and bowing slightly. “My name’s Moridac, my lady.”

Casting Merry a curious glance, Iona nodded and then with an overly sweet smile, she curtsied. “I’ll bring the wine at once, my lord.” Pivoting on her heel, she quickly disappeared.

When she had gone, Merry glanced up at Ewan. “Will Lothar live?” she asked in a choked whisper.

Ewan looked into her tortured eyes and taking her hands between his, gave them a gentle squeeze. “Lothar’s a braw man,” he answered truthfully. “The fact he lives still gives me great hope.”

They stood there, holding hands a moment and then Merry jerked free and turned away. He followed her up the steps to the main hall in silence.

The dying fire illuminated the hall only enough to reveal it as bleak and imposing as the rest of the castle. The rushes crackled beneath their feet as they picked their way over the sleeping servants to the main table lit by two tall tapers. But the candles did little to penetrate the heavy atmosphere of the place.

Nearby, a dog growled, but a man’s sharp command from the darkness silenced it.

“I wouldna have ye sleep here with the servants, my lord,” Iona’s sharp voice issued from the shadows before she stepped into the dim circle of light. She carried a goblet and a clay jug.

“I’ll not be dissuaded,” Ewan replied. He was tired. The cut across his ribs burned. He wanted to see Merry settled, Lothar tended, his own wound cleaned, and then he wanted to close his eyes and sleep. If sleep were at all possible. With the recent events, he knew well that his dreams would most likely be haunted.

Iona said nothing as she poured the wine into the goblet, and the enticing scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. And then smiling prettily, she offered him the cup with a little bow.

Ewan eyed the goblet. She’d only brought one. Taking it, he offered it to Merry first. “Drink,” he said. “Drink deeply, lad.”

Merry hesitated, but upon his insistence, took a deep draught, and when she’d finished, he took the jug from Iona and poured his own.

Iona waited patiently for him to finish, tapping her fingers lightly on the table.

And then wiping his mouth on his forearm, Ewan set the goblet down on the table with a bang. “I would see Lothar,” he announced before glancing down at Merry to add, “Stay here and rest. I’ll return soon.”

“Nay,” Merry disagreed with a flash of her brown eyes. “I’ll go with ye, and that’s the end of the matter.”

He almost smiled. That response was more the Merry he’d come to know. With a crisp nod of agreement, he glanced over at Iona only to see her watching them with a silent, curious gaze accompanied by a slight frown.

But noticing his eyes upon her, she quickly smiled and offered, “Allow me to take ye there, my lord. ‘Tis not far.”

Without further preamble, she led them out of the hall and hurried up the narrow spiraled stairs at a brisk pace before pausing in front of a wooden door.

As she reached for the latch, Ewan stayed her hand.

“I thank ye, Lady Iona, but ye may leave now,” he suggested. “I’ll see ye in the morn.”

But she was persistent. “Shall I not sit with ye?” she asked, her red brows knitting into a frown.

“Nay, ‘tis unseemly,” he replied and then insisted. “Go.”

He bowed curtly, and then placing an arm around Merry’s shoulder, he opened the door and guided her inside.

Thankfully, Iona did not follow.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Ewan paused upon the threshold. 
It was a small, dark chamber with smoke-stained walls and a single window shuttered against the night wind.

Lothar lay unconscious on the bed. An elderly priest sat by his side as a maid with long red braids tended to the fire.

Alec lounged against the wall near the door.

The priest looked up as they entered. “God-willing, he’ll live,” he answered Ewan’s unspoken question before shifting his attention back to the needle he’d been holding up to the light. With a squint, he finished threading it and turned back to Lothar.

Ewan closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel some measure of relief. He took a deep breath, but the effort caused his ribs to ache, and an unexpected wave of weakness assailed him.

He had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling.

“God’s Wounds, Ewan!” Alec’s voice cursed. “What’s this?”

Ewan grimaced at his own clumsiness and opened his eyes to see his cloak had gapped open enough to allow Alec to see his red-stained shirt.

“You’re—” Alec began, reaching out.

But Ewan blocked his hand with a forearm and interrupted sternly, “Take care of the lad, aye?” He frowned and cast a quick glance at Merry standing by his side.

Alec hesitated a moment and then nodded. But first he moved to the priest and whispered in the man’s ear.

“Later,” Ewan warned with a scowl, but the priest had already risen.

“Come, Moridac,” Alec said then, sweeping back to slide an arm around Merry’s shoulders. “Lothar will live. I’ve yet to eat. Come with me, aye? We can come back soon enough, if ye wish.”

Merry didn’t resist as Alec fairly pushed her out of the door. She didn’t even glance Ewan’s way.

And that bothered Ewan tremendously.

But then the maid pulled a rough-hewn bench from around the bed, and the priest shoved him down onto it. And as they began to inspect his wound, he let his booted heels rest on the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him.

He closed his eyes, suddenly not wanting to even think.

* * *

It had been a long night, a night Merry felt would never end. Still drowsy from the spiced wine, she staggered tiredly after Alec down the dimly lit corridors leading to the dark and gloomy great hall.

When they arrived, Alec suddenly asked, “And why do ye follow us, lurking in the shadows, cousin?” His voice rang unnaturally loud in the darkness.

Merry tensed as Iona stepped out of the shadows to join them at the table, which was lit by two tapers. She’d drawn her plaid tightly about her shoulders, and she was holding a bottle of wine close to her chest.

“I would speak to ye of Ewan, cousin,” she answered tightly.

Reaching over, Alec wrested the wine from her grasp and, drawing the cork with his teeth, tipped it back to drink straight from the bottle.

Iona sniffed in displeasure.

“There’s naught for me to say,” Alec said once he’d decided he’d drunk enough. “If ye have questions, ask the man himself.”

Her eyes flashed at that. “I canna be so forward,” she nearly growled. “Not yet. ‘Tis a delicate situation. Though I do believe—”

Alec cast a quick glance Merry’s way and then interrupted his cousin with a sharp warning. “Dinna be so certain that he’ll fall into your net.”

Iona snapped her mouth shut.

“Beauty alone willna guarantee your heart’s desire,” Alec continued, his tone taking on a finely edged sarcasm. “Particularly the kind of sweet-temper and beauty ye possess. Beauty such as yours is a curse, I’ll warrant.”

Missing the mockery in his voice, Iona arched her brows and graced him with a haughty smile. “Ye speak the truth. Beauty such as mine is the truest of burdens.”

Alec grinned in outright amusement.

“’Tis fair distressing to suffer the envy of every woman I meet,” she continued, heaving a sigh before adopting an even wearier tone to add, “And ‘tis fair exhausting to be the object of all men’s desire. ‘Tis no small wonder women dinna wish me to stay long in the company of their husbands.”

There was no regret in the woman’s tone, only pride and conceit.

Alec stared at her astonished. “I pity the man to be chained to ye. No one is deserving of such foul luck,” he said, shaking his head.

Iona’s eyes hardened then. Suddenly suspicious that she’d been the victim of a jest, she gave a cold, thin smile and, pivoting on her heel, left in a huff.