The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (6 page)

“The Isles?” Ewan asked, seizing upon the word. “And what cause does a MacGregor of Glen Orchy, and a scrawny one at that, have to be wandering the Isles?”

The lad drew his fine brows together in a scowl.

But before he could reply, Alec interrupted mildly, “Interrogating the lad is hardly a fit reward for such a daring rescue, Ewan. Enough now, aye?”

Ewan raised a brow as Alec tossed him a flagon of whisky. Catching it with an easy hand, he took a deep swig, before pitching it back.

“Ye’ll have to forgive him, lad,” Alec continued with an easy laugh. “He’s been sore angry this past month.”

“Aye, I can see,” Moridac replied in a slightly acid tone. He sent Ewan a piercing look from beneath his gathered brows.

Ewan paused. There it was again. Something in the lad’s expression that gave him the uncomfortable feeling that he knew him much more than he claimed.

“Aye, Ewan bears more than his full measure of sorrow,” Alec began in a storyteller’s voice. “Have ye heard the tale of the Battle of Lochmaben, when he—“

But Ewan cut him short. “Enough,” he said, pressing his lips together to indicate the conversation was done. He didn’t relish hearing the tales of his so-called heroic deeds.

 They only revived dark memories of the screams of dying men.

“And I suppose I owe ye enough to listen,” Alec said with a wide grin. “Ye saved my life more than once, even though ye spent the last month in a dungeon calling me an undisciplined sot over it.”

“Can ye deny it?” Ewan asked shortly.

“Nay, I canna deny it,” Alec agreed with an easy shrug. “’Twas my fault that we walked into the Cunningham’s trap. I’ll never live it down.”

And then the sound of snapping twigs and voices caused them to turn as two more of Ewan’s men arrived.

The men greeted one another with fond claps on the back, and as the newcomers offered the contents of the packs slung over their shoulders, an elderly gray-haired man known as Moris sought Ewan out.

“Tidings, Ewan,” he said gruffly. “The call went out while we rotted in Carlisle’s dungeons. The crown prince himself is now in Stirling and he’s taken up arms against his father, the king.”

This revelation was met by a somber silence.

Stooping, Alec picked up the flagon and taking a long draught, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “’The lion of Scotland shall be slain by one of his own’,” he intoned in a low voice.

“That was the prophecy, was it not?” one of the men asked.

“Aye, ‘twas the one that the king murdered his brother Mar over, years ago,” Moris replied. “And he slew the wrong man for it.”

“Then ’tis war,” Ewan murmured bitterly. “The king truly is a coward and a fool of the highest order to let matters go this far and to fight his own son.”

Several of the men spat in disrespectful agreement.

Then Moris asked, “We ride to Stirling, my lord?”

“Aye,” Ewan answered roughly. 
Once he’d returned to Stirling, he’d be the first asked to lead the charge. And more men would die under his blade.

Hauling himself to his feet, he moved away, but Alec caught hold of his plaid as he passed.

“What is it?” the young man asked, his green eyes filled with concern.

For as much trouble that Alec had caused him of late, Ewan loved the man as much as a brother. An aggravating brother, and as such, there was little he could hide from him.

But Ewan didn’t wish to speak. Not yet.

“There’s naught amiss,” he grated, clenching his jaw. “’Tis time we slept. Draw lots amongst yourselves and choose one that will stay behind to wait for the others. At dawn, the rest of us will ride hard for Stirling.”

Suppressing a weary sigh, he moved outside the circle of firelight and, wrapping his arms around his knees, leaned against a tree as fatigue settled in his bones.

So, ‘twas war once again.

He could see Moridac huddled next to the fire, still looking miserable for having killed a single man.

Ewan sighed.

There were not enough tears in the world to weep for each man he had killed. Aye, he’d never be able to atone for the men he’d slain.

Not that he felt anything at all anymore. He was hardened to it.

There were times when he believed he would welcome tears and pain, simply to see if he were capable of feeling anything anymore. 
He sighed, keenly aware that thinking morose thoughts had become all too common a habit of late.

Closing his eyes, he commanded himself to sleep, but the effort was fruitless, and he ended up sitting stiff and still in the dark, listening to the soft steady conversation of his men interspersed with the occasional crack of the embers.

“Would ye care for something to eat?”

Ewan’s eyes flew open to see Moridac kneeling beside him, offering him a wedge of cheese skewered on the tip of his dirk.

Ewan eyed it with a marked lack of appetite and made no move to take it.

Moridac waited a moment and then set the dirk on the ground near his boot. “Are ye riding to war on the morrow then?” the lad asked.

“Aye,” Ewan replied in a clipped tone but then added, “I’ll see ye safe to Stirling, if ye wish.”

Moridac simply nodded.

When he didn’t move to leave, Ewan folded his arms. “And?”

“Are ye afraid?” the lad asked, his voice quivering a little.

“Afraid?” Ewan repeated in a tight voice. “And what is it ye think I should fear?”

The lad’s brown eyes grew round, betraying a wealth of emotion. “Death, for one—”

At that, Ewan gave a harsh laugh. “I died a long time ago,” he said through clenched teeth. “How can I die again? Be gone.”

To his surprise, the lad didn’t leave. Instead, he moved closer and laid a soft hand on Ewan’s arm.

“Aye, I canna fault ye for being embittered and angry,” he whispered. “Sleep well, Ewan.”

Ewan froze, and then uncertain of what to think or say, he numbly watched the lad rise gracefully to his feet to rejoin the others.

“Fetch some firewood now, would ye, lad?” Alec asked with a grunt as Moridac joined them. “And stay in the grove. I dinna want those standing watch to think you’re an Englishman.”

“Aye, I’ll be careful,” the youth promised with a bright smile.

From under his lashes, Ewan watched as Moridac’s slim form melted into the darkness, and after a moment, he rose to follow.

The lad was swift of foot, and it took Ewan longer than he’d expected to find him. Finally, he came upon the youth at the edge of the grove, standing in the bright moonlight with his face half hidden by his hood.

Without turning around, Moridac asked in a soft voice, “Can ye not sleep, Ewan?”

“And do ye have eyes behind your head, lad?” Ewan asked with a surprised grunt.

“Hush,” the lad held up a finger and leaned forward, straining to hear.

Quickly, Ewan scanned the grove and then joined Moridac in listening, resting his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword. 
He heard nothing at first, save the comforting woodland sounds of small rodents scurrying in the dark and the call of the owls.

And then he heard it.

Hooves.

Crouching low with a silent curse upon his lips, he pulled the lad back into the shadows.

“There,” Moridac warned, pressing against him.

They watched from under the cloak of darkness as the horses, snorting clouds of steam, appeared next to the river before moving downstream into the moonlit night.

When they were gone, Moridac drew even closer to Ewan and asked, “Were they looking for us?”

It was then that Ewan noticed the lad had grabbed a handful of his shirt, holding it tightly as if to seek comfort.

And he was close. Too close.

Soft raven hair tickled Ewan’s unshaven cheek, causing an unexpected tingle to race down his neck.

Feeling suddenly short of breath, he abruptly stepped back.

“Who are ye?” he breathed. “Who are ye truly?”

Chapter Three – “What Do Ye Want in a Lass?”

From the very moment that she’d met Ewan, nothing had gone according to plan or expectations.

Nothing
.

From her plan to sneak him out of the castle to her expectations of the man himself. 

No, she hadn’t expected him to be so harsh and angry—nor so overwhelmingly appealing, so overpoweringly … sensual.

Nay, this was a far different Ewan than she recalled as a lassie. 
He was towering over her now in the moonlight, a tall man of proud bearing, built of pure muscle and with guarded blue eyes that impaled her own.

And it was obvious that he didn’t believe a word of her story.

But ‘twas nigh impossible to think of any new lies when, inexplicably, she wanted only to imagine running her fingers over the expanse of his chest, over the carved muscles playing beneath his begrimed shirt—something she’d never been interested in imagining before.

“Have ye lost your tongue?” he asked, breaking her out of her thoughts. The tension was visible along the rugged curve of his jaw.

Merry coughed, startled from her musings. “Aye, I’m uncannily weary,” she muttered, her breath hitching a little.

“And will ye give me an answer?” His brows were furrowed. “Who are ye?”

They were standing close. She could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest, and it was sending her senses whirling.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift over the gaunt hollows of his face and to the deep lines of exhaustion etched beneath his eyes. ‘Twas the face of suffering, and a wave of sympathy washed through her, dispelling her lusty thoughts.

“And?” he probed in a hard tone.

“What troubles ye so, Ewan?” she felt compelled to ask, lifting a hand to his shoulder.

He stood still under her touch, frozen, and his eyes wide.

She wanted to hug him, pull him close. She’d always remembered him to have a spark of laughter in his eyes. But it was clear now that the laughter had long left those blue eyes boring into hers.

“Ach, this weight on your shoulders is too heavy,” she murmured. “Have ye forgotten how to live, Ewan?”

At that, he stepped away, his face carefully blank.

Merry realized her mistake at once and bit back a wry grimace. ‘Twas fair difficult to remember to play the part of a lad—especially with Ewan.

“To me, living means not getting killed, nothing more,” he answered in a distant tone. And then his brows slanted in a line of question. “If ye’ll not tell me who ye are than will ye tell me who sent ye, lad?”

“Eh, well,” she cleared her throat, playing for time. “I was paid good coin not to tell.” It wasn’t the best of answers, and she couldn't look him in the eye as she lied outright. “Come now. I’ve firewood to fetch.”

She moved away, leaving him standing there silent, feet firm and wide shoulders squared. He watched her stack the firewood for a time and then moved to help, collecting branches in silence.

After a time, he grunted. “’Tis enough. I’ll carry those.” He nodded his chin toward the larger ones and picked up several smaller branches. “Hold out your arms and take these. I’ll stack the larger for ye, lad.”

Merry held still, watching the moonlight play off his blond hair, turning it almost silver. When had Ewan become so strikingly handsome?

But then another thought crossed her mind. A disquieting one.

Did he have a lady?

“And why would my mysterious benefactor pay good coin for my rescue only to then send just a lad?” Ewan suddenly asked.

Merry jerked a little, nearly dropping the wood.

“Just a lad?” she repeated, replaying his last words. She tossed her head, nettled. “I already know that I can ride better then ye, and I warrant I can shoot a straighter arrow!”

He furrowed his brows and then responded by dumping a heavy log on top of the others in her arms.

Her muscles quivered under the weight a moment before rebelling of their own accord. And bowing under the burden, she dropped the entire load.

“Sweet Mary!” Merry cursed, scowling up at him.

“You’re as weak as a lass,” he replied, lifting a brow.

She paused in alarm. 
Did he know? Had he discovered she wasn’t a lad?

Dropping to her knees, she bowed her head and reached for the scattered wood. And, as a stilted silence fell between them, she began to fret.

Finally, Ewan spoke. 
“I know ye’ve spun a net of lies, lad,” he said, lifting the large logs with effortless ease. “But ‘tis no matter, I suppose. We all carry our secrets. I’ll see ye safe to the Scottish border as payment for your aid, but after that, we’ll part ways.”

His tone was cold. Dismissive. 
It felt like a slap across the face. 
And he'd originally promised to see her to Stirling. Now it was just the borders?

She scowled.

Treating her as if she didn’t even exist, he shouldered his logs, and training his gaze straight ahead, retraced his steps back to camp with his broadsword swinging from his belt.

She wanted to shout after him and tell him who she truly was, just to see if the Ewan she knew was buried somewhere deep inside. But the words lodged in her throat. But then thinking of the English soldiers, she 
hurriedly collected her branches and, returning to camp, dropped them unceremoniously next to the fire.

Alec glanced up at her, cocking his head to one side. “And I thought ye were lost in the woodlands,” he said jokingly. “Ye took so long.”

Merry didn’t reply. She merely scowled at Ewan sitting under a tree a short distance away.

He didn’t meet her gaze, but he crossed his arms and drew his brows into a line himself.

“Did ye quarrel?” Alec asked with an easy grin even as his piercing gaze shifted between Ewan and herself.

Merry tensed, feeling strangely exposed. “Nay,” she hurried to deny.

He merely raised a brow as his shrewd eyes swept over her.

Such scrutiny was dangerous, and Merry searched about for a diversion. 
Fortunately, one arrived as a gust of wind rustled the leaves, carrying with it the foul stench of mold and refuse.