by Paula Quinn
Fearing her trembling legs might not sustain her, she knelt beside Ruadh, hanging on to his neck like a shipwreck survivor clings to driftwood. “He’s lazy and good for nothing; however, he’s my hound and I love him.”
Her heart raced when Ewan put his warm hand beneath her forearm. “Ye’re obviously a tender-hearted lass, Lady Jeannie,” he replied. “Ye look tired. I assume the laird is sleeping? Will Ruadh object if I escort ye to yer chamber?”
When her mouth refused to form a coherent reply, she allowed him to help her stand, silently thankful when he held her steady.
Tongue lolling, Ruadh eyed him before trotting off down the hallway in the direction of her chamber.
“Yer dog seems not to mind,” Ewan jested.
“He just wants to curl up in bed with me,” she replied.
Gooseflesh turned to a liquid fire of embarrassment when she realized what she’d said. A betrothed woman didn’t discuss sleeping arrangements with strange noblemen. But then, Ewan wasn’t a nobleman, despite his bearing, and he didn’t know she was the MacCarron bride. “I mean…”
“Dinna fash,” he whispered closer to her ear than was proper. “I must seek my bed soon too.”
She inhaled the aroma of leather and some elusive heady spice she couldn’t name.
Ruadh gave them an expectant look when they reached her door.
Ewan laughed heartily. “He’s a character.”
The sound of his laughter did strange things to her insides. “Aye. Er…I trust ye were treated with hospitality in the hall…I mean ye and yer laird…Fynn, I meant…did ye get enough to eat? I apologize we…”
His kiss silenced her and stole away what little breath remained in her lungs. His lips brushed hers like a whispered caress.
She put a hand on his chest lest she sway into him. Disappointment surged when he stepped away and traced his finger down her nose. “Goodnight, Lady Jeannie. Ye’re too tempting. I’ll nay doot see ye on the morrow.”
He reached down to turn the handle and push open the door. Ruadh trotted inside, jumped up onto her bed and sprawled across it. She teetered on the threshold, aware of nothing but the warm breath on her nape of the desirable man standing behind her.
“He keeps ye warm,” he murmured.
She felt the heat of his hand on the small of her back and her wanton heart raced—he intended to follow her into the chamber.
A doleful whine from Ruadh dragged her back to her senses. She was promised to another.
She turned to face him, perturbed once again by the strange smile. “Goodnight, Ewan Mackinloch,” she said firmly.
He bowed. “Sleep well, my lady,” he replied. “With yer hound.”
Safely inside the chamber, she leaned her forehead against the wood, listening to his footsteps receding down the hallway, trembling with the effort it took not to yank open the door and call him back.
*
As he made his way to Fynn’s chamber, Ewan cursed his foolishness. Why hadn’t he simply told Shona he knew who she was? His rock-hard tarse was of the mind he should have confessed his true identity.
His heart and loins insisted she was the woman for him. There was an alchemy between them he was certain she felt too.
Perhaps she was just a wanton woman who might surrender to lustful longings for any man she found attractive. What if he married her only to discover she was promiscuous? The prospect made him sick to his stomach. He’d be tempted to kill any man who even thought to touch her.
By rights, the chamber inside the castle was his, so he marched in on Fynn without knocking, then immediately wished he hadn’t. His kinsman perched on the end of the bed, britches round his ankles, cock in his good hand. His embarrassment at being caught in the act flushed through the grey stubble on his face as he bent hurriedly to pull up his trews. “I was…”
Ewan looked up into the rafters, willing away the image of Fynn’s impressive manhood. For all he was getting on in years…
His unannounced arrival had left the man in dire straits. “I dinna censure ye for it. I’ll leave so ye can…er…continue.”
“Nay. I apologize, my laird,” Fynn muttered with uncharacteristic humility, sitting back down on the bed. “I dinna ken what’s come o’er me since I set eyes on Lady Shona, I mean Lady Jeannie. I can think o’ naught but bedding her.”
Ewan had never considered lust could smite a tough Highlander like Fynn. “The eye doesna bother ye?” he asked.
His kinsman held up his stump. “Do ye really need to pose that question? She’s a beautiful woman, though I get the feeling men make her nervous.”
It was astonishing. Ewan had paid scant attention to Jeannie, repulsed by her one physical defect, yet Fynn the farmer had looked beyond that. “Mayhap she had a bad experience. Get David to ask his new lady friend.”
Evidently uncomfortable, Fynn stood and paced. “But what good will it do to find out more? Jeannie’s nay yer betrothed, but I canna woo her if ye dinna mean to honor the troth to Lady Shona.”
At the mention of his true intended, Ewan’s shaft swelled again. “Dinna fash about that. I plan to pursue the blonde, but I’ve a mind to play with her first in revenge for her ruse.”
Fynn stopped pacing and looked him in the eye. “Have a care. She’s nay the only one playing tricks.”
More preoccupied with thoughts of Shona curled up with Ruadh, he paid little heed to the warning. “Aye, weel, let’s go find David in the stables and see what he’s learned.”
*
Lying abed, Shona touched her fingertips to her lips, daydreaming of Ewan’s kiss. She remembered the texture of the woollen plaid draped across his solid form; the quality of the weave struck her as odd for a fleeting moment, but she quickly dismissed the notion.
She’d been kissed before, usually on the cheek, but had never experienced the thrill of longing sparked by the taste of Ewan’s warm lips.
Only Mungo Morley had once dared plant a wet smooch on her mouth. The stink of whisky on his breath had been nauseating. Her darling father had warned him off, but Beathan MacCarron was dead and gone. She bit down on her knuckle, swamped by the pain of his loss.
Ruadh whimpered, then lifted his head when a soft tap at the door heralded Moira’s return.
Shona blinked back the welling tears and sat up as her red-faced maid hurried to plump up the bolster behind her. “I sense excitement. What did ye find out?”
Moira stood beside the bed, hands clasped as if in prayer, eyes on Ruadh. “He’s a bonnie lad, yon David.”
Shona frowned. “I sent ye to spy on them. I trust ye didna give away our secret.”
Moira’s eyes widened. “Nay, my lady, I was discreet, but he seemed to enjoy talking wi’ me. Hardly a stammer at all. And he has a lovely singing voice that could make a lass…”
She stopped abruptly and glanced briefly at Shona before returning her gaze to Ruadh, who cocked his head, seemingly as puzzled as his mistress by the revelation David could sing. “What I mean is, he sang a ballad about Jenny Shaw and let slip he was of that family.”
“He’s a Shaw? I thought he was a Mackinloch.”
“The only time he stammered badly was when he struggled to explain why Ewan had told him to say he was a Mackinloch.”
“Ewan?”
“Aye. He talked on and on about the mon. Scarcely a mention o’ the fella who’s yer intended. I got the feeling he hardly kens Fynn at all.”
The temptation to giggle rose in Shona’s throat as a suspicion planted itself in her mind. “There’s more to this Ewan than we think.”
Moira eyed her curiously. “And it sounds like ye wouldna have any objection if he turned out to be the Mackinloch.”
Shona let the giggle fly free. “Ye ken me too weel, Moira Macgill.”
Ruadh woofed softly in agreement.
Secrets and Lies
Fynn and Ewan came upon David sitting on a bale of hay in the stables surrounded by a handful of young lassies arrayed at his feet. The sweetne
ss of his pure voice caressed the air like a warm breeze, enthralling the women who listened to his song with rapt attention. Even sleepy-eyed horses had turned their heads to listen.
Ewan motioned Fynn to a halt just inside the door, but the moment David saw them he stopped singing and got off the bale. “I…I…I…”
The lasses, maidservants by the look of their apparel, scampered away.
“Sit,” Ewan ordered, genuinely sorry he’d interrupted the lad’s performance. “They were enjoying yer song.”
David’s face turned an even deeper shade of red when Fynn said, “Ye’ve a wonderful singing voice, laddie.”
Ewan was as astonished as David at the remark, but didn’t have the time or inclination to explain that the old warrior had fallen in lust, hence his newfound kindly nature. “Tell me of Moira,” he said.
David smiled. “I like her.”
He tamped down his impatience. “Aye, but what did ye find out?”
Puzzlement contorted the youth’s face. “Ab…Ab…about what?”
“Lady Jeannie, o’ course,” Fynn hissed, reverting quickly to his usual hostile tone.
“Jee…Jee…Jeannie, or Sho…Sho…”
“Enough,” Ewan shouted, causing several horses to toss their heads and stamp their feet, evidently annoyed they’d been deprived of David’s melodious singing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and lowered his voice. “Just tell us everything.”
David sat down again on the bale. “Sho…Shona was wed afore.”
Ewan clenched his fists, his fantasies about being the first to possess her going up in smoke. “What?”
“I mee…mee…mean the pretend Shona.”
The knot in Ewan’s gut loosened. “Ye’re referring to Lady Jeannie? The real Lady Jeannie?”
“Aye.”
Fynn gritted his teeth. “I kent a mon had hurt her. I’ll kill him.”
David swallowed hard, staring at the older man as if he’d lost his wits.
Ewan put a booted foot up on the bale and leaned forward. “Pay no mind. Go on with the tale.”
“Ai…Ai…Ailig was his name. A cru…cru…cruel brute, they say. Ban…ban…”
“Banished?” Fynn asked.
David nodded. “But Moira thinks his bro…bro…bro…”
“Brother?” Ewan interrupted.
“Aye. Mungo aids him.”
*
The next morning Shona hurried to Kendric’s chamber, confident her aunt would have already ordered oatmeal from the kitchens to break their fast. Jeannie wasn’t one to deprive herself of nourishment, though she never grew fat despite the copious amounts of rich food she consumed.
Shona had slept surprisingly well considering the terrible uncertainty about her uncle’s injuries, the betrothal conundrum and Ewan’s mind-boggling kiss. Had she not been awakened by the raspy lick of a wet tongue, she might still be abed.
Bathed, coiffed and dressed with Moira’s help, she was bursting to share her suspicions about Ewan Mackinloch. Her maid hadn’t been surprised by the revelations, and she was confident Jeannie would welcome the news.
Ruadh slumped down on the stone floor with a gruff growl when she refused him entry to the sickroom and shut the door behind her.
A quick glance at Kendric showed he was still asleep.
“He ate a little porridge,” Jeannie explained, “and the laudanum Donald administered during the night is helping him rest easy.”
Guilt poked at Shona. It might seem she wasn’t showing much outward concern for the invalid, but her news had to be told. “I have something important to tell ye, Auntie,” she began.
Jeannie took her by the elbow and drew her to the foot of the bed. “Wait! I have something to confess.”
“Confess?”
“Ye canna marry Fynn.”
The lines of worry on her aunt’s face tempted Shona to reveal the truth, but it was too good an opportunity to tease. She feigned outrage. “Ye want him for yerself.”
Jeannie blushed. “I do like the mon, but there’s something not quite right about him.”
Shona sniggered. “He has one hand.”
“Nay, besides that.”
Shona tapped a finger against her chin and arched a brow. “Ye mean he doesna act like a laird’s son.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s mayhap because he isna,” she declared, hands on hips.
“How can that be?”
“I think Ewan is the Mackinloch who’s come to be wed.”
Jeannie scoffed. “Ha! Ye hope he is.”
“Moira told me David is actually a Shaw. Ewan ordered him to claim he was a Mackinloch.”
“But why pretend to…”
They stared at each other, then collapsed in a heap on the end of the bed, tipsy with laughter, sliding guiltily to the floor when Kendric groaned in his sleep.
Outside the door, Ruadh howled for the first time in living memory. It only added to their hysteria.
*
Ewan and his kinsmen broke their fast in the hall. Fynn declined to sit alone on the dais. Between spoonfuls of oatmeal, the three kept a wary eye on the other men gathered there.
“Good…good…porr…porridge,” David remarked, licking his lips.
Fynn agreed. “I hafta admit the food has been better than I expected. Nigh on as good as mine. Mayhap Clan MacCarron isna as impoverished as we thought.”
Ewan suspected he was right and chuckled inwardly at the notion Fynn seemed to be a competent cook—if the breakfast trout was anything to go by. However, he was worried about what he’d learned concerning Mungo Morley. “When he leaves, I’ll follow him, David, then ye come after me. My gut tells me he’s up to no good.”
“What about me?” Fynn asked.
“Keep up the pretense. Go pay yer respects to the laird. See how he fares.”
Looking reluctant, Fynn scraped stunted fingernails through the stubble on his cheek.
Ewan punched his arm. “Look at it as an opportunity to see Lady Jeannie,” he quipped.
Mungo and one of his gang rose from the table and headed for the kitchens, leaving no more time for argument. When they emerged a short time later, the giant was toting a small sack. He scowled at the Mackinlochs before exiting the hall.
Ewan waited a few moments before following the two men to a small outer door across the bailey from the stables. He paused and watched them glance around before ducking into a side entrance.
“They seemed anxious to stay out of sight,” he explained to David when the youth joined him. “We’ll follow at a safe distance after they exit the stables.”
They waited until Morley and his man had ridden through the gates, then hurried to saddle Liath and Dubh. Five minutes later they headed out in pursuit.
Ewan said a silent prayer of thanks for fine weather that enabled them to see the dust cloud raised by the other horses. He resisted the temptation to increase their speed and kept to the cover of trees where possible. His caution paid off after about twenty minutes. The men they trailed reined to a halt, looked back the way they’d come, then left the path to enter a copse of hawthorns.
Ewan and David dismounted and pulled their horses into a clump of bushes on the opposite side of the trail. They tied up their mounts then scrambled back to the path and lay flat on the sloping bank.
“It’s a meeting,” Ewan rasped. “With his brother, I’ll warrant. Bringing him food. Yer bonnie Moira had the right of it, I think.”
David grinned. “Aye. Can…canny lass.”
“I’d like to get closer, hear what they’re discussing, but…”
“Noth…noth…nothing good,” David whispered.
“That’s for sure. It’s clear they have designs on the chieftaincy and Mungo strikes me as the impatient sort.”
His words gave him pause. He himself wasn’t known as a patient man and David had every right to resent his impatience, yet he didn’t react at all.
When voices drifted on the air they scrambled backward
s into the bushes. Mungo and his man emerged and rode towards the castle.
It didn’t take long for another rider to appear, Mungo’s sack tied to his pommel. He looked both ways along the trail before urging his horse in the opposite direction.
When he was out of sight, Ewan and David retrieved their horses and led them out of hiding.
Grimacing, David traced a finger along his cheek as he mounted. “Does…doesna look like his bro…bro…”
“Nay,” Ewan replied, straddling Liath. “Mungo’s a red-haired mountain of a man; if that’s Ailig, he’s as tall, but dark and wiry. Half-brothers mayhap. That is a nasty scar. Looks like it almost took his eye.”
“Up…up to no good,” David observed as they regained the trail back to Creag Castle.
“Ye’re right,” Ewan agreed. He was preoccupied with what they’d witnessed, but the thought occurred that David must be getting more comfortable with him. The lad didn’t seem to stammer as much. Or maybe he was just becoming accustomed to it.
Complications
Shona heard Fynn’s voice out in the hallway before he knocked. From the groans of canine pleasure, it seemed likely the dour Scot was tickling Ruadh’s belly. Jeannie hastily tidied away the empty porridge bowls. Laughing during the meal had resulted in hiccups, which made them giggle all the more.
When the tap came, they sobered and made an effort to tidy wayward wisps of hair and smooth rumpled skirts.
“Enter,” Jeannie intoned. Her struggle to keep a serious look on her face while the eye twitched almost sent Shona into hysterics again.
She resolved not to look at her aunt when Fynn poked his head around the door, though it was tempting to blurt out they knew he wasn’t the Mackinloch she was meant to wed.
“I came to see how fares the laird,” he said solemnly.
Ruadh took advantage of the open door to slink in behind him. He trotted to the bed and licked Kendric’s hand.
Shona gasped with delight when her uncle stroked the dog’s head and whispered, “Good lad.”
Jeannie clasped her hands to her mouth.