Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  Ewan lifted his head. Grace tensed, bracing herself.

  “The first time, my lady wife, was a mere tease.” He nuzzled her neck. “Now we get serious.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Grace woke just as the dawn began to break. All was quiet both outside and inside the tent. Turning over, she felt privileged to witness a rare sight—Ewan reposed in sleep. He was sprawled on his back, his dark hair tousled, his limbs spread wide. Though they had joined their bodies together—several times last night—this act of sleeping together felt strangely more intimate.

  For here, in this moment, Ewan was truly vulnerable. His guard was relaxed, his barriers lowered. Sitting up, Grace edged closer, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. A faint trace of stubble darkened his angular cheekbones and framed his lips, curled now in a satisfied smile. He looked surprisingly boyish, though there was a weariness to the fine lines at the corner of his eyes that could not be ignored.

  He was a man with responsibilities that were never completely abandoned or forgotten, even in sleep. Grace dabbed the sudden tears in her eyes, vowing that she would not become a burden to him. She would be agreeable and gracious, kind and noble. She would be a wife that made him proud, a companion that brightened his days, a lover that emboldened his nights.

  Ewan released a soft sigh and shifted, causing the woolen blanket riding his hips to drop lower. Not one to overlook an opportunity, Grace enjoyed a leisurely perusal of his body. Broad shoulders, with long, lean muscles cording his arms and chest. There was an intriguing dusting of body hair on the top of his chest that continued over his abdomen and became a thin line from his navel down to where it disappeared beneath the covers.

  Grace felt the familiar fluttering inside at the sight. She studied his face, marveling at all the perfectly formed details. Beautiful seemed such an odd word to describe such a hardened, tough warrior, but it fit him perfectly.

  Ewan let out another sigh and shifted, turning away from her onto his side. A sudden wave of desolation washed over her. Needing to reestablish their connection, Grace slowly lowered herself until she too lay on her side, facing his broad back. Carefully she smoothed her hand over the raised scar on his shoulder, then traced another one on his side.

  Badges of honor, no doubt acquired in battle. They stood as a testament to his skill and courage and a stark reminder of the violence that had marred Ewan’s life. ’Twas no wonder he longed for a different existence, away from war, away from conflict.

  Gradually, she inched forward until she was pressed completely against him. His muscles were hard, unyielding. She skimmed her chin along the line of his shoulder and decided that she liked sharing her bed with him. Liked the feel of his warmth beside her; even the gentle sounds of his snores were a comfort.

  She inhaled his scent and sighed, nuzzling her face into the wide space between his shoulder blades. Pleasure sparkled through her veins. It was strange sleeping with a man. Strange, yet wonderful.

  The bed she had shared with Alastair had been large and wide. She had slept in it alone for most of their marriage, since Alastair had been off fighting with King Robert. Yet even when he was at home, they slept on opposite sides of it. There had been a distance between them that went beyond a physical separation. Alastair had been kind and affectionate and she the same, yet she never felt completely comfortable and relaxed in his presence.

  Perhaps over time that might have changed. Perhaps not. Grace could never be certain. But now she had a chance to change the course of her future. She need never sleep alone again. She could lie down beside Ewan each night and wake up in the same place the following morning.

  Grace smiled, deciding then and there this was something she very much wanted to continue doing—for the next fifty years or so.

  Ewan woke to the feel of gentle fingers exploring his back. He grinned at the delightful sensation. ’Twas a dream come to life to feel those delicate, inquisitive fingers, made even better because they were Grace’s hands. His lady wife.

  Jesus—he was married. To Grace. She trusted him with her secrets and her safety. Finally, she was his and he would do all that was necessary to keep her.

  An unknown emotion curled in his gut and he closed his eyes for a moment. Happiness? Excitement? Love? The last had him nearly choking. Troubadours and virgins spoke of love. Not warriors.

  Still . . . ’twas hardly the worst thing in the world to love your wife. Brian McKenna was clear proof of that fact.

  An unexpected image of his mother swam before his eyes. Huddled in front of a meager fire, her hands pressed over her face as she cried silent tears. Her moans of pain as she lamented the mistake of devotedly loving a man who had turned against her, who had failed to appreciate and return that love.

  Aye, loving your wife was a fine aspiration. As long as she loved you, too.

  Ewan swallowed. ’Twas clear that Grace was a woman slow to trust, slow to open her heart and let a man glimpse what she held inside. Could he win her heart? Could they build a life together that included love? The idea took root in his mind and swirled around. No doubt it was a risk. But was it a risk worth taking?

  Grace’s breath whispered against the back of his neck and she murmured his name. A shiver of desire ran through him, diverting his thoughts. Love was something to ponder. Lust, on the other hand, was something he completely understood.

  Grinning, Ewan turned onto his back. Need, mixed with yearning, filled him as he beheld his wife. Their eyes locked and for a moment he lost himself in their depths. She favored him with a sultry look that heated his blood, making his rod stand firm.

  “Ride me,” he suggested, his voice husky.

  Her long tresses covered part of her face, yet Ewan swore he saw her blush. She hesitated, her breath coming fast. He worried he might have shocked her, then bit his tongue before he uttered an apology. She had shown him last night that her passion was equal to his own, though she was not yet completely secure in her role as a wanton female. It was his duty to encourage that behavior.

  For both their sakes.

  He lifted his hand to her cheek and gently stroked it with the back of his fingers. Her breathing halted when his hand moved lower, skimming over the curves of her breast. Ewan tilted his head so he could gaze into her eyes. He could almost feel the sense of doubt building within her, but he caught a glimmer of intrigue, too.

  “Ride me,” he whispered again.

  Her answer was an incomprehensible moan. He felt her body tense, but then she slowly maneuvered herself into a sitting position. She looked at him with a mixture of anticipation and doubt, then swung a leg over his hips.

  “Is this what ye wanted, husband?”

  “Aye, ’tis a start.”

  She frowned with concentration, obviously uncertain what to do next. He thought her naïveté enchanting and her earnest expression and clear willingness to please twined around his heart.

  She wiggled forward and her heavy breasts swung toward him. Lush and pink and full, they beckoned him. Groaning, Ewan lifted his torso and captured one rosy nipple in his mouth. Suckling hard, he indulged in her sweetness. Yet the more he tasted, the more he wanted.

  All traces of sleep vanished. His hunger was so strong, the yearning so intense, it was nearly impossible to realize that he had already taken her three times the night before. Apparently Grace felt the same, for she pressed herself almost frantically against him, rubbing her damp thighs against his abdomen.

  Fire shot through his gut as he hardened even more. His hands roamed up and down her back until he cupped her buttocks and pressed her to his throbbing heat. His hand moved over her flat stomach down toward her thighs.

  Grace gasped and lifted her hips. Seizing the opportunity, Ewan shifted, placing his aching cock at the entrance to her feminine softness. Then he arched up, grabbed her hips and pulled her firmly down.

  Grace screamed. Ewan shouted. The feel of her tight wetness holding him, cradling him, was almost too much to bear.

>   Putting her hands on his chest, Grace slid against him and then finally, finally, did as he had commanded. She rode him. Eyes closed, head tipped back, biting her lips as he thrust his hard flesh in and out of hers. Her breathing became shallow and rapid and he knew the exact moment she lost control, for it sent a surge of desire lashing through his entire being.

  Every inch of his taut body began to shake as his climax built and built. His pulse was hammering as he clung to her, drawing her closer, closer. His fists curled around her hips, clenching and unclenching. She was hot and wet and incredibly tight and as she started convulsing, he gave himself up to the glory of the moment.

  Ewan’s head fell back and he felt the seed pulse and pour from his body into hers. Her inner muscles convulsed around him, the sensation so intense it sent flames through his body.

  Grace collapsed on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, drawing a wealth of comfort from the feel of her warm softness. He marveled at the smooth feel of her skin, the delicate bones of her shoulders, the tantalizing scent of her hair.

  In no time her breath grew soft and steady and he knew she had fallen asleep. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he shifted her onto her side, then brushed a few wisps of hair away from her brow. She sighed and snuggled into the furs. He rested his hand briefly on her shoulder before pulling a soft wool blanket around her, tucking her securely beneath its warmth.

  Turning his head, Ewan could see a streak of light creeping under the tent, heralding the approach of dawn. The camp would be stirring soon. They had at least a week of travel ahead of them—if the weather did not worsen. ’Twas best to get an early start. He needed to rise and make sure that all was being taken care of properly, yet Ewan was loath to pull himself away from the comfort of the bed and the sweetness of his wife.

  The wind outside the tent whirled and blew as their breaths fell into a rhythm. Ewan’s eyes drifted shut. Five minutes. I’ll rest for five minutes.

  It took no more than two before he fell into a deep, satisfying sleep.

  Grace awoke long after dawn had invaded the camp. She reached across the bed merely to confirm what she already knew—she was alone. The mattress was no longer warm, her senses no longer heightened, her heart no longer simmering with awareness. Sometime during the early morning hours, Ewan had slipped away.

  A myriad of emotions swirled through her. Disappointment mingled with practicality, followed swiftly by a stab of embarrassment. Normally, they broke camp with the dawn. Clearly they had waited this morning on her husband’s orders, allowing her to rest. And there was no doubt that the men would know why she needed to sleep.

  “Ah, so ye are awake. At last.” Edna’s cheery voice cut into Grace’s musing. Somehow she managed to arrange her face into a smile as the maid hurried into the tent.

  “Is it very late?” Grace asked, scrambling from the bed.

  “Late enough. Though the men haven’t minded the easy morning,” Edna said, shaking out Grace’s gown. “Nor the hot meal they had time to cook and eat.”

  Through the thin fabric walls of the tent Grace could hear the good-natured masculine banter. “Why dinnae ye wake me?” she asked as she splashed clean water on her face and rubbed her groggy eyes.

  “Sir Ewan said ye were not to be disturbed,” Edna bristled, smoothing the front of the gown.

  “Oh.” The blush was impossible to hide, so Grace didn’t bother. She flexed her shoulders, amazed at the odd places various aches, soreness, and twinges aroused, then pulled in her breath while Edna laced the back of her gown. “That was very considerate of him.”

  “Aye, especially when he was the cause of yer exhaustion.”

  The maid’s comment filled Grace with a healthy dose of mortification, but she tamped down the feelings. There was no need to feel any shame or embarrassment. She and Ewan were married—they had every right to indulge in their passions.

  Still, she wondered if seeing Ewan this morning would be awkward. There was no time to take any extra care with her appearance, and Grace admonished Edna to hurry. Finally ready, she left the tent. A group of men lounging in front of a small fire came to their feet and moved toward her. Momentarily startled, Grace froze, but the men simply nodded their heads and began dismantling her tent.

  Flushed with color, Grace scurried away, her eyes searching for Ewan. She tried to act nonchalant when she spied him on the other side of the camp, but her heartbeat picked up speed and her spirits soared. It oddly felt as though she was seeing him for the first time.

  His handsome face, his charming smile, his commanding manner. The strength of his arms reminded her of the passion she had felt when she was encircled within them. But she had felt more. There had been a sense of comfort and security emanating from him, an assurance without words that somehow all would be well.

  Almost as if sensing her regard, Ewan turned. He gave her a slow, searching appraisal, then favored her with a smile of solid satisfaction. Grace felt the color bloom in her cheek and quickly lowered her chin.

  She waited a full minute before raising her head and when she did, Ewan caught her eye and winked. Grace struggled to keep a dignified expression, but it was impossible. All she could hope was that not too many of the others had witnessed the exchange.

  “Riders approaching!” one of the guards shouted.

  All activity in the camp ceased as everyone turned toward the horizon. Grace spun around and saw a line of mounted men sweeping across the flat landscape of long grass. They rode with purpose, at a clipping pace. The faint rays of morning sun illuminated the shields clasped in their arms, but the design was not one she could identify. She wove her way through the camp, coming to Ewan’s side.

  “Roderick?” she asked, trying to dose the flame of fear that engulfed her.

  “Perhaps.” Ewan squeezed her hand in comfort, then casually drew his sword. “Stand behind me. If they attack, grab Edna and run fer the tree line. Wait there until I come fer ye.”

  Grace felt her heart contract, but she followed the command without question. A gust of wind swirled around her head, loosening a few strands of her hastily braided hair. Grace left them alone. Peering around Ewan’s broad shoulders, she waited tensely as the riders approached.

  The man in the lead was of middle years, dark-haired, with a broad nose, a wide, thrusting jaw, and a weather-beaten complexion. “I dinnae recognize any of the men,” she remarked hopefully.

  Ewan tensed. “Roderick would not put anyone ye could identify out front if he was hoping to catch us off guard.”

  As they drew near, the leader pulled back his reins. His powerful horse danced impatiently, but obeyed. Grace could smell the dirt on the clothes and unwashed bodies of the men as they closed ranks behind their leader. He spurred his horse forward, walking the beast up to Ewan.

  “Good morning,” Ewan called out pleasantly. His smile was friendly, his eyes watchful. “I fear ye are too late to join us in breaking our fast, but we have some ale, oatcakes, and cheese we can spare, if ye and yer men are hungry.”

  The intruder skimmed Ewan’s body with his gaze. “Who can I thank fer such a generous offer of hospitality?” he asked, his deep voice disturbing the stillness.

  “I am Sir Ewan.”

  The leader cast an inquiring eye over all of them, then lifted his face to the wind. “I can tell from yer speech and weapons that ye’re a Scot, yet I see no clan colors.”

  Ewan seemed to pinch back a smile. “We are Scot through and through and loyal subjects to King Robert.”

  “Ye fought with the Bruce?”

  “Aye.”

  The leader nodded with approval. “Where are yer banners?”

  “We carry none.”

  “Who are yer people?”

  “My mother is a Gilroy,” Ewan replied tersely.

  “And yer father?”

  “Is dead.”

  Grace felt a surge of protective resentment at the barrage of boorish questions. She wanted to stalk forward and gi
ve the leader’s horse a sharp slap on the rump, sending both horse and man away. Yet aside from the cool tone, Ewan was reacting to the questions with perfect calm. Most likely because he was used to them.

  “Where are ye headed?” the stranger asked.

  “North. ’Tis where we make our home.” Ewan gave the man a flat smile. “And who might ye be, good sir?”

  “I am Laird Kilkinney.” He pointed to the plaid mantle draped over his shoulder that was pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted brooch. “Damn it! The dust and dirt have faded my colors. ’Tis to be expected, I suppose, when traveling in such fierce weather.”

  Though he hardly looked the part, Grace could see he was telling the truth. Despite his rather disheveled state, Kilkinney radiated the confidence, authority, and privilege of a laird, if not the hygiene. She was suddenly glad she had not acted upon her earlier impulse to challenge the man.

  “May I ask why ye travel with such a small guard?” Ewan inquired.

  “I stopped at the shrine of the Virgin Mother to offer prayers fer the soul of my dearly departed wife. I sent most of my men ahead of me, but when the rains struck we were forced to stay the night at the shrine.” He crossed his hands, relaxing them on the pommel. “We are but a few hours’ journey from my keep. In fact, ye are on my land.”

  “Then it is ye we must thank fer allowing us a peaceful spot to rest fer the night,” Ewan said.

  “Ye should have ridden a few more miles to the north and asked fer shelter at my home, Glenmore Keep.” Kilkinney craned his neck, his eyes clearly searching behind Ewan. “I’m certain a soft bed would have been most welcomed by the women in yer party.”

  “We have the provisions to provide our own comforts,” Ewan answered. He signaled and Grace stepped forward, clasping his outstretched hand. She lifted her chin and curled her fingers around his, the heat of his body sinking comfortingly into hers. “May I present my wife, Lady Grace.”

  Grace sank to her knee in greeting, but kept her features stiff. His rude questions aside, Laird Kilkinney appeared friendly enough, yet she could not help but notice how rigidly and alert Ewan’s men stood, their backs straight, their hands fisted.