Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  Ewan was unable to read. Or write, most likely. Only sons of the nobles were tutored—bastards, especially those who were ignored by their fathers, as Ewan was—were not afforded that privilege.

  Ewan cleared his throat. “’Tis unusual fer a woman to read and write.”

  Grace’s heart lurched. It was so painful to see her proud husband humbled by the limitations of his birth. “I was raised to be a nun, with the hope of one day assuming the duties of the abbess. Thus I was taught to read, write, and do my sums.”

  He met her gaze squarely. “Those are useful skills fer a wife as well.”

  “Aye.” She grasped his hand and squeezed. “If ye’d like, I can teach ye.”

  Ewan stiffened and Grace feared she had gone too far. But then he squeezed her hand in return and a sense of relief washed through her. “I would be honored. Och, be careful of the mud.”

  The warning came a moment too late as Grace’s foot sank into the soft dirt. “Blessed Mother, these are my best slippers!”

  Ewan lifted her and threw her over his shoulder. Grace let out a surprised grunt as her head landed against the center of his back. Ewan laughed and moved his hand to her hip, his touch familiar and possessive.

  “Ewan, put me down,” Grace commanded, though it was hard to sound forceful with her head hanging toward the ground. “My slippers are already ruined. A few more steps in this quagmire will make no difference.”

  “In a moment, dearest,” he replied, giving her bottom a playful swat.

  They went a fair distance before stopping. Laughing, Ewan set her on a moss-covered bit of ground at the bottom of a small hill. Then his hands cupped her bottom and lifted until her face was near enough for a kiss.

  His mouth played over hers. Grace melted into his hardness, his strength, skimming the crease of his lips with her tongue, boldly pressing for entrance.

  Ewan eagerly complied, pulling her closer, deepening their kiss. In the blink of an eye Grace found herself lying on the ground, her shoulders pressing against the moss while her husband loomed above her. She snuggled against him, savoring the feeling of his strength surrounding her, protecting her.

  “I fear we are not alone,” she whispered, tilting her head toward the thick bushes where she heard something rustling.

  “No one will dare to disturb us.”

  Ewan bent his head for another kiss, but Grace pulled back and raised a brow. “What about yer mother? She seems to take joy in coming between us.”

  “Nay, I willnae allow my mother to make trouble in our marriage.” He reached beneath her gown and smoothed his fingertips over the top of her thighs.

  Driven by the need to say more, Grace banked the embers of passion smoldering inside her and pushed aside the sensual fog Ewan was creating. “By all the saints I swear yer mother looks at me as though wondering if her hands are large enough to squeeze around my throat.”

  Ewan’s lips lifted off her shoulder. “Ye exaggerate.”

  “Do I? Yer mother meets me with a constant frown and a watchful stare.” Grace hated how peevish she sounded, but she had to tell someone aside from Edna how she felt and Ewan appeared willing to listen.

  True, some progress had been made when dealing with Lady Moira, but not nearly enough. Most importantly, Grace had realized that she had no need to be loved by the woman that was her husband’s mother, but she did chafe under her palpable dislike.

  “I dinnae know what else to do, Ewan. I work until I can scarcely stand up at the end of the day and all she can say to me is that wealthy ladies like to whine and complain and order everyone to do their bidding.”

  A lock of Ewan’s hair fell over his eye. Grace swept it aside, cupped his jaw, and continued. “Yer mother does not approve of how I make soap. Nor does she like my recipe fer rabbit stew or my design fer the new looms that have just been built, or the way I’ve instructed the women to weave the cloth. Honestly, there are times I feel she disapproves of the way I breathe.”

  “I’ll speak to her,” Ewan promised.

  “Nay.”

  He had made this offer before, but once again Grace was reluctant to take it, knowing this problem was hers to solve.

  A soft groan sounded deep in his throat. “Why do ye tell me of these difficulties if ye dinnae want me to fix them?”

  “It just felt good talking to ye about it. Does that make any sense?”

  “Nay, but I’ve long given up trying to understand the workings of a woman’s mind.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. “There is another way to guarantee my mother’s approval. Give her a grandchild and she’ll think the sun rises and sets upon ye.”

  Grace tilted her head and acted as though she were pondering the idea. “’Tis a most ingenious solution, good sir, yet I need someone to help with that particular chore.” She parted her lips and ran her tongue teasingly around them. Ewan’s nostrils flared and his grip on her hand tightened. “Might ye know of anyone interested in the task?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Old Donald says the bailey well is showing signs of drying out,” Alec reported.

  Frowning, Ewan shifted his feet on the scaffolding before lifting a large stone into place on the wall. “Tell Graeme to have a look.”

  “Graeme is off with the others at the quarry cutting more stones. They willnae return fer hours.”

  “Then the well must wait.”

  The sharp angles of Alec’s face contorted with concern. “Without fresh water, we willnae be able to hold off a siege,” he warned.

  “Aye, and without a strong defensive wall, we willnae have the chance fer a siege. We’d be cut down in a matter of hours,” Ewan snapped, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  The minute he had laid eyes upon Tiree, he knew he had a difficult task ahead of him, yet he had not understood the magnitude of rebuilding the keep until now. Allocating his limited resources was a constant challenge and a constant worry.

  Though everyone strived to do their best, the backbreaking work was painfully slow. What Ewan really needed was a large skilled workforce to complete this job. Ditch diggers, stonecutters, masons, carpenters, and a man with the building skill and knowledge to direct them. But he had neither the time to find such men, nor the coin to pay them.

  Still, when Ewan set out to accomplish something, he kept at it until he succeeded.

  “Is there a particular reason ye are in such a hurry to finish the wall?” Alec asked, as he handed Ewan a heavy stone.

  “Roderick Ferguson.” Ewan spit out the name as though it was a foul-tasting morsel on his tongue. “It willnae be easy fer him to find us, but I have no doubt he shall try. He’s hungry fer power and thinks he can use my wife to get it.”

  “We need to increase the guard,” Alec proclaimed.

  Ewan nodded. “That will help, but we must do more. There’s no others near enough that we can call upon to aid us, should Roderick decide to attack. That’s why I’m sending Harold and Tavish south on the morrow.”

  “I thought they were going fer more supplies?”

  “’Tis a ruse. Oh, they will bring back more goods fer the household, but their true mission is to gather information. I want to know where Roderick is now and what he is doing.”

  “No doubt scheming and plotting his next course,” Alec replied, voicing Ewan’s greatest fear.

  Grace. He had done it all for her. Damn, nearly everything he did these days was for her. Though she had asked him not to, Ewan had spoken with his mother about the way she treated his wife, commanding her to cease undermining Grace’s authority and causing her grief.

  Lady Moira had listened with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and a stoic expression etched upon her face. Ewan had prepared himself for a war of angry words, but his mother refused to battle.

  She remained silent until he was finished and then walked away without saying a word. It was not a good sign. His mother had never taken well to being told what to do. Belatedly, Ewan realized he h
ad in all likelihood made things worse and he regretted not doing as Grace had asked and stayed out of it.

  “I could take a look at the well,” Alec offered. “Mayhap the problem is easily seen.”

  Ewan brushed the stone powder from his hands and clapped Alec affectionately on the back. “Ye know as much about wells as ye do about building a curtain wall, my friend.”

  Alec laughed. “Aye, I’ve smashed my fingers too many times to count these past few weeks.”

  “As have I.” Ewan held his bruised hand aloft, displaying two swollen, purple knuckles.

  He was distracted from hearing Alec’s reply by the sight of Grace approaching. She looked especially comely today. As was his custom, he had left their bed before dawn, while she still slept, thus this was his first glimpse of his wife today.

  His gaze fastened on her, taking in every subtle nuance of her appearance, from the tightly woven braids pinned to her head to the sturdy leather boots on her feet.

  She walked with purpose, her skirts billowing out behind her. As if suddenly aware that she was being observed, Grace lifted her chin and met his gaze, giving him a sweet smile that warmed his heart.

  He waved and she moved faster. Grace halted at the base of the ladder leading to the scaffolding and glanced up. “Have ye a moment to spare?”

  “Fer ye? Always.” He flashed a wicked smile, enjoying the sight of her modest blush. “Climb up so we can talk.”

  Ewan saw her hesitate. Then she took a deep breath, gathered her skirts in one hand and slowly began to climb. When she reached the top of the ladder, he held out his hand to her. She eyed it for a moment, then took it, and he suddenly remembered she was leery of heights.

  He watched her silently as she looked out to the valley below and the forest beyond. The apprehension on her face soon turned to appreciation. Ewan felt a twinge of pride in both his home and his wife, for he knew that not every female would appreciate the rugged beauty of this unyielding land.

  “We are running low on meat,” Grace said, tearing her gaze away from the scenery. “Will ye or yer men be able to hunt today?”

  Ewan looked at the low-hanging clouds rolling toward them. The woodland creatures would run to ground in the wet weather, making hunting a more difficult task. But if food was needed, then he must provide it.

  “Instead of chopping down trees in the forest this afternoon, I shall tell the men to hunt fer small game.”

  “But do ye not need the wood to help build the wall?”

  “Aye, but that can wait if we’ve got hungry bellies to feed.”

  “Cook will be relieved to hear it.”

  “She’s been doing a fine job with so little supplies and so many mouths to feed.”

  Grace nodded. “Ye must tell her. Praise from ye will lighten the burden of her work.”

  Ewan knew the truth of those words and was ashamed for not having thought of it himself. Having other important matters on his mind was no excuse. He had learned long ago that even a small bit of praise yielded great results. And it cost nothing to give. “I shall make it my business to speak with Cook tonight, after the evening meal.”

  Grace smiled. “I need to get to the weaving hut to try and fix one of the spindles on the looms.”

  Ewan watched her carefully descend the ladder, his eyes trained upon her every move until she was once again on the ground. Turning back to the wall, he noticed the sly grin on Alec’s face.

  “What?”

  “I never thought I’d live to see the day ye would moon over a lass like a lovesick calf.”

  “Ye’re daft!”

  “Nay, I can see it in yer eyes. Ye cannae bear to be apart from her, even fer a few hours.”

  Ewan sputtered a protest, then caught himself. It was true. He preferred Grace’s company to anyone else’s and missed her when he was parted from her, even for short bursts of time. Seeing a smile on her lovely face or a brightness in her eyes never failed to warm his own heart.

  He often thought of her when he finished a task, hoping the result would please her. At the oddest moments of the day, he would find himself thinking how lucky he was, how blessed he was to have convinced her to be his wife. His fear of harm befalling her was a knot in his belly, a worry that plagued him. Uppermost in his mind was a solid determination to keep her safe.

  And their physical relationship, well that was extraordinary. And not merely because it had been such a long time since he had taken a woman to his bed. There was something open and honest and raw between them. ’Twas different from anything he had ever experienced. He wondered each day if it would lessen, if the intensity would fade. But instead of those emotions withering, they had grown stronger.

  Was that love?

  The thought intrigued him. But even more intriguing was the possibility that someday Grace would have these same feelings about him.

  As was the usual occurrence, the hall fell silent once the morning meal had been cleared and the stone floor swept clean. Taking advantage of a rare day of sunshine, Grace set herself in front of the meager fire, her sewing basket at her feet. The previous day she had sketched out a design for a tapestry she wanted to create for the main hall and today she wanted to fill in the details.

  The Battle of Bannockburn seemed a fitting subject, for it was King Robert’s greatest victory and the final battle that had secured his crown. Naturally, the king would be depicted in all his royal glory, but at his side Grace would place Ewan. This might be a slight exaggeration of events, for even she doubted that her husband had fought directly at the king’s side.

  Yet there was no denying that Ewan had participated in this most important battle. Ewan’s illegitimate birth might have robbed him of his heritage and left him without a true place in the world, but Grace was determined to create and preserve a legacy for her husband.

  The tapestry was but one part of her plan. For the other part—the more important part—Grace had to rely upon the king. And her brother. She had already taken steps to enlist Brian’s aid. The letter she had sent with Ewan’s men to her brother outlined her plan and the part she needed him to play in this delicate matter.

  Ewan deserved to be a chief, to lead a clan. But that clan would need a name—a strong, proud name. Thus Grace had requested that her brother intercede and ask the king to approve the formation of a new clan. Once permission was granted, Ewan would have the chance to name his clan and all would take that name as their own.

  Slowly, Grace unwound the parchment with the tapestry design. She stared at it thoughtfully for a full minute, then added more trees to the forest of Tor Wood, where King Robert had gathered his army, and more horses and Scottish foot soldiers. ’Twas yet another inaccuracy, an exaggeration of the truth as the English forces had outnumbered the Scots by nearly three to one. Yet it was the Scots who had carried the day.

  Pleased with this altered design, Grace rolled the parchment, secured it with a ribbon, and put it in her basket. The weaving and embroidering of the tapestry would have to wait. There were tears in many of Ewan’s garments, as well as her own. Grace reached into her basket of threads, searching for the best color match to begin her mending, when a kitten leapt in front of her.

  For a moment they stared at each other, each startled and unsure. The animal was jet black, with a tiny single spot of white upon its skinny chest. The bright sunlight glittered off its fur, the clear green eyes glowed. It meowed in greeting, then swished its tail.

  Charmed by the kitten’s friendly manner, Grace smiled. “Now where did ye come from, little one?”

  The shy kitten dipped its head, then suddenly straightened and took a wild leap onto the pile of clothes Grace was waiting to mend. Scrambling excitedly, the animal burrowed under the clothes, spinning frantically on its back. Paws in the air, tail twitching with glee, the kitten played with a loose bit of thread hanging from one of the garments, pulling it between its teeth.

  “Oh, fer heaven sakes,” Grace muttered with a laugh, pulling the shirt away.r />
  Surprised, the kitten released the thread. Excitedly it twisted, turned, and then righted itself. Crouching low, it stalked the shirt, but just as it was ready to pounce, the sound of approaching female voices could be heard. Frightened, the kitten sprang forward and skidded, becoming entangled in the hem of Grace’s gown.

  “Good morning, milady.” The women called out a pleasant greeting that Grace returned with a smile.

  Curious, the kitten poked its face out, then boldly took a few steps. Grace waited for the maids to spy her little friend, but when they did, their reaction was not at all what she expected.

  “A black cat!” Margaret cried in alarm, her hands fluttering in agitation.

  The maid backed away hastily, nearly falling over in the process. Two others paled noticeably while the remainder made the sign of the cross. All looked horrified.

  “’Tis only a harmless kitten,” Grace insisted, giving the women an imploring look. “I doubt that he—or she—will bite.”

  She reached down, untangled the animal’s claws from her gown, and lifted it onto her lap. The kitten squirmed for a moment, sniffed Grace’s hand, then rubbed its head against her fingertips.

  “Everyone knows a black cat is the spawn of the devil,” Mauve said fearfully. “It should have been drowned at birth to keep away the evil spirits.”

  “Nonsense!” Grace placed a protective hand over the nestling kitten. Almost as if knowing it was the topic of conversation, the kitten stood on its legs and arched its back. “This is one of God’s innocent creatures, free of sin and evil. We need not fear it.”

  Unconvinced, the women shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Grace’s emotions flared at this unjust reaction, but soon relented at the sight of their true fear. Casually, she lowered the kitten to the floor. Almost as if sensing the hostile environment, it scurried away.

  The tension immediately vanished and smiles once again returned to the women’s faces.

  “We are off to pick brambles,” Deirdre said. “Mauve knows a secret spot where they grow in abundance.”