Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  With Grace at his side there was nothing that could not be accomplished. The love he felt for her calmed him, centered him, made him a better man. He embraced it. Yet he kept it to himself. At least for now.

  It was not something he wished to dwell upon, yet his mind had difficulty turning away from it. He was waiting for the right time, the best circumstance to reveal his feelings to his wife. A part of him wanted to tell her the moment he saw her again, but he held back. Grace deserved more. She deserved something memorable, romantic.

  Women, gentle creatures that they were, prized such gestures and men had been making fools of themselves for centuries attempting to appease them. Ewan never believed he would be one of those men, but amazingly he took pride in that knowledge. It made him happy to acknowledge it. Made him happy too, imagining that when he told her, he would hear the same words back from her sweet lips.

  I love ye, Ewan.

  Feeling a rising swell of excitement, Ewan growled low in his throat. Alec, riding beside him, tossed him a startled glance, then raised a questioning brow. Ewan ignored it and leaned forward in the saddle, urging his mount to a faster pace.

  Home. They were nearly home.

  Ewan reined in his horse and cocked his head, slowing to a walk as they entered the forest. Wind rustled through the leaves and branches of the trees. The rush of water flowed over the rocks in a stream. He startled when a flock of birds suddenly flew from the tree above him, and then he finally heard what had caused him to stop in the first place—the sounds and smells of an encampment.

  Ewan kneed his mount to a trot and Alec followed behind. A cold numbness trickled down his spine as they cautiously approached a small clearing. Keeping themselves safely hidden in the thick forest, the pair silently observed the activity in the glen.

  “I only see a tinker’s cart and one man,” Alec whispered. “And all he’s doing is sitting upon that fallen log, staring off in the distance.”

  “Aye, but it could still be some sort of trap,” Ewan cautioned. “Ye stay here while I go and speak with him.”

  Ewan urged his horse forward. At the sound, the man raised his head. Ewan could see his body stiffen, but he did not reach for a weapon.

  Ewan understood the fear. The tinker was trespassing. Courtesy demanded that he ask permission, and offer the laird a small payment, before making camp in the woods, just as he would require approval to barter and sell his wares.

  “Good day to you, sir,” the man said, his voice thin and reedy. He was tall and gaunt and most likely hungry, judging by his pale coloring.

  “Ye are squatting on my land,” Ewan challenged.

  The man’s eyes widened. “A thousand pardons, Sir Knight. I meant no offense.”

  Ewan’s gaze shifted around the small campsite. “Ye would be welcomed in our village to sell yer wares.”

  The tinker’s head bowed. “Alas, nearly all my goods have been sold. We travel south in search of more.”

  The words were humble, but something felt wrong. Ewan’s hand slowly reached for his sword handle. “Ye’re trembling, man. Why?”

  “Nerves,” he whispered.

  “An innocent man fears nothing.”

  “My family sleeps yonder.” The tinker waved toward the enclosed cart. “My wife gave birth last night to a fine son. They are both sleeping. I want no trouble, milord. Please, allow me to pay ye fer the privilege of staying on yer land.”

  The tinker fumbled in his tunic, eventually extracting what he sought. Arm shaking, he held out his open hand. Interest peaked, Ewan leaned down to get a closer look. Resting in the palm of the tinker’s hand was a gold ring.

  Ewan’s chest constricted. The ring was beautiful, boasting a design unlike any he had ever seen. Delicate and refined, it resembled golden threads intricately woven together. The workmanship was flawless; clearly this had been created by a master jeweler.

  It was exactly what he had been hoping to find for Grace. No woman alive could doubt the depth of a man’s feelings when she beheld such fine craftsmanship. Seeing it upon her finger every day would be a constant reminder to Grace of how much he loved and cherished her.

  Mesmerized, Ewan plucked the ring from the tinker’s hand and held it up to the sunlight. It was heavier than it appeared, further substantiating its value. “’Tis magnificent,” he muttered.

  The stiffness in the tinker’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I am glad that it pleases ye. I hope that—”

  The tinker suddenly began to sway. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground in a heap. Moving swiftly, Ewan vaulted from his horse, pulled his sword, and knelt beside the fallen man, bracing for an attack.

  Alec appeared, charging from under the cover of the trees. Sword drawn, he let out a shrill battle cry, but there were none to answer. “What happened?” he asked.

  Ewan lowered his sword. “I dinnae know. One moment the tinker was speaking to me and the next he collapsed.”

  “The way he fell, I thought an arrow had struck him,” Alec confessed.

  “As did I.” Ewan drew closer to the prostrated man. His breathing was shallow and labored, his face beaded with sweat. There were red, angry-looking fever pustules on his neck and in his scalp. “He’s not been shot,” Ewan exclaimed. “He’s weak with sickness.”

  The tinker’s eyes slowly opened. “Forgive me. I should have warned ye to stay away.” His eyes began to close. He gasped, twitched, and took one final shuddering breath.

  “God Almighty, he’s dead!” Alec shouted.

  “Aye, stay back,” Ewan warned. “Ride to the tree line and wait there until I call fer ye.”

  Ewan sprang to his feet and ran to the tinker’s enclosed cart. Heart beating with escalating fear, he ripped aside the cloth that hung over the doorway and stepped inside. A rising tide of stench assaulted him, the odor so strong and offensive he started gagging. Bloody hell!

  Holding his forearm over his face, Ewan peered into the dimly lit space. The newborn babe the tinker had spoken of was nowhere to be seen. Instead there were four bodies pressed together on a single pallet, one female and three children, their limbs and faces grotesquely bloated from sickness and death.

  Ewan backed away from the cart, nearly tripping in his haste to retreat. An illness such as this could kill an entire village quicker and more effectively than an invading army. He must contain the disease before it spread any further.

  “Build a fire,” Ewan ordered Alec grimly. “We must burn everything.”

  Grace carefully climbed the stone steps to her bedchamber. She had seen Ewan enter the keep and head for the stairs earlier. She assumed he was preparing to have a tankard of ale and then wash away the dirt and grime of the day, as was his usual custom, before coming down to partake of the evening meal.

  A week had passed since Ewan and Alec returned from their successful quest to locate another stone quarry and in that time she had noticed a subtle change in her husband. Ewan seemed distracted. Worried. She knew his thoughts were occupied by many important matters, but she sensed there was something else bothering him. Something he refused to talk about.

  She had asked him several times if anything was troubling him, but he had deflected her questions with a forced cheeriness and assurances that all was perfectly fine. Which raised her suspicions higher.

  Well, no longer. Today she was determined to discover the reason for his uncharacteristic behavior.

  The bedchamber door was slightly ajar when she arrived. Ewan stood alone in the room, looking out a window. Grace stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind her.

  “I would like to talk with ye, Ewan,” Grace said formally. ’Twas not the tone she would have preferred to use, but she decided it would be the most effective.

  However, Ewan remained silent and continued staring out the window.

  “’Tis important,” she added in a somewhat pleading tone.

  At last he turned, yet still he said nothing. Growing impatient, Grace stepped forward.
The moment she touched his shoulder, Ewan staggered, then suddenly slumped to the floor. Astonished, Grace glanced at the pitcher of ale, but it was nearly full. He wasn’t drunk—was he?

  Curious, she dropped to her knees beside him. “Ewan?” She shook his shoulder, belatedly realizing it felt unusually warm, even through the layers of his clothing.

  Alarmed, Grace placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning! She wrenched her hand away, the fear inside her mounting. Ewan’s teeth started chattering and his body began to tremble as though shivers were racing through it, yet he could hardly be cold.

  Nay, he was sick—terribly sick.

  She jumped to her feet and raced from the chamber, searching for help. She ran down the stairs so quickly she nearly lost her footing, reaching the hall out of breath and no doubt looking frantic.

  Grace paused. Several of the retainers were gathered near the fire, polishing their swords. Two maids were sweeping the floors, another was laying fresh rushes. Lady Moira was speaking with Cook, most likely reviewing the evening’s menu.

  As much as she wanted to scream with worry and fear, Grace knew it was important not to create a panic. Even the hint of a grave illness would cause concern.

  “Lady Moira, Alec, may I speak with ye a moment, please?”

  Alec obediently set his sword aside and came to her. Lady Moira frowned in annoyance at the interruption, but she must have seen or sensed Grace’s agitation, for she too obeyed the command.

  Wordlessly, Grace turned and hurried back up the staircase. A clearly curious Alec and put-out Lady Moira followed. Grace paused when they reached the door of her bedchamber, knowing she needed to prepare them.

  “Ewan has taken ill. I need help getting him into bed.” Grace swung the door open.

  “Dear Lord!” Lady Moira made a quick sign of the cross when she saw Ewan prone upon the floor, then rushed to her son’s side.

  It took all three of them to move Ewan’s body to the bed. Once there, Grace and Lady Moira quickly stripped him of his clothes.

  “Do ye have any idea what ails him?” Grace asked, smoothing her hand over his damp, hot flesh.

  Lady Moira shook her head. “Ewan never gets sick. He has always had a strong constitution, even as a young lad.”

  “I fear I might know what is wrong.” Alec’s handsome face was taut and drawn. “As we returned from our journey to the new quarry last week, we chanced upon a tinker and his family in the forest. We discovered too late that the man was ill. His family had all succumbed to the sickness and he soon followed. Ewan had close contact with him, while commanding that I keep my distance. I suppose that is the reason why I, too, have not been struck down.”

  “Why did Ewan not tell me?” Grace cried.

  Alec shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I’m sure he dinnae want to worry ye.”

  “I’ve seen this type of illness before, when I was a child,” Lady Moira interjected, her voice quavering. “It strikes swiftly and mercilessly. Most who contract it die within a few days.”

  Despite her resolve, tears rose to Grace’s eyes. Ewan will not die! He will not! “Burn his clothes, Alec, but dinnae let anyone see ye doing it.”

  Alec’s brow deepened with worry, but then he nodded and followed her orders.

  “We must have water, the coldest ye can find,” Lady Moira said.

  Asking no questions, Grace followed her mother-in-law’s dictates, fetching the water from the well herself. They bathed Ewan together, each woman lost in her own concern.

  “We need a healer,” Grace said when they were finished. “Shall I summon the woman who tended my arm?”

  “Nay, she cares for those with broken limbs and wounds that need stitching. She will be of little help with fevers,” Lady Moira replied. “Besides, she is a frightful gossip. We need someone we can trust, someone who willnae tell the others of Ewan’s condition.”

  “Who?”

  A thoughtful frown knitted Lady Moira’s brow. “Deirdre’s grandmother, Agnes, has some skill and can hold her tongue. She nursed many villagers through the winter fevers. I will send fer her.”

  When the healer arrived, Grace hovered over Agnes, intently watching everything she did. “’Tis a powerful sickness that has struck down Sir Ewan,” Agnes said as she studied her patient.

  “Will he survive?” Lady Moira asked.

  The healer shook her head. “’Tis too soon to know.”

  “What do we do? How do we help him?” Grace asked, her heart sinking.

  “Watch him carefully. Keep his body cool, bathing not only his forehead, but his arms, chest, and legs. ’Tis the best way I know of to fight the fever.” Agnes hesitated, clearing her throat. “If boils form, send fer me immediately, and I will lance them.”

  “I’ll not leave him. I shall tend him day and night,” Grace said, brushing her hand lovingly across his brow.

  “I will help,” Lady Moira announced. “One needs faith and strength to battle this illness and I thank God that Ewan possesses both.”

  The deep resolve in the older woman’s voice gave Grace a beacon of hope. They did not agree on much, but there was no questioning the depth of love Lady Moira held for her son. She would fight as hard as Grace to save Ewan’s life.

  Over the next three days and nights Ewan’s condition deteriorated rapidly. He drifted in and out of consciousness, writhing with convulsions as his fever burned stronger. One night, helpless to keep him still and quiet, Grace crawled on top of him, trying to stop the deep tremors.

  Ewan refused to allow it. He gripped her shoulders with a force that astonished her and tried to throw her off. Grace cried out, but refused to relent as Ewan ranted incoherently. Gradually, his hold eased and then his arms fell to his side. Though labored, his breaths came in a constant rhythm.

  Exhausted herself, Grace collapsed atop him. Her lips moved in silent prayer as the tears flowed. The life seemed to be draining out of him and there was little she could do to stop it. Finding comfort by imitating the cadence of his breathing, Grace soon drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke with a start when she heard a strangled sob behind her and turned. Lady Moira stood in the doorway, her face pale with emotion. “He’s getting worse.”

  “Nay.” Grace shook her head vehemently. “His will is strong. He fights hard to live and thus he shall.”

  Lady Moira wiped the tears from her eyes. “Ye have been with him all day and most of the night. Go lie down fer a few hours. I’ll stay and watch over him.”

  Reluctantly, Grace obeyed, though her rest was short and fitful. Another day passed. Ewan’s condition remained the same. He pushed away the broth and water they tried to get down his throat; he thrashed and struck out when they bathed his fevered body.

  Every now and again delirium would take control of his mind. His fever-brightened eyes would open, then quickly cloud with confusion before they closed.

  He babbled and ranted too, shouting commands as though he were in the midst of a great battle, muttering sweet words of flattery to a nameless female, confessing the pain and humiliations he felt as others taunted him for his illegitimate birth.

  Hearing him voice his fears and pain was a window into his soul and Grace found herself near tears at those times. He had suffered greatly, yet refused to be cowed. Her heart ached for his pain, but her admiration for his courage grew by leaps and bounds.

  Hour after hour, Grace would sit at his bedside, watching his chest inhale and exhale. She would talk to him, the sound of her own voice helping to ease the loneliness and keep the stranglehold of fear at bay.

  If Ewan dies . . . nay, I willnae allow myself to consider such a thing!

  The healer visited often, always trying a new mixture of herbs and medicine that seemed to help initially, but the soothing effects wore off quickly and Ewan was once again thrust into the storm of illness. Lady Moira nursed him as diligently as Grace and the two women bonded over their mutual love for their patient.

  Grace changed the bed linens
every day and when he was quiet, she shaved the beard on his face and washed his hair. Lady Moira at first objected to this grooming, calling it foolish and nonsensical, but Grace insisted. Having him clean-shaven and neat made Ewan look more like himself—handsome, boyish, and appealing. Seeing him thus gave her comfort—and hope.

  Speculation as to why Sir Ewan remained abed took root inside the castle and fear spread throughout the village. Realizing it was impossible to keep Ewan’s illness a secret, Grace admitted to Deirdre that he had caught a chill, yet she was deliberately vague about the severity of his symptoms.

  There were two things, however, that gave Grace hope for his recovery. The dreaded boils she checked for every few hours never appeared on Ewan’s body. And no others showed any signs of contracting the disease.

  Then, finally, after nine days and as many sleepless nights, Ewan’s fever began to recede. Grace sat on the bed gently stroking his brow, then squealed when he caught her arm and pulled her down beside him. His unfocused gaze rested on her a moment and then he frowned.

  “Grace, my love, why are there such dark circles under yer eyes?”

  His voice was hoarse and weak, no doubt from all the shouting he had done when the fever had raged so potently. But his voice truly was the most wondrous sound Grace had ever heard. He was alive!

  The relief was so overwhelming she burst into sobs. Ewan stirred and she felt his touch on her cheek as he wiped away the tears. Through the blurry moisture, she saw him struggling to sit upright. Her emotions forgotten, Grace rushed to help him, propping several pillows behind him.

  His face was ashen against the dark furs, his cheeks sunken. He had lost weight and much of his strength, but none of that mattered.

  He had survived. In time, he would fully recover. Her lips moved swiftly in a silent prayer of thanks. Then she opened the chamber door and shouted the news to one and all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ewan was drifting, floating. He struggled to pull himself down to solid ground, away from this dreamlike state. His eyelids fluttered, but he lacked the strength to lift them fully. Pulling them open as far as he was able, he squinted through half-closed eyes as he surveyed his surroundings.