Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  He knew this place. ’Twas his bedchamber. His hand touched the ground beneath him. Soft. A mattress. He was lying in his bed. Alone. Nay, Grace was here. He had seen her, spoken to her. But now she was gone? Or had he dreamt it?

  His vision was blurry, his head pounding, his throat felt burnt and raw. Closing his eyes, Ewan searched his memory. Heat. Unbearable heat. He had been on fire, with angry flames engulfing him, surrounding him and scorching his flesh.

  Yet through the pain he remembered feeling the gentle touch of cool cloths bathing his body, the sound of soft words of comfort being whispered to him. It had eased his suffering, calmed his agitation. By concentrating on the familiar tone of that female voice, he had been able to escape from the agony that was gripping his entire body.

  Grace. His beloved wife. He called out to her now, shocked at how weak and reedy his voice sounded. Dread cramped his stomach, followed swiftly by pangs of hunger. When had he last eaten? He could not recall.

  He tried to collect his thoughts, to revive his memory. More stones had been needed to build the second wall around the keep. He and Alec had journeyed to find a new quarry and upon their return they had discovered the tinker in the woods. Ewan clenched his jaw at the memory of the bodies he had found. The tinker, his wife, their children, all victims of a fearful illness.

  Ewan tried turning to his side as a wave of nausea hit, but was barely able to move. God’s bones, he was weaker than a newborn.

  Ewan took a deep breath and tried again to clear his mind, swearing at the confusion that swirled around him. Footsteps sounded in the hallway, outside his chamber. Finally he would get some answers!

  Yet while the sounds persisted, no one opened the door. Ewan called out. There was no reply. Bloody hell, his voice was too weak to be heard. He tried again, yet failed to get anyone’s attention. Exhausted by the effort, he struggled to keep his eyes open, but a great weariness overcame him and sleep took control.

  Hours later, he woke. This time his head was clearer, though his tongue felt swollen, his stomach queasy, and he badly needed to relieve himself. Ewan cautiously turned his head. All was darkness, then he caught the movement of light in the corner.

  “Ewan?” He felt a cool, steady hand on his brow. “Here, drink this.” A goblet was placed to his lips. The liquid was sweet and soothing as it slid down his parched throat, though his tongue still felt rough and oversized.

  He opened his eyes fully, wincing at the light that now filled the chamber. The shadow of a woman stood beside his bed. He tried to see her face, but the light hurt his eyes.

  “Grace?”

  “Oh, Ewan, my love, I’m here.”

  My love? Am I once again dreaming?

  “What’s wrong with me? I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a column of horses.”

  “Ye have been ill with a dreadful fever. But it has passed and ye are recovering.”

  “How long have I been in bed?”

  “Nine days.”

  Ewan swore. “Has anyone else taken ill?”

  “No one. We have all been spared from this dreadful scourge.” Upon hearing that no others had suffered, a surge of relief spread through Ewan’s veins, bolstering his pitiful strength. “Did Alec tell ye about the tinker and his family?”

  “He did. We have all said prayers fer the souls of the departed. Nay, Ewan, do not try to rise.” Grace placed her hand upon his shoulder and pushed him back against the pillows. “Save yer strength so ye can stay awake and eat something.”

  He nearly smiled. She sounded so unlike herself—arrogant and in command. “Dearest wife, I must rise from this bed to answer nature’s call. I implore ye to either help me or get out of my way.”

  Lips pursed, Grace stepped to the side. Ewan rose shakily from the bed, every limb in his body protesting the movement. Grace immediately placed her arm around his waist. As much as he would have liked to straighten and stand on his own, he knew that was impossible.

  Slowly, Grace guided him to the chamber pot, and when he was finished she helped him back. Ewan leaned heavily on her, grateful for the support. After but a few steps, the muscles in his legs trembled so badly he feared they would crumble.

  Ewan’s chest heaved with exertion once he returned to the bed. Grace quickly plumped several pillows and helped ease him into a sitting position. He let his eyes drift closed.

  “Ye need a full week of rest and lots of good, rich food inside ye before ye can leave this bed,” Grace cautioned. “If not, ye’ll be falling down and knocking yer thick skull upon the ground.”

  “Aye.” He licked his dry lips and opened his eyes. She was right. His body was ravaged by the effects of the sickness and needed time to heal.

  He saw Grace nearly wilt in relief at his compliance. Caring for him so diligently, nursing him through such a brutal illness had taken its toll on her strength. He felt guilty for causing her such worry, yet grateful for her devotion, uncertain if he would have survived without her tender care.

  A moment later, his mother bustled into the chamber, carrying a tray of food. She passed it over to Grace, then drew near. Lady Moira stood beside his bed, hands on her hips, her stare never wavering.

  “I see that ye have decided to rejoin the living,” she said gruffly. “’Tis past time.”

  Then, to Ewan’s utter shock, he saw her eyes moisten with tears.

  “I dinnae mean to be such a bother,” he remarked softly.

  She wiped her eyes, then smiled. “Ye were far more than a mere bother, my son. Ye were a royal pain in the arse.”

  “Milady,” Grace exclaimed. “Can ye not at least wait until Ewan has eaten some of the hot food ye brought before starting to scold him?”

  “As his wife, ’tis ye who should be blistering his ears fer the fright he gave us all,” Lady Moira replied. “Day and night she nursed ye, Ewan, barely eating, hardly sleeping, refusing to leave yer side. I was expecting her to drop at any moment, but apparently she’s a lot stronger than she looks.”

  “Ye helped, too,” Grace said in a low voice.

  “Aye, I did my part. But ye did the yeoman’s work.”

  Ewan shook his head in confusion. His wife and mother working together in harmony? Had his fever returned? Was he hallucinating such a miraculous occurrence?

  “We both worked tirelessly,” Grace insisted.

  “And have each more than earned a rest. I’m fer bed,” Lady Moira proclaimed. She turned to leave, thought better of it, then bent down and gave him a swift kiss on the forehead. “I’ll see ye on the morrow.”

  Still in shock over the sight of his mother’s softened features and quivering voice, Ewan gazed at his wife. She looked exhausted. Her face was pale, further accenting the dark circles beneath her eyes. Apparently his mother had not exaggerated Grace’s devotion and determination to make him well. She had given much of herself to aid him. ’Twas both a humbling and heartwarming realization.

  “Would ye like to try and eat something?” Grace asked.

  “I am hungry.”

  She smiled broadly at his answer and lifted the tray his mother had brought. As Grace came closer, Ewan’s stomach rumbled at the enticing aromas. She fussed with the covers and his pillows, then settled the tray in front of him.

  “Do ye need my help?” she asked.

  Ewan gave her a hesitant look. The idea of being fed by his wife was completely emasculating. Yet would he appear more manly with food dribbling down his chin and falling onto his chest from an unsteady hand?

  “Let me try on my own first,” he said.

  She nodded. Ewan scooped a small portion of the rich broth onto his spoon and brought it slowly to his mouth. Absurdly proud not to have spilled any, he took a sip. It tasted like heaven on his tongue. Hunger building, he reached for another spoonful, this time snaring a small chunk of meat.

  “Eat slowly,” Grace cautioned. “Ye’ve had nothing in yer stomach fer days except some broth and watered-down ale.”

  Ewan obediently complied
. After half the soup was gone, Grace dropped some pieces of torn bread into the bowl. Ewan eagerly ate those broth-soaked chunks, scraping his bowl when he was finished.

  “May I have some water?” he asked as Grace took the tray away.

  “Are ye thirsty?”

  “Nay, not to drink. To wash.”

  Grace looked horrified. “Ye cannae possibly have a bath so soon.”

  “Not a bath, just a wash. The stench of illness engulfs me.”

  Her features were suddenly stricken. “I washed and shaved ye as often as I could,” she whispered.

  “Ah, lass, ye did a fine job and I thank ye fer it.” He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. The last thing he wanted was to appear ungrateful and demanding. But once expressed, Ewan’s need to clean himself grew.

  Grace sniffled and gave him a watery smile. “I suppose it’s a good sign that ye are feeling the need to be clean. ’Tis late and the castle sleeps, but a small fire still burns in the great hall. I will heat some water there and return shortly.”

  Ewan must have dozed while he waited. When he next opened his eyes, Grace was once again at his side. She laid a strip of cloth in the washbasin, then lifted a pitcher and poured a steady stream of hot water over it.

  This time Ewan did not refuse his wife’s assistance. He lay contentedly against the pillows as she dampened his skin and swabbed it with a soapy cloth. Wetting a fresh cloth with clean water, she wiped the soap off, then dried him with a warm towel.

  When she finished, Grace leaned down to kiss his cheek. Though still feeling weak, Ewan seized the opportunity and pulled her close. Grace gasped and lost her balance, tumbling onto the bed. When she lifted her chin, her face was mere inches from his own.

  Precisely where he wanted it.

  This might not be the memorable, romantic moment he had envisioned, but the ordeal he had just survived made Ewan realize how precious and fragile life could be, even in times of peace. He could wait no longer to tell her what was in his heart.

  “I love ye, Grace,” he whispered.

  “Ewan?”

  “Aye, ye heard right. I love ye. I have fer a long time. Ye are special, lass. Courageous and loyal, smart and kind. Ye claimed my heart so thoroughly that I cannae imagine being without ye, fer ye are the person that gives my life meaning.

  “Ye can lighten my mood with a simple smile, fire my blood with a single glance. I should have told ye sooner, but I was waiting fer the right moment. I wanted it to be special, unique, something that ye would always remember. Something that ye would hopefully treasure.”

  Her eyes rounded in astonishment. She lifted her fingers and traced his lips, almost as though she hadn’t believed the words that had just spilled from them. For a very long minute she remained silent, holding his eyes in a look.

  No matter. One day she would share in these wondrous feelings. One day she would say the words back to him.

  “Ye love me, Ewan?”

  “I do, Grace, with all my being.” Ewan leaned against his pillows and cupped her cheek. “Yer jaw has fallen open and I dinnae know what that means. Does this news displease ye?”

  “Nay, Ewan.” Grace reached out to touch his face, then hesitated. “I am humbled by yer tenderness, by the gift of yer love. I, too, have feelings fer ye. They sneak up on me and when they strike, the need to be near ye goes so deep that I feel it in my bones. The intensity overwhelms me, almost frightens me it’s so strong.

  “There’s something inside ye that calls to me, that touches me in a way I dinnae completely understand. All I know is that it is a feeling unlike any I’ve ever known. Ye have unlocked the secrets of my heart, Ewan Gilroy. I trust ye, I need ye, I care more about ye than I do myself. Is that love?”

  “Aye, I believe so.”

  Ewan felt his chest constrict so tightly with emotions it crowded his ribs. His heart hungered for her. His soul rejoiced in her. More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms and make love to her, affirming this emotional bond in the most primal, physical manner.

  But alas, his weakened and depleted body would not allow it.

  “Och, my love, now I know that ye are truly recovering when I see that spark of desire returning to yer eyes,” Grace said with a laugh.

  “Even though ye know it will come to naught?” Ewan grumbled, and Grace giggled again.

  She brushed a lock of hair off his forehead and stared deeply into his eyes. “I can wait. There are days, weeks, months, years ahead to be spent in each other’s arms. I believe that with all my heart.”

  Her words mollified him, for the future she envisioned brought Ewan joy. He, too, could imagine it. Time spent together, both in and out of bed. Love, laughter, joy.

  Ewan pulled Grace down so she lay beside him. Having her near, her softness pressed against him, settled him. Belly full, mind clear, heart contented, Ewan relished the gift of calm that descended inside him.

  Grace awoke with a jolt, startled by the clanging of a bell. Is it time fer Mass already? Jerking upright, she quickly realized that she was not at the convent, but rather in her own home, in her own bed, lying beside her husband.

  She looked down and saw she was wearing her chemise. Though she had no recollection of it, she must have removed her gown sometime during the night before crawling into bed with Ewan.

  The bell continued to ring. Ewan stirred sluggishly. Concerned, Grace touched his forehead. The flesh felt cool and dry. The fever had not returned, praise God.

  Without even the pretense of a knock, the bedchamber door burst open and Alec came barreling through it. He held a sword in one hand, but his scabbard was missing. His hair was disheveled and his tunic askew, indicating that he had hastily dressed.

  “Riders approach,” he declared.

  Ewan moved so quickly Grace felt the mattress shifting when he sat upright. “How many?”

  Alec grimaced. “Too many to count.”

  “Is everyone from the village inside the walls?” Ewan asked.

  Alec lowered his chin and shook his head. “There wasnae time.”

  “Shit!” Ewan swung his legs over the side of the bed, but the moment he stood on his feet, he began to sway.

  “Ewan, ye cannae go outside,” Grace cried, reaching out to steady her husband.

  “She’s right,” Alec interjected. “I’ll go to the battlements and report back to ye.”

  “I’m coming with ye,” Grace insisted.

  She scrambled from the bed before either man could protest, pulled a fur from the pile of covers and wrapped herself in it. Barefooted, Grace climbed the stairs. The stones felt cold on her toes, the chill seeping into her bones, but she did not even pause to catch her breath until she reached the ramparts.

  She walked until she found a section where she could see out without getting too close to the edge. Apprehensively looking over the wall, Grace hugged herself tightly when she beheld the sight that greeted her.

  Soldiers were swarming all over the valley like a hive of angry bees, surrounding the keep on three sides. Some were still atop their horses, shields displayed and swords drawn. Others were busy erecting tents, building cooking fires and setting up camp. It would have been an impressive sight, were it not so terrifying.

  “It looks like they’re preparing fer a siege,” Grace croaked.

  “Aye, and doing a fine job of it,” Alec answered grimly.

  She searched among the men on horseback, straining to see their leader, though in her heart she already knew his identity.

  “Can ye see the banners they fly?” Alec asked, pointing toward the pennants that snapped and fluttered in the wind.

  “Aye, ’tis Roderick’s colors flanking that large tent. It must be meant fer him.” Grace’s chest ached. This time Roderick was not leaving until he got what he came for—her.

  “Why does he pursue ye, milady?”

  Had the situation not been so dire, Grace might have smiled with appreciation at Alec’s perceptive question. “Roderick believes th
at I can help him disgrace his brother and thus aid his quest to become chief of his clan.” Grace shivered. “But I cannae.”

  Swallowing her fear, Grace turned away. As she walked from the ramparts, she could hear the panic starting to catch in the bailey below. The clanging of metal, shouting of orders, the steady tread of running feet. There were cries of hysteria from a few of the women and sobs of fright from the children.

  Her hands had barely stopped shaking when she arrived back at her bedchamber. Ewan had somehow managed to partially dress himself, but his face was pale and his brow moist from the effort. He listened silently as Alec made his report.

  “What of our defenses?” Ewan asked.

  Alec rubbed his chin. “Our food and water supplies are adequate. We can last at least two months, mayhap longer, depending on how many of the villagers made it inside the walls.”

  Ewan’s brow creased with worry. “The south wall?”

  “Should hold if it’s not bombarded. I dinnae see any catapults or ladders in the encampment, but they can easily be built. There are plenty of good trees in our forest that can be cut down and Roderick has more than enough men to put to the task.”

  Grace shivered. She had never been involved in a siege, but had heard enough tales of them to be scared. Along with fear, they brought suffering and despair to those forced to endure them.

  As supplies ran out and starvation ensued, many would be forced to eat anything they could get their hands on—rats, dogs, cats, even horses. Disease would spread, hastened by dead animal and human body parts that were hurled by the attackers over the walls.

  ’Twas not only the physical suffering, but the mental anguish, the sense of hopelessness that gripped a person as the siege continued and those around them died. Given the size of Roderick’s army, their only chance of survival lay in holding out until help arrived from an ally. But they were so far away!

  Grace glanced at Ewan and Alec. Their heads were pressed close as they spoke, yet there was no mistaking the worry they each carried.