Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  His mother actually shrank beneath the tone he used, but his rage was too focused for him to care.

  “Better my death than yers, Ewan,” Grace interjected, her voice quivering with emotion.

  “Not while my heart still beats.” Ewan ground his teeth and let loose several choice curses. “Now get down off that horse.”

  Head bowed, Grace obeyed. The moment her feet touched the ground, Ewan hooked her upper arm and dragged her toward him.

  “I wasnae going to Roderick’s camp,” she said quietly. “I was escaping to the south, hoping to make my way to Brian’s castle.”

  “Escaping? A woman alone? Ye would have been attacked within the hour.”

  Grace huffed out a long breath. “Garrett was to be my guide and escort. I wasnae traveling alone.”

  “A lad of fourteen and a woman.” Ewan placed his hand on his hip, bowed his head and shook it. “How were ye going to avoid Roderick’s soldiers?”

  “We planned to circle around the encampment.”

  Ewan barely suppressed a snort of annoyance. “Making yerselves a prime target fer any hungry animal prowling fer a meal.”

  But Grace did not back down. “I’ve no time to placate yer manly pride, Ewan. We both know that my brother is the only man powerful enough to save me. And if I am gone from here, then all of ye will be safe.”

  It rankled that her words were true. The McKenna could offer her greater protection. Ewan would have sent Grace there himself, if he believed she could arrive without coming to great harm. But the very idea was fraught with danger.

  “Ye put us all at great risk with this stunt, Grace,” Ewan said. “Roderick would not have simply packed up his soldiers and left if I told him ye were gone from the keep. Nay, he would have pounded our walls and attacked, showing no mercy, giving no quarter. Once he had destroyed us, he would have left in pursuit of ye.”

  Her face registered surprise and then dismay. “Forgive me, Ewan. I dinnae realize—”

  “Yer heart is in the right place, lass.” Ewan looked beyond Grace’s bowed head and glowered at his mother. “I know this was not yer idea.”

  His mother glowered right back at him. “I did this to save ye, to keep ye from being hacked to pieces by that brute Roderick.”

  Ewan threw up his arms in frustration, swinging wide the torch he held. The light danced in a wild frenzy. “Christ Almighty, does no one in the castle believe I can fight?”

  “Dinnae shout at yer mother fer loving ye, Ewan,” Grace lectured. “She cared fer ye while ye were ill. She knows how much of yer strength the sickness stole.”

  Ewan’s chest burned with indignation. Aye, he had been gravely ill and was not yet at full strength, but did they have to remind him of it every waking minute? ’Twas enough to rattle a man’s confidence and make him second-guess his abilities.

  “Well then, since I’m such a weakling I’d best be off to my bed. Ye are coming with me, Grace, so I can keep an eye on ye.” Ewan glared at his mother, then dragged a hand over his face. “Lord knows, if I dinnae get some rest, then ye both will have no cause to worry about my strength, since I’ll be asleep on my feet when I face Roderick in the morning.”

  Ewan stood in the doorway of the great hall, Alec by his side, waiting for the signal to enter the bailey. It took all his willpower not to pace with restless agitation, but instead to stand still and composed. The ale he had drunk and the meat he had eaten earlier to give him strength churned in his stomach, and he swallowed hard to keep down the bile that rose in his throat.

  “Advance!” Father Harold shouted to be heard among the gathering crowd. Most were Ewan’s people, but some of Roderick’s soldiers had also been allowed in to witness the trial.

  Taking a deep breath, Ewan strode out into the sunlight and through the outer fringes of the mob gathered in a circle. He raised his eyes to where Grace was positioned on the small tower rampart, flanked by the monk on one side and one of Roderick’s guards on the other. She looked tiny and vulnerable, her eyes moist with emotion.

  Ewan’s heart leapt and he felt a sharp pain seize him. “If I fall,” he muttered to Alec.

  “Ye’ll not be defeated,” his friend insisted.

  “Aye, but if the unthinkable happens . . .”

  “I willnae be able to save her,” Alec said regretfully, speaking the truth they both knew.

  “I know.” Unable to utter the words, Ewan stared hard at his friend, willing him to understand what must happen if Roderick prevailed.

  Alec slowly nodded. “I give ye my word, I shall not stand by and watch her be burned alive. By my hand, she will have a swift and merciful death.”

  “Thank ye.” Ewan clenched his own hand into a tight fist. He had always been an independent man and hated asking anything of others. But he had responsibilities that followed him beyond the grave and he needed to know they would be fulfilled. “My mother?”

  “She’ll be too proud to accept my help, but I vow to keep Lady Moira safe,” Alec replied. He grasped Ewan’s forearm and held on tightly. “But enough of this maudlin talk! There’s no need fer it. Ye shall win, Ewan. I’ve fought beside ye fer too many years not to know of yer skill with a sword and yer cunning in a fight.”

  “I’m not at full strength,” Ewan admitted.

  “Perhaps, but ye’ve battled, and won, when ye have gone days without food or sleep. This is not much different.”

  Ewan grunted. He appreciated Alec’s confidence, but this was different. Aside from his weakened physical state, his emotions were in turmoil, knowing what would befall those he loved most if he failed.

  Alec cast him a sidelong, meaningful glare. “Ye’ve one other thing to consider. There is truth on yer side and justice in yer cause. Roderick’s accusations are false. Lady Grace is not a witch.”

  Aye, there was that fact. Though Ewan knew the innocent often suffered while the guilty went free. Trust in God, and fate, was all well and good, but that was tempered in the reality of the unfairness of life.

  When he reached the edge of the inner circle, Ewan drew his sword. A gust of wind howled through the bailey, sending a shiver snaking down his spine. It all seemed so unreal, yet here he stood ready to defend his wife—or die trying.

  Roderick entered from the opposite side. The crowds thronged in, each person hoping for a better view. Ewan was pleased to note they did not exhibit the usual bloodthirsty excitement that was often found at these events. A testament to their affection and regard for him and Grace, he hoped.

  Or a grave fear over their own fate should he lose.

  Father Harold stepped forward. With pompous importance, he unfurled a thick roll of parchment, cleared his throat, and began reading.

  “Whereas, the Lady Grace has been charged with the grievous crime of performing acts of witchcraft, specifically regarding the death of her first husband, Sir Alastair Ferguson, and she has refused an examination of her person to verify or deny those claims, by the consent of her accuser, Sir Roderick Ferguson, and in accordance with ecclesiastical law, her guilt, or innocence, shall be decided in a trial of combat.

  “Due to the serious nature of the crime, no quarter will be given. This shall be a battle to the death. Noble champions, do ye both agree to abide by these terms and conditions?”

  “Aye! I battle fer justice and the church,” Roderick proclaimed.

  “And I fight to prove Lady Grace’s innocence,” Ewan shouted forcefully.

  The crowd erupted in cheers. Several of Ewan’s men came forward and slapped him encouragingly on the back and shoulders before returning to the sidelines.

  “God go with ye, Sir Ewan,” Alec yelled, and the crowd cheered louder.

  Cheering ringing in his ears, Ewan followed Roderick into the middle of the makeshift arena. They started cautiously circling, each man sizing the other, searching for a weakness. Ewan immediately noted that Roderick was a half head taller, with a heavily muscled torso and wide shoulders. Ewan hoped the extra bulk would prove a disadvantag
e, as often men of this size were slower in their movements.

  Yet Roderick would be no easy opponent. Ewan was well aware that he would have to employ every ounce of cunning and skill he could conjure in order to defeat him.

  Ewan yelled, filling the bailey with a wild battle cry, then surged forward, hoping to startle Roderick by attacking, rather than waiting to make a defensive stand. The crowd cried out as one when swords clashed. At the contact, a sharp, biting pain traveled down Ewan’s shoulder, but he ignored it and pressed on.

  The rush of excitement, coupled with a dose of fear shielded him from the worst of his discomfort, but he knew that would soon fade. His only hope was to attack hard and fast, disarming Roderick and striking a fatal blow before his strength completely faded.

  To that end he lifted his blade in a quick flurry of thrusts, hammering down on Roderick. The other man successfully blocked the blows, alternating with his sword and shield, then whirled around and went on the attack.

  Ewan managed to sidestep the charge, putting Roderick off balance and causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. But before Ewan could press this advantage, Roderick leapt to his feet. He came up swinging violently, catching Ewan on his left side, cutting through the protective leather jerkin he wore down to his tender flesh.

  Ewan gritted his teeth as a fresh assault of pain ripped through him and the acrid scent of blood flooded his nostrils. Relentlessly, Roderick struck again, this time from the right.

  The crowd groaned as the gash hit its mark and a fresh well of blood gushed from a second serious wound. The blow rocked him and Ewan felt his strength beginning to fail. Biting back the surge of bile that filled his mouth, Ewan took another swing at Roderick.

  His blade was met with a crushing blow that sent another jolt of pain down his arm. Roderick leaned into him, pressing forward until his sword was mere inches from Ewan’s face. For several long moments the combatants stared at each other, each straining to win the advantage.

  Ewan could see the fury and deadly intent in Roderick’s glare, along with his desperation. The latter gave him hope. Grunting, Ewan dug in his heels and heaved forward, using the entire weight of his body. The force broke the deadlock, successfully pushing Roderick back.

  But there was barely time for Ewan to catch his breath. Roderick lifted his sword over his head and brought it down in a powerful blow. Just before it landed, Ewan raised his arm to deflect it. Snarling, Roderick twisted around and began to strike. Blow after blow rained down upon Ewan’s sword and shield and he staggered back from the relentless assault.

  Stay on yer damn feet! Legs unsteady, Ewan felt himself starting to sway. God Almighty, I’m done fer it now.

  Tightening his jaw, he made a last desperate effort, swinging his sword directly at Roderick’s skull. His opponent jerked his head back. Regretfully, the blow barely glanced his scalp. Suddenly, there was a sharp clanging in Ewan’s ears and he felt himself starting to fall. Arms flaying, he realized desperately there was no way to stop the motion. Pain exploded through every part of his body as he hit the hard dirt.

  His nostrils filled with the distinct odor of blood. Roderick’s? His? Most likely mine, Ewan decided. He extended his left arm, searching frantically for his shield, hoping he could position it in time to avoid being hacked to bits.

  He could see Roderick looming over him, his sword raised high above his head. Ewan watched it all as though he were in a dream. This would be the deathblow, a strike that would most likely sever his head from his shoulders. Gravely weakened, he felt no fear as he braced himself for this final blow, but then suddenly he heard a woman sob his name.

  Grace! An image of her beloved face swam before his eyes. His wife, the person he loved more than life itself. Her guilt would be confirmed if he lost, her death assured. She would die being falsely proclaimed a witch and no one would be able to save her. Only he had that power.

  Blinking, Ewan could see Roderick’s sword descending and somehow, someway, he found the strength to roll out of its path. Reaching into his boot, Ewan drew his dirk, and hurled it with every ounce of strength that remained in his weakened body.

  The dagger found its mark with unerring accuracy, lodging cleanly in the middle of Roderick’s throat. He reeled backward, his eyes glazed in shock as a spray of blood spurted into the air.

  The cheers from the crowd were deafening, but Ewan blocked out the sound as he fought to maintain his wits. He watched Roderick fall, then counted ten long breaths as he waited for the verdict.

  “The Lady Grace is innocent!”

  Only after the full impact of those words penetrated Ewan’s brain did he allow the darkness to finally overtake him.

  “Blessed Mother have mercy,” Grace choked.

  The proclamation of her innocence should have been a tremendous relief, but her mind was filled with the horrifying sight of watching a dazed, bleeding Ewan fall. She leaned as far as possible over the low tower railing, nearly tumbling over it as she strained to catch a glimpse of him.

  He lay still upon the ground, blood flowing from the wounds on his sides. Ignoring the monk and the burly soldier who stood guard over her, Grace turned, lifted the hem of her gown, and started running. Along the ramparts, down the staircase, across the great hall.

  She burst into the bailey, pushing her way through the crowd. Victory was thick in the air and many cheered as she passed, but Grace had no time to savor the moment.

  Ewan was hurt, bleeding, possibly dying.

  “Oh, my love.” Grace knelt in the dirt and gently lifted his head, cradling it in her lap. “There’s so much blood.”

  “Most of it was Roderick’s,” Alec replied grimly.

  “Not all,” Grace retorted. Lifting her gown, she tore at the fine linen underskirt, then bound the strips around Ewan’s waist. “Have the men fetch a litter.”

  “He’ll want to walk off the field of battle,” Alec said. “’Tis a matter of honor.”

  “He’s too weak.” Grace hovered protectively over Ewan’s body as she waited for the stretcher to be brought. “This is hardly a dishonorable way to depart. My husband has more than proven his honor with his courage and skill this day.”

  Grace noticed several of the men around them nod in agreement as they hoisted the litter and carried him off. Grace kept her hand tightly curled around Ewan’s as they walked through the bailey into the great hall, then up the staircase to their bedchamber.

  Lady Moira was waiting for them when they arrived, her eyes suspiciously red. She had summoned both healers and the women quickly set about their work. Though it was difficult for her, Grace stepped aside and allowed the healers to tend to Ewan.

  When they were done, Grace sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her husband. Bruised, battered, yet alive. She ran her fingers gently over the bandages. The healers insisted the wounds looked far worse than they were and that Ewan would recover, yet still she fretted.

  Grace’s hand trembled and she stared down at him through a haze of tears. Then she saw Ewan’s eyelids start to flutter and she hastily wiped away her tears. The last thing she wanted was for Ewan to awaken to a weeping wife.

  He blinked several times as he brought his surroundings into focus. She knew the moment he recognized her, for his face broke into a wide smile.

  “I told ye not to worry, Grace,” he croaked.

  “Aye, ye did, and I vow that I shall never question yer word fer the rest of my days.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As the healers had promised, Ewan recovered quickly from his wounds. By the second day he was either pestering Grace to allow him out of bed, or trying to cajole her into joining him in it. Though his restlessness was exhausting at times, Grace would not have traded it for anything in the world.

  Indeed, she discovered she liked the challenge of keeping Ewan entertained and quiet at the same time. She recited all the stories she could remember, and made up a few more on the spot. She sang when he asked and blushed when he lavishly prai
sed her voice, for she knew it was only passable and hardly as melodious as many other women’s.

  She played chess with him, though neither of them truly understood the intricacies of the game. She began teaching him to read and write and was pleased with his excitement in learning and quick progress. It was a quiet, peaceful time and Grace relished every moment of it, for she had the one thing she thoroughly enjoyed—Ewan’s undivided attention.

  On a rainy spring morning, arms loaded with a tray of food, Grace pushed their bedchamber door open with her hip, entered the room, and then pulled in a sharp breath. Ewan stood at the window, fully dressed.

  “Ewan!”

  He held up his hand to quiet her, then surprised her by grinning. “Dinnae start blustering at me, Grace. The healer said I could get out of bed today. In fact, she suggested some fresh air and a walk around the bailey would hasten my recovery.”

  “In the pouring rain?”

  Ewan shifted on his feet. “Nay, when the rains cease.”

  Grace eyed him suspiciously. “I hope that ye are being honest with me, Ewan. If not, I’ll be forced to tell yer mother that ye’ve left the sickbed too soon.”

  Ewan grimaced. As threats go, it was a strong one, for there was no one more tenacious than Lady Moira in the entire keep. “Well, mayhap the walk about the bailey was my idea,” Ewan hedged.

  Grace set down her tray. “I’ve not spent the better part of a week caring fer ye only to see those wounds become infected. Now, come and eat and then we shall discuss yer activities fer the day.”

  Looking contrite, Ewan did as she asked. When he finished his meal, he began playfully stroking her hand, then lifted it and brought it to his lips. A chill of desire skittered down her back. Grace could feel her cheeks flush and she squirmed in her seat.

  “If ye truly think it best that I not go outside, I can think of a far better way to spend the morning,” Ewan said huskily.

  “I’ll just bet ye can,” she replied primly, though amusement rang in her voice.