Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Ewan rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Then let us break into parties of three. I’ll journey with Alec and Moridac north to the Isles, afore rejoining the lot of ye in Stirling.”

  The men paused and Alec raised a curious brow. “The Isles? With the lad?”

  “Aye,” Ewan met his inquisitive gaze squarely. “’Tis a matter of honor to see the lad safe, and I’ll see ye to your father’s hall on the way.”

  “’Tis glad I am that ye’ve come to your right mind over the matter of the lad,” Alec said cheerfully, rising to punch him on the shoulder. And then his expression sobered. “But I’ll not be returning to my father’s hall.”

  They matched stares for a time, and then Ewan frowned, glancing about.

  “And where’s the lad now?” he asked, noticing Merry had somehow contrived to leave the cottage without him seeing.

  His question was answered a moment later by the clatter of hooves and a flash of black through the slats of the shutters. Throwing the door wide open, he was rewarded with a brief flash of Diabhul’s rump and tail disappearing around the bend in the road.

  “And where is she off to?” Ewan accosted a man who’d been tasked to guard outside.

  The man frowned, bewildered. “She?”

  Ewan scowled. “The lad! Where’s the lad headed?”

  “Ah!” The man’s eyes lit with understanding. “He’s off to get ye some clothing. Said he was the best one for the task, since the English aren’t looking for a lad—”

  “God’s Wounds!” Ewan thundered, shoving past the man. “You’re a daft fool to believe it.”

  “I’m coming with ye,” Alec said from behind.

  “And I.” Lothar stood up.

  “Then we’ll be meeting the rest of ye in Stirling ere the new moon,” Ewan said grimly. And then turning to Alec and Lothar, he added, “Let’s catch the lad afore the English do, aye?”

  Chapter Five – Tell Me Your Name

  Letting Diabhul run at his own pace, Merry enjoyed the heady feeling of speed as they galloped out of the forest and onto the road. The scout had told her a bustling town lay several leagues to the east. She had no doubt she would find English garb there for Ewan and the rest of his men. And though she had no coin, she was certain there would be arrogant, rich merchants aplenty who would supply breeches and shirts—albeit unbeknownst to themselves.

  She’d been on the road only a few short minutes when she spied an English patrol, but it was of no concern. They weren’t looking for a lone lad, and even if they were, there wasn’t a horse that could match Diabhul’s speed. She could easily outrun them.

  She’d just drawn abreast of the soldiers when the leather-skinned leader of the patrol lifted his lance and hailed her.

  “Halt!” he cried, his voice a thundering growl.

  Merry hesitated but deciding she was in no immediate danger, pulled Diabhul’s reins in and came to a stop a short distance away.

  “Your name?” the man queried curtly, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes.

  “Will,” Merry said the first name that popped into her head. “Will, sir.”

  With his cold eyes sweeping Merry up and down, he spurred his horse forward. “And have you stolen your master’s horse, Will?” he asked, as the three men behind him urged their mounts to follow suit.

  She knew then that she had made a mistake. These men were clearly not inclined to listen, and so she didn’t hesitate. Wheeling Diabhul’s head, she crouched low over his neck, and with her clan cry of Cùm gréim!—Hold fast!—she dug her heels into his side.

  The men cursed as the great horse sprang away.

  Hearing the urgency in her voice, Diabhul stretched his legs and ran as if the very hounds of hell were upon him. The fine steed flew down the road as if he had wings, and when they’d covered almost a league, Merry finally threw a glance over her shoulder to see the Englishmen had abandoned their pursuit. Expelling a breath of relief, she willed her hammering heart to quieten, and easing the reins, slowed her horse to a canter.

  She’d been more frightened than she cared to admit.

  ‘Twas a fortunate thing Ewan hadn’t witnessed her narrow escape.

  Aye, and Ruan. She winced at the thought of the wrath she faced upon meeting her brother once again.

  But there was no use fretting about it.

  Deliberately forcing her thoughts to the matter at hand, she kept an eye out for more patrols and cautiously continued on toward the town.

  Through the gaps in the trees ahead, she finally glimpsed the sought-for village nestled on the crown of a hill. Guiding Diabhul down the rutted dirt lane, she came upon a quaint cottage with a privy shed built against the rear wall.

  She cautiously approached.

  The cottage appeared empty. Most likely, the inhabitants were working in the fields or had gone to market. Flinging a leg over the neck of her horse, she slid down and peered into the window.

  The room was bare, save for a rough-hewn table flanked by two wooden benches.

  Thinking to find something she could borrow to disguise herself—in case the English soldiers be near—she lifted the latch and stepped inside.

  There was nothing useful in the first room, but ducking into the adjoining chamber, she saw a narrow cot and a willow basket—but beside them, most interestingly, a rusty-hinged trunk. Hurriedly, she knelt before the trunk and raising the heavy, creaking lid, pulled out a pair of threadbare trousers patched at the knee. Setting them aside in disappointment, she lifted a length of rough homespun cloth that proved to be a coarse but serviceable woolen kirtle, and within it was wrapped a linen chemise.

  She smiled, pleased. They would do. And she’d be quick to try to return the clothing, hopefully before its owner ever found it missing.

  Slipping out of her shirt and breeches, she unbound her breasts and changed swiftly. The kirtle was a wee bit too snug about the waist and low enough to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. Grimacing, she saw that it was several inches too short as well.

  The townsfolk would think her a brazen lass, but there was naught she could do.

  Tucking her raven curls into a white kerchief, she grabbed her discarded clothing and, helping herself to an empty burlap sack, slipped outside.

  Eyeing a rain barrel by the privy shed, she ran over to quickly inspect her reflection in the water’s surface.

  Aye, she looked like a proper lass once again.

  With a nod of satisfaction, she mounted Diabhul, and this time mindful of the English soldiers, galloped swiftly toward the town, heart racing.

  Diabhul closed the distance quickly, and only a short time later, she drew rein near the thickest part of the forest at the edge of the village. Guiding her horse far enough to where he wouldn’t be easily found, she tied him loosely to a tree next to a patch of natural forage.

  “Feast well, Diabhul,” she murmured, giving his broad flat forehead a sound kiss. “I’ll return afore ye’ve had your fill.”

  Straightening her kirtle, she retraced her steps through the underbrush and made her way into the bustling town.

  The sound of a blacksmith's hammer rang through the streets as she entered the main gate, and it mingled with the cries of vendors hawking all sorts of food and wares, from baskets of fish to the nets to catch them. From atop the hill, the church bells tolled within their lofty tower.

  It was market day and a busy one at that.

  Ignoring the men’s whistles and the disapproving glances from respectable matrons, Merry picked her way across the muddy streets to the market square. But to her disappointment, it was harder to find suitable clothing than she’d thought.

  Ewan and Alec were not short men, as apparently all Englishmen were.

  With a growing frustration, she continued her search as a company of English soldiers marched through the square. But as they pushed their way through the crowd, she was struck by a sudden thought. Keeping her distance, she followed them to their guardhouse.

  Several men lounged at
the entrance, and upon seeing her stroll by, nodded appreciatively. But when their sight of her was finally obstructed, she quickly darted to the back of the building thinking to find a way to sneak inside.

  Stepping cautiously into the yard behind, it took her a moment to register what she was seeing.

  Clothing.

  Spread out upon the grass to dry in the late spring sun were breeches and shirts of all sizes—but mostly importantly, ones to fit the tallest of English warriors.

  She almost laughed out loud, so amazed she was that she’d stumbled upon a washing day! And without even stopping to question her luck, she hurried forward to stuff her burlap bag with a frenzied haste.

  It didn’t take long, and she’d just hefted the heavy bag over her shoulder when she heard the sound of boots scraping against the cobblestones.

  “There's no turning back now, Merry,” she whispered to herself and, drawing a deep breath, spun around to boldly face the newcomer.

  It was a soldier, a young man with pock-marked skin, a firm chin, and a bent nose. He came to an abrupt halt, startled to see her standing there.

  “Good day, kind sir,” Merry said, adopting her best English accent. “I’ve come from the countryside to sell my wares at the market, but I’ve lost my way.”

  It was a flimsy excuse. There probably wasn’t a fool that walked the Earth who could fail to find the market in the very center of the town. Clearing her throat, she proceeded to flutter her lashes and leaned down a little to distract the man a wee bit with a fine view of her bosom.

  It worked stunningly well.

  He didn’t even notice the clothing missing from the yard.

  “Allow me to set you on your way, fair maiden,” he offered with a gallant bow and held out his arm.

  With a giggle, she looped her arm through his. Realizing she was taller than he by at least half a head, she quickly stooped her shoulders. “You’re such a gentleman,” she cooed with another wide smile, intent on keeping his gaze focused away from the missing clothing.

  She needn’t have worried.

  Puffing his chest a little, he sought only her attention as he grandly guided her to the front of the guardhouse and down the lane. He then asked, “And where have you come from, fair maid?”

  She hadn’t a clue what any of the nearby villages were named. “Oh, the countryside,” she answered vaguely, and seeking to distract him, asked quickly, “There were many soldiers on the road. Would you know why?”

  “Yes,” he said with an important nod. “The roads are dangerous right now, my dear. Several notorious outlaws have escaped Carlisle Castle. Dangerous men. Scots.” He flared his nostrils in distaste.

  “Scots?” she repeated, assuming an expression of solemn astonishment.

  “You must stay off the roads,” he advised, patting her hand looped through his arm. “At least for a few days. No doubt, the wretches will be caught soon.”

  “With so many soldiers on the roads, I’m certain they will,” she remarked lightly, gracing him with another bright smile.

  “There you are, my child.” A man’s voice broke into their conversation.

  Merry froze.

  It was Alec.

  Clad in a cowled monk’s robe, he stood on the side of the street with his hands planted on his hips, his emerald eyes twinkling, but the rest of his handsome face wiped of all expression.

  Merry swallowed.

  And then Alec swept forward to bless the soldier with the sign of the cross. “Benedicte, my son,” he murmured in a deep tone as he lifted the heavy sack from Merry’s shoulders. “Make haste, my daughter. The others are waiting. We must not let the little ones suffer.”

  The soldier’s brows knit in confusion.

  Bobbing a curtsey, Merry found her voice. “I thank you, kind sir,” she said to him. “I trust I’ve been no trouble. Perhaps I could find ye … you when the market closes, at the market cross … to chat with ye more?” She bit her lip, annoyed she’d slipped into a Scots accent in her haste.

  He didn’t appear to even notice.

  “I shall be there, fair maid,” he promised. And with a courtly bow for her and a respectful one for Alec, he pivoted on his heel and marched back toward the guardhouse.

  And then hard fingers closed upon Merry’s arm, and she nearly tripped as Alec pulled her down a narrow alley.

  “Ye canna drag me like a sack of turnips, Alec!” she protested, wrenching her arm free.

  But he caught her about the waist and half-carried her off the street and then into a small stone house with a thatch roof. It was some kind of storeroom, bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters, and the thick smell of aged roots hung in the air.

  But fortunately, the room was vacant.

  As he closed the door, she waited until the scrape of the latch slid into place before expelling a breath of relief. But consternation immediately followed as Alec grabbed her chin and forced her to look into his penetrating, green eyes.

  “A sly vixen is what ye are, lass,” he said with his brows creased into a frown. “Does Ewan know you’re not a lad?”

  Merry hesitated. Ewan had bade her to tell no one. She wasn’t inclined to ignore him. “Ye must keep this secret for me, Alec,” she answered instead. “Swear upon your honor as a highlander that ye won’t tell.”

  He tilted his head, allowing his eyes to rove over her with an obvious flicker of interest. “How many secrets do ye have, lass?” he asked. “Who are ye?”

  Merry scowled. “Swear ye won’t tell, on your soul!” she demanded.

  Again, he let his green eyes sweep her from head to toe, lingering longer than necessary upon her breasts before he cocked his head toward the door and replied, “Aye, I’ll keep your secret. Ye saved my life. ‘Tis the least I can do, but ye’d best change, and right quickly! Ewan and Lothar will be here any moment. We’ve been searching for ye all over.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice.

  Grabbing the burlap sack out of his grasp, she upended it and, sifting through the pile, quickly found her clothing and the bandages to bind her breasts.

  “Step outside now, Alec,” she ordered with a glare.

  He stood there a moment, observing her with a smile just a wee bit too knowing before tugging his cowled hood over his head. Sauntering to the door, he then stepped outside.

  Merry furrowed her brows. The man knew her secret now, but there was naught she could do about it. She heaved a sigh. What was done, was done. Quickly, she changed, and she’d just tied the last lace on her shirt when the door sprang back on its hinges, banging against the wall.

  Ewan stalked into the room with Alec and Lothar at his heels.

  “’Twas a right foolishly absurd thing to do!” Ewan thundered, his eyes flashing with raw emotion. “The English could have caught ye, or even worse, left ye dead on the road!”

  Merry drew herself to her full height. “I was in no danger,” she said, locking her jaw. “They’re not looking for me.”

  He threw back the hood of his mud-spattered cloak and stood there, angry, solid, his shrewd blue eyes locking onto hers. The English soldier had been right to warn her of the escapees. There was no doubt that Ewan was a dangerous, battle-hardened man.

  “There were many eyes who saw ye ride through Carlisle’s gates,” he objected through clenched teeth. “And if even not, there would be plenty who would stop ye on the road, thinking ye stole your master’s horse.”

  “Diabhul can outrun any of them,” she retorted, but swallowed. She couldn’t tell him just how exactly true his words were. Instead, she stooped and picked up an armful of clothing, and eyeing Ewan’s plaid peeking out from under his cloak, said, “Ye’d best change. They’re looking for Scots.”

  “’Tis better than a monk’s robe,” Alec said, stepping forward with a supportive nod.

  As he and Lothar ruffled through the pile, Ewan stayed where he was, arms crossed and jaw clenched.

  And then Lothar began shrugging out of his shirt, and Mer
ry hastily retreated to the window under the pretense of standing guard.

  “I’ll stand watch,” she volunteered.

  The men changed quickly, and then Alec commented, “Few will stop us now, dressed so daintily as English soldiers, aye?”

  “’Tis a brilliant idea, lad,” Lothar grunted in approval.

  Half-turning, Merry cast a furtive glance from the side of her lashes, and satisfied they were fully dressed, turned to face them.

  The three of them made splendid English soldiers. Especially Ewan. The way his tunic stretched tight across his wide shoulders drew attention to his hard, masculine chest.

  The beat of her heart picked up in rhythm, but it didn’t last long. Catching the stern line of his brow, she glanced away, feeling her anger return.

  “Hie ye off to the horses, the both of ye,” Ewan commanded the men. “I’ll aid Moridac in retrieving his horse and join ye by the river within the hour.”

  Alec paused.

  “And what would ye say, Alec?” Ewan asked, noting the man’s reluctance.

  The highlander waited a moment longer, but then expelling a breath, shook his head, and along with Lothar bundled out of the door.

  As soon as they’d left, Ewan rounded on her. “Are ye mad?” he asked.

  “Mad?” Merry repeated. Anger reflected in her dark brown eyes. “I came to find ye something to wear so you wouldn’t be caught dead in your plaid!”

  “Ye could have been killed,” he retorted, his words clipped.

  She scowled at him, and then her eyes fell, noting his shirt was still open at the neck. His throat and collarbone were distracting. Glancing away again, she grumbled, “Ye seem to have difficulty in thanking me.”

  “Thanking ye?” he repeated through clenched teeth.

  She stiffened. “Aye, ye should thank me for saving ye, and for riding to find safe clothing—”

  “Ye’ve shown naught but a lack of foresight this entire time,” he interrupted tersely.

  At that, her anger erupted anew. Throwing her shoulders back, she planted her hands on her hips. “I used to hold ye in the highest esteem, Ewan MacLean, but I see now that you’re an ungrateful wretch!”