by Carmen Caine
“Thank ye, kindly,” he murmured, choking a little on the first bite.
“Aye, ‘tis dry.” She smiled and, stepping around Diabhul, reached over to pound Alec on the back and hand him her waterskin.
He eyed it suspiciously.
“I swear ‘tis just water from the burn,” she promised with a chuckle. “It has a right peaty taste to it though.”
Tilting his head back, he took several generous swallows and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Assessing her up and down with a keen eye, he leaned close and murmured, “Ye’ve yet to tell me your name, lass.”
Merry withdrew with a scowl of warning.
But there was no way he could have been overheard. The wine had lightened the spirits of the men about her, and the air was peppered with loud laughter and ribald jests.
Suddenly, she became aware of Ewan’s eyes upon her and as she watched, he detached himself from Hugh and strode over to join her.
Hugh followed.
Extending a leather mug to Alec, the Cunningham asked in a sarcastic drawl, “Did ye feed well, Montgomery? Would ye not care to drink now?”
Alec’s nostrils flared and he struck the offered cup out of the man’s hand. “I’ll not be falling prey to ye and your men, Cunningham,” he hissed.
Leaning forward, Hugh replied in an equally menacing tone, “Ye’re fool enough to, I’ll warrant.”
“Enough,” Ewan warned, his face reserved and forbidding as he caught Diabhul’s bridle and backed the horse between the men, forcing them to stand apart.
The two men glared at one another from across the black stallion’s saddle.
And then Alec lifted his chin in outright challenge. “The Cunninghams are a festering boil on the arse,” he said with a deep growl.
As Hugh’s face took on a murderous expression, Ewan rounded upon Alec. “Not another word from ye. Not one!” he raised his voice, and pointing to Lothar still feasting under a nearby tree, he added, “Make yourself useful and fetch Lothar. Be quick about it.”
Alec obeyed at once.
But as he strode away, Merry caught a malicious glint in Hugh’s eyes. She shivered. The sooner they were gone from the Cunninghams’ company, the better.
“And where are ye bound?” Hugh asked, once Alec had gone.
“My destination is my own,” Ewan replied roughly, adopting a rigid stance.
Hugh’s eyes narrowed, clearly displeased. “I only ask to warn ye,” he said stiffly. “The rivers are swollen from the recent rains, and the bridge to Stirling is washed out, if you’re headed that way.”
“Then, I thank ye for the tidings,” Ewan replied, his arms crossed and his feet still widely placed apart.
A deadly pall settled over the conversation.
And then Alec returned with Lothar in tow, but upon spying his horse, the Frank pulled up short, swearing under his breath.
“I’ll not be riding that beast nor wearing that cloak,” he announced, drawing his thick brows into a frown. “’Tis ill luck.”
All eyes followed his to see a raven perched upon the horn of his saddle. One black foot resting upon the worn leather and the other upon the cloak Lothar had tossed over the saddle for safekeeping.
“Do ye still believe that superstitious drivel?” Alec rolled his eyes. With an impatient sigh, he shooed the crow away. “I’ll trade ye horses and cloaks then. I wish to be gone from here.”
Lothar grinned, pleased.
And with a final nod of farewell, they mounted their steeds and left the place, setting a northerly course.
But they had gone no more than a league before Lothar whistled to Alec.
“I care not for this horse, nor this cloak,” he grumbled. “I’ll take back my own.”
“And what of ill luck?” Alec teased.
“’Tis upon your shoulders now,” the Frank replied with a rare smile. “You sat in the saddle and wore my cloak afore I did.”
They bantered back and forth until they finally settled the matter by exchanging horses and cloaks once again.
But only a few minutes later, Ewan abruptly drew rein, and cocking his head to one side, announced softly, “We’re still being followed.”
Everyone froze.
“Shall we fight?” Alec asked, his hand dropping to his sword.
The muscle on Ewan’s jaw twitched. “Nay,” he replied. “Let that be our last recourse.”
Twisting in the saddle, Merry scanned the trees, seeing nothing. “Are ye sure?” she whispered.
But the words had scarcely left her mouth before five men clad in dark cloaks burst through the trees behind them.
“Cunninghams!” Alec yelled, and then spat.
“Then we fight,” Ewan said in a voice that rumbled like thunder. Twisting back to Merry, he added, “I’ll not see ye harmed. Take cover in yonder wood.”
Circling her waist with a hard arm he swept her down to the ground without waiting for her to agree. She wouldn’t have argued anyway. She could shoot arrows much better from a distance.
As she ran for cover, Ewan wheeled Diabhul around with a blood-chilling war cry, and drawing his sword, met the men head on. But at the last moment, their attackers evaded him entirely, swerving to the side to descend upon Lothar like a swarm of flies. And as Merry reached the nearest tree, she heard the hideously sickening sound of blade upon bone followed by Lothar’s bloodcurdling scream.
Shaking, she notched an arrow to the string and whirled, just in time to see Lothar fall from his horse into the grass.
And then Ewan was there, moving in a blur. He dispatched the first attacker and seizing his weapon, launched it like a javelin straight into the heart of the second before either realized what had happened. Spinning Diabhul around, Ewan attacked again, engaging the third man as Alec beheaded the fourth.
But the headless man’s horse collided into Diabhul, causing the frightened stallion to rear, and Ewan was thrown to the ground.
Merry gasped in horror, but Ewan leapt to his feet in an effortlessly fluid motion, and raising his sword, faced the horseman racing toward him with his sword aimed low.
Merry cried out in warning.
For a moment, it seemed as though Ewan had been struck. He flinched, stepping back, and her heart leapt into her throat.
But then his strong arm snaked out and catching the Cunningham’s leg, he tore the man from the saddle and the next moment, the man lay dead at his feet.
There was only one attacker left.
With a virulent curse, Ewan set off toward him at a dead run, giving a growl of such ferocity that the man went pale and ran his horse back the way it had come.
And just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
With her heart hammering fiercely in her chest, Merry ran to Lothar’s side, arriving the same time as Alec and Ewan. The Frank was still alive, but his face was as white as death. Multiple wounds cut across his chest, and blood soaked his clothing. He was cradling his arm tightly to his chest.
It took her a moment to realize, but then she understood.
Lothar had lost his hand.
Turning her head away, she was sick.
“There’s no honor in a Cunningham!” Alec shouted, raising his sword above his head. “I’ll ride back and slay them all—”
“Dinna follow,” Ewan ordered him sternly. “There will be time enough for vengeance later. We must see to Lothar now.” And then kneeling next to the injured man, he began tearing his cloak into strips all the while speaking in calm, low tones. “I’ve seen worse, lad, and in far weaker men. We’ll get ye to Hermitage. There’s a priest there who is blessed with the gift of healing. He’ll have ye on your feet soon enough.”
Lothar’s frightened eyes locked onto Ewan’s, taking comfort from his composed strength.
“Your wounds are not deep but for the hand,” Ewan judged after a quick inspection. “And ‘tis a clean cut. With the priest’s aid, ye’ll not suffer from the deadly fevers.”
The Frank swallowed, and his
white lips trembled. “And what use is a warrior without his sword hand?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
“If ye still wish to fight then take up the sword with the other,” Ewan answered in a rough yet gentle tone as he began to tightly bind the man’s stump. “But if ye are a wise man, ye’ll find yourself a lass and fight battles of another kind, aye?”
As he continued to speak in a slow, measured manner to the shocked man and bind his numerous wounds, Merry turned away with shaking knees. She’d never seen so much blood, nor had she known the smell of it. She only wanted to retch.
She stumbled to where Alec stood a short distance away, looking dazed.
“So quick,” she whispered, drawing a shaky breath. “It happened so quickly.”
“There’s no honor in a Cunningham!” Alec spat viciously.
She was inclined to agree.
Closing his eyes then, Alec whispered, “I am to blame. They went after him, thinking he was me. ‘Tis the only thing that makes sense. They dinna see that we’d traded the horses and cloaks back, not until ‘twas too late.” He choked. “They were coming for me—”
Merry felt the horror of what he said, knowing he spoke the truth.
“Enough, Alec,” Ewan said, rising to his feet. He cast an eye toward the darkening sky. “Hermitage is just past yon hill. Ye’ll stay here with him until I can return with a litter and the priest. I’ll not be gone long.”
“Aye,” Alec whispered, grimly looking down upon the Frank trembling with pain.
Then turning to Merry, Ewan waved toward Diabhul standing nervously a short distance away. “Mayhap ye should bring him close. He’s not likely to trust me again for a time.”
Wordlessly, Merry followed his bidding, calmly mounting the horse and walking him over to Ewan. And once he’d eased himself slowly into the saddle, they set off.
Dark clouds shrouded the sun as they headed down the narrow glen at a gallop, leaping over the low shrubs and taking a narrow path through the ferns and bracken.
Merry heard the river long before seeing it. Swollen by recent rains, it had overrun its banks, and drawing Diabhul up short on the edge of a small overhang, Ewan paused only long enough to shout a “Hold tight!” before digging his heels into the horse’s side. With a heart-stopping wrench, the horse jumped off the ledge and plunged directly into the cold rushing water.
Merry gasped as the icy water splashed over her head. And then they broke the surface, and she could feel Diabhul’s strong muscles working beneath her as he swam through the dark swirling current. It didn’t take long before they were pulling themselves out of the water onto the other side, slipping over the moss and lichen-covered rocks.
It was difficult to see through the gathering darkness, but they galloped onward, and less than a league later, a castle materialized in their pathway, rising up from the bleak moorlands surrounding it.
It was a sinister-looking place. Hart’s-tongue fern grew from the crevices of its damp walls, and Merry spied a cat slinking along the ramparts. As they drew closer, they came upon a corpse hanging from a tree, left to rot, and they had to hold their sleeves up to their faces to ward off the stench.
Finally, they reached the black portcullis, weary and still soaked to the bone.
The gate was closed, but from somewhere deep inside the gatehouse, a faint light glowed, and after a moment, a burly, bald-headed man stepped out. Holding a torch aloft, his callous expression shifted into one of welcome the moment he recognized Ewan.
“Show me to your mistress at once,” Ewan ordered without preamble.
With a nod, the man led them to a brightly lit courtyard nestled between two tall towers, and they’d scarcely dismounted before a side-door swung open, and a delicate woman rushed out to greet them.
Her eyes were bright blue, her skin a creamy white with a sprinkle of fine freckles dusting her nose, and the curls bouncing around her face were a flaming red. She wore a crimson gown covered by a mantle of soft smooth wool trimmed with lambskin, and her thin waist was circled by a silver-threaded belt with a ring of keys dangling importantly from it.
“My lord, ‘tis a wondrous pleasure to receive ye,” she welcomed Ewan graciously. There was a refined quality to her speech. She was clearly a lady.
Ewan dismounted and dipped into a courtly half-bow. “I need men, and right quickly. We were attacked by Cunninghams, and one of my men lies gravely wounded on the far side of the river.”
“Say no more!” she cried, clasping her hands. “My man will provide ye with whatever ye need.”
As Merry swung down from the saddle to join him, Ewan turned to her and said, “Stay here and rest. I’ll be back soon enough.”
He didn’t wait for her reply. Spinning on his heel, he followed the bald-headed man and disappeared into the darkness.
Giving Merry only a cursory glance, the lady addressed a maid standing by her side. “See this lad tended to and then prepare a fine chamber for my betrothed.”
And then she left, leaving the delicate scent of roses trailing behind her.
It took Merry a moment to understand what she’d just heard, and then the meaning hit her like a bolt of lightning, tearing her heart asunder.
Betrothed.
Ewan was promised to another.
Chapter Eight – What the Heart Wants
The distant thud of thunder heralded more rain as Ewan plodded wearily under Hermitage Castle’s portcullis once again. It was long past midnight. Behind him, Alec and the others brought Lothar, barely conscious as he lay upon the litter hung between two horses.
As they reached the inner courtyard, a slim figure stepped out from a shadowed doorway to greet them.
It was Merry.
“I feared ye’d met with danger,” she said, her fists clenched tightly by her side.
Ewan studied her from his horse, struck by the deepening lines of fatigue etched upon her face. She’d lost weight since Carlisle, her curves were more delicate now. She was pale and covered in mud and grime. But by far, he found the most striking change to be the sorrow in her brown eyes, a sorrow that hadn’t been there before. A wave of yearning rippled through him, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms, hold her close to his chest, and whisper words of comfort into her ears.
But it was his duty to see Lothar settled first.
The man’s face was deathly pale, and his closed eyes were ringed with dark circles. For a moment, Ewan wasn’t certain he still lived, but as the litter was carefully removed from the horses’ backs, Lothar gasped.
The sound renewed Ewan’s hope, and leaning down from his horse, he encouraged in a rough, yet gentle tone, “Ye’ll be on your feet again soon, lad. The worst is over.”
Lothar didn’t answer. His eyes remained closed as Alec and the others carried him into the castle. But as they passed her by, Merry’s gaze dropped to the bandage covering the man’s stump, caked with dry blood.
Swallowing hard, she looked away.
Ewan expelled a long breath.
And then willing himself to ignore the pain burning his side, he gritted his teeth and swung down from his horse. The red stain on his shirt had spread. He grimaced. If only he’d moved a little faster, he wouldn’t have been injured, but there was naught he could do about it now. The jagged cut under his ribs wasn’t a life-threatening wound, but he knew it should be tended.
But after the priest had seen to Lothar first.
Drawing his cloak closer to hide the blood, he stepped around his horse and faced Merry. Her eyes were downcast. She seemed strangely remote and unreachable, but he understood why.
Witnessing a battle was a gruesome thing.
He strode purposefully to her side and clamped a steadying hand upon her shoulder. “Hot-spiced wine is what ye need. Come with me,” he said softly.
She didn’t move, not until his hand slid up to cradle the nape of her neck and softly guide her into the castle.
They’d taken but a few steps inside before Iona rushe
d around the corner, nearly colliding into them. Her red hair flowed loosely over her shoulders, and the soft plaid artfully draped over her shift gave the impression that she’d just risen from bed. Or it would have, had not her lips been freshly stained with berries and her hair brushed to a sheen.
She’d clearly spent the hours since their greeting preparing for a seduction of some sort.
“Ewan!” she gasped, placing a hand on the creamy swell of her heaving bosom. “I’ve been fretting over ye.”
Ewan frowned. She would know the truth soon. He’d never truly intended to wed her, and he regretted now that his indifference had let matters progress this far. But he couldn’t tell her now. He had to inform her father first, and he wouldn’t publicly humiliate the lass. He owed her that, at least.
It took him a moment to realize that she was still speaking. “And I’ve prepared your chamber, my lord. Come with me, and I’ll see your needs well met.” She held out her soft hands, gesturing for him to follow.
Merry’s shoulders tensed beneath his fingers, and Ewan glanced down to see her usually expressive face blank and shuttered. Aye, the lass seemed drained of life. She’d waited for them in the dark, wet and exhausted. Concerned, he squeezed the back of her neck in a comforting gesture. “Let’s get ye that spiced wine, aye?”
Merry nodded stiffly.
“Forgive me.” Iona’s voice startled them both. “I seem to have forgotten your name, lad?”
At that, Ewan tensed, and suddenly aware his fingers still lingered upon Merry’s neck, he hastily withdrew his hand. ‘Twould be best for Merry to remain a lad still.
Stepping back, he replied gruffly, “I’ll be sleeping in the hall with my men, my lady. Have warm spiced wine sent, would ye?”
Iona nodded, but her keen eyes flickered over Merry expectantly.
“Moridac,” Merry replied then, clearing her throat and bowing slightly. “My name’s Moridac, my lady.”
Casting Merry a curious glance, Iona nodded and then with an overly sweet smile, she curtsied. “I’ll bring the wine at once, my lord.” Pivoting on her heel, she quickly disappeared.
When she had gone, Merry glanced up at Ewan. “Will Lothar live?” she asked in a choked whisper.