A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  The enormity of what she had done crashed down upon her. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, defending herself against something she no longer needed to, and looked into the glowing embers of the almost-dead fire. Somewhere, Duncan was still searching for her. Somehow she had to evade him long enough to get to France.

  A sob welled up and she swallowed it down. Ewan reached out hesitantly and patted her on the forearm, then let his hand rest there.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was tactless of me.’

  Marguerite blinked back tears and put her hand over his, drawing strength from his tentative attempt at comfort. Obviously emboldened, he put his arms around her. He drew her to his chest and she was surprised at how natural the gesture felt.

  ‘I should find you somewhere better to sleep,’ he murmured against her ear.

  He’d misunderstood. He thought she was a silly girl almost weeping because of discomfort. Once the danger of tears had ceased she expected him to release her, but he rearranged his brat, slouched down and drew her deeper into his arms.

  ‘Don’t think I’m crying because I fear hardship!’ She looked at him defiantly. ‘I just remembered my marriage was to take place on my nineteenth birthday, but I will not be spending it in a bridal bed.’

  She would not cry at that thought. ‘I’d sleep on heather rather than that. On rocks and mud.’

  She blinked fiercely to hold back the tears, but she was so weary that one or two breached the barrier. Ewan reached out and wiped them from her cheek. He took her hand and squeezed it. The gesture was presumably meant to be reassuring, but so close after the kiss that had not happened it sent her skin fluttering as if she had plunged into the burn fully clothed. She squeezed back, lacing her fingers between his, and heard his shocked intake of breath.

  Ewan pulled the sheepskin over them and held her close. A sense of warmth and safety stole over Marguerite. She should be ashamed of her behaviour. Marriage, and the acts that accompanied it, was something to be dreaded and endured. If the tales her sisters had told her was not proof enough, the brutal kiss Duncan had forced upon her confirmed it. Yet here she was, almost encouraging a stranger to take the liberties she had denied her rightful bridegroom, and regretting when he did not. She was ashamed, but that didn’t stop the images that filled her mind. Would lovemaking with Ewan be something to fear when he was capable of such tenderness? Even if he didn’t wield his power as cruelly as Duncan would have, or her sisters’ husbands did, she would risk pregnancy and death in childbirth. She fell asleep wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, wondering if a night in his bed would be worth the danger of pregnancy that it would inevitably entail.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marguerite woke feeling rested, ready to begin the day. She had fallen asleep lying straight, but woke with the curve of her spine pressed against the fullness of Ewan’s torso and her thighs and buttocks pressed against his groin. His arm was wrapped tightly around her and his hand had settled in the hollow curve of her belly below her breasts. The rhythm of his breathing made his body rise and fall, and each breath he drew in caused his chest muscles to push against Marguerite’s shoulder blades. The breath itself blew across her cheek, bathing it in warmth where the rest of the air was cold and damp.

  Marguerite’s hair fell over her face, tickling her nose, and she sneezed. It was impossible to keep it in or remain motionless. Her entire body convulsed, causing her back to arch and her buttocks to grind against Ewan’s crotch. He stirred, a ripple of life spreading through his body, but he did not waken. His fingers spread wide over the softness of Marguerite’s belly. Worse still, his head rolled forward on to her neck and he gave a soft moan.

  ‘Are you awake?’ she asked, horrified to think he might be aware of what he was doing. He had said she was safe from him. He said nothing, but made a little crooning noise in the back of his throat.

  No, he was asleep, which was precious little comfort to Marguerite. He muttered something unintelligible into her ear and began to nuzzle against the nape of her neck. The scratch of beard growth and the soft warmth of his lips against her bare flesh somehow combined to produce the most deliciously alarming effect on Marguerite. It was an entirely new sensation and tickled. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it caused Marguerite to clench her toes in guilty delight as his mouth brushed across the sensitive skin.

  To indulge the glorious sensations that were assailing her was far too tempting. She should wake him, but she was intrigued by the way her skin was warming and becoming more sensitive, not only where his lips skimmed, but spreading outwards and internally as well. Without thinking, she leaned her head back to allow him greater access.

  Ewan found her ear. He nuzzled against it and tugged gently on her lobe with lips that were at the same time firm and soft. To permit him this intimacy bordered on debauched, no matter how many layers of shawl and brat and linen lay between them. Marguerite spoke his name sharply, but was astonished to hear it come out as a husky gasp. Ewan mumbled against her neck and the hand that had been resting on her belly strayed upwards to her breast. The slow trace of his fingers across the thin linen was deliciously wicked.

  The scraping of his fingers across her nipple, combined with the insistent pressure on her ear, sent a throb of heat through Marguerite that was almost too much to withstand. Invisible cords tightened all the way down her spine and pulled at the cleft where her legs joined. Was this why women dreaded marriage, if this assault on the senses that left her quivering and begging silently for more was common? She managed to swallow the gasp of shock as her body convulsed, but only just.

  ‘Lord Glenarris, wake up!’

  Marguerite succeeded in twisting round to face him with one arm pressed flat against his chest. She called his name again and watched as he began to wake up. His eyelashes fluttered and he yawned widely. She had nursed her mother for long enough to recognise someone waking from a heavy slumber. At least she knew he had not been intentionally groping her while feigning sleep.

  His eyes, when they opened, were heavy with desire and the lips that had so recently been causing Marguerite to writhe with pleasure curved into a sensuous smile.

  ‘Lord Glenarris, stop that at once.’

  ‘Stop what?’ He gazed at her blearily. His brow knotted in puzzlement, then dipped further in irritation.

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ he growled. ‘What’s the trouble? Are we being attacked?’

  His eyes became alert and his arms became rigid, tensing for danger almost between heartbeats. It was impressive to see.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ she said.

  He glared at her. ‘Then why are you yelling in my face?’

  ‘You...’ She dropped her gaze, acutely aware that she had been the one to take liberties, not him. ‘You were...touching me.’

  Ewan pushed himself to his elbows. ‘Ah. Well, in that case I dare say you’re justified in shouting.’

  He threw the sheepskin back, letting an unwelcome blast of cold strike Marguerite. He froze and dragged the sheepskin back over his waist. He gave her a strange look over his shoulder and stood up, crossing to the other side of the now-dead fire.

  ‘I didn’t mean to, though. A man can’t be held responsible for something he does in his sleep. If it is any comfort, it probably wasn’t you I had in mind.’

  Probably. It wasn’t much comfort. Marguerite pulled the brat tighter around her body. She couldn’t help wondering whom he had been thinking of as he touched her with such tenderness. How many women had Ewan Lochmore woken with and had they been treated to the same attentions while he was half-asleep? And, more importantly, why did the thought of being one of them inflame her with such ferocity? She pulled her shift back into place. She felt like a harlot and neither of them had done anything to warrant it.

  * * *

  Ewan was deeply troubled. He had no knowledge of touching Marguerite as he slept and had no id
ea what form this inadvertent violation had taken, but from the way she tensed whenever he came near her, he believed she was telling the truth. He’d been dimly aware of her squirming against him as he drifted awake and he had woken with the evidence of his desire for her uncomfortably visible.

  Neither of them had mentioned the morning before when he had walked in and seen her naked, and he was determined not to be the one to do so. Perspiration gathered at the nape of his neck and the small of his back as he remembered the full breasts and pale limbs that met where dark down hid her most intimate place. He’d been able to think of little else ever since and had suffered pangs of guilt that, when he had comforted her, half his mind had been on undressing her and offering her a distraction from her troubles that would be of an entirely carnal nature. The mere thought made him weak with desire that the memory of her body pressing against him did nothing to quash.

  She sat wrapped in his brat, gazing up at him with eyes that were watchful, yet inquisitive, and tracked every movement he made. He turned his back, not wanting her to suspect what the sight of her sitting there did to his composure.

  ‘I’m going to bathe.’ A soaking in the icy waters of Lomond would quench the fires. ‘You’ll be safe while I’m gone if you don’t stray.’

  Amusement passed over her face and she laughed, her eyes creasing at the corners in a manner that made Ewan want to do anything to make her smile again. She stood, wrapping the brat around her shoulders, and came towards him.

  ‘Ewan, I will be safe and I am used to watching for danger. I have long been used to spending time outside my father’s house. I would walk for the whole day alone and never come to harm.’

  He patted her shoulder. A poor substitute for the urge to skim his hand down her back to rest it in the warm contours of her spine or trace it over the flatness of her belly. Her lips twitched into the uneven smile. She leaned in towards him, then stiffened and drew back. Her eyes never left his and her cheeks flushed. Whatever he had done in his sleep had not left her unmoved. The thought made him swell again.

  Wordlessly he strode down to the loch barefoot. He stripped, left his leine on the shingle and plunged into the loch naked. He swam out until his skin began to tingle, then dived deep, rising with a gasp and drawing deep breaths. He stood waist deep to scrub himself down until he felt more in control of his body.

  When he returned, Marguerite was sitting on the blanket still wrapped in his brat, her knees tucked under her to one side. She had left him half of the cheese on the cloth and had something in her hands. Ewan’s sword and jerkin were where he had left them before going to bathe, but the small dagger was no longer neatly placed alongside it. Marguerite was examining it with interest.

  Anger flushed Ewan’s cheeks. She’d interfered with his belongings without asking! He padded closer on bare feet until he was standing directly behind her.

  ‘What’re you doing?’

  She jumped at the sharpness of his question and raised her head to look at him. She had the grace to look a little guilty.

  ‘I—I was looking at your dagger. Forgive me, I did not mean to pry, but it is a very unusual design. I was curious.’

  Ewan’s anger subsided a little, replaced with a hint of amusement. It was a common style of dagger, but to Marguerite it would be unusual enough to be worth remarking on, especially given the interest she was trying to deny. He’d enjoy a little revenge and teach her not to meddle with his belongings.

  ‘My ballock knife, you mean?’

  Ewan squatted beside her, grinning as a look of puzzlement settled on her face.

  ‘Your baloque knife?’

  Marguerite repeated the unfamiliar words, her accent sending a frisson of delight through Ewan’s belly and straight to the part under discussion. Marguerite examined the knife once more. She ran her finger in a slow figure of eight over the smooth oval lobes of the guard at the bottom of the hilt with a languor that made the breath catch in Ewan’s throat. Was she truly so innocent of men that she had no idea what the shape represented? She was only eighteen, and a virgin at that, but even so...

  He tried not to imagine her fingers running over his body with the same light touch, but could not rid himself of the thought once it had taken root there, exciting him and threatening to rouse his member from the slumber he had only recently succeeded in lulling it into. The sooner they reached home and he could be rid of her the better and he half-wished he had not begun teasing her.

  ‘That’s what it’s called,’ he explained. ‘Because of the shape.’

  She stared at him innocently, questioningly.

  ‘You know. A man’s...’ He cocked his head downwards, indicating with his eyes towards his lap. Marguerite followed his gaze. For an instant she looked confused, then her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in understanding.

  ‘Oh!’

  She whipped her hand away from the knife as though it was white-hot. Ewan suppressed a grin at her reaction. She dropped her head, face hidden beneath the fall of glossy, black hair.

  ‘I did not know that!’ she said, mumbling.

  ‘Aye, I could tell that. Better give it back to me, if you’re done examining it, that is.’

  She stared at him and he raised an eyebrow, nodding encouragingly. She reached out hesitantly, picking the knife up by the bell-shaped pommel between the tips of her fingers as if she could no longer bear to touch it. She held it out to Ewan without looking at it. Avoided looking at him, too, or at least determinedly not looking at the relevant part of his anatomy.

  ‘I’m not sure it warrants handling with quite that level of revulsion,’ he said, grinning. He closed his hand over hers and grasped the hilt firmly, tugging it from her grip. Her pale complexion was starting to grow rosy across the line of her cheekbones. He held it out, the length of the hilt comfortably nestling in the palm of his hand, the blade pointing up his arm. He felt a little sorry for embarrassing her, though not enough to resist adding one last tease.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hold it properly?’ he asked, grinning again. ‘They’re not made to the measurements of the bearer, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘I was not!’

  Her head came up as she snapped her answer. Her mouth jerked into an expression of loathing that Ewan had never seen before.

  ‘You disgust me. I will go bathe now.’

  She swept her clothes into her arms and stalked away in the direction of the stream, her back rigid and her hands bunched tightly into fists at her sides.

  Ewan sat back on his heels and watched until she had slipped between the trees to the water’s edge. He chewed his lip thoughtfully as he stowed the troublesome knife at his belt, adding his sword. Her reaction had been unexpected. Yes, his comment had been a little crude, but not overwhelmingly so.

  He was worried by her reaction. He resolved to spend the next night sleeping far away from her, even if it mean sleeping without any blankets to warm him, rather than risk his body giving in to the urges he fought to control when he was not in command of it.

  She had not returned by the time Ewan had rolled and stowed the blankets. He began to feel irritated that she was wasting so much time, presumably sulking. Cold water would revive her spirits and cool her temper quickly enough. When she had still not returned in the time it took to eat his portion of cheese he began to grow concerned. She could not have come to harm. Could she? The loch was too shallow for her to get into difficulties unless she swam out and as far as he knew they were alone.

  But what if they weren’t? If Duncan McCrieff had somehow tracked them, then seeing Marguerite bathing alone and not anticipating an attack would be the perfect time to reclaim her. McCrieff was not the only threat. A lone vagrant, or a band of travellers, could try robbing her. Most black-hearted curs would not hesitate to attack a lone woman.

  Ewan’s scalp prickled. He hastily retraced his steps to
the stream, drawing both his knife and sword ready in case he needed to strike.

  Marguerite was sitting on the bank, facing the water. She was fully clothed, fortunately for Ewan’s composure, and unharmed. Relief cooled the perspiration that had broken out down his spine and made him shiver.

  She looked around and gasped in alarm, hands coming up protectively as he appeared. He lowered his weapons and her shoulders dropped. She turned back to the water and hugged her knees.

  ‘What are you doing? We need to go.’

  She ignored him. Ewan’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Lass? Maggie? Did you hear me?’

  ‘I heard you.’

  She looked straight into his eyes and Ewan was astonished to see the lower lids were moist with the start of tears.

  Astonished, and a little ashamed.

  He’d seen her almost weeping enough times since he had pulled her out of the cart, but this was the first time he could attribute the tears to his actions alone and he could not bear it. His hand came up instinctively—protectively—to wipe them away. She jerked her head back.

  ‘Why are you—?’ he started to ask.

  She snorted loudly, cutting him off coldly before he could finish the question. She unwound her arms from around her knees and pushed herself to her feet. With one hand she gestured at the knife Ewan was still holding out.

  ‘You will not need your knife.’

  There was only a hint of hesitation before the final word, but Ewan marked it.

  ‘I’m sorry I offended you earlier. I did not intend to.’

  ‘Offend? No.’ She sniffed and shrugged. ‘You men are all alike. With your revolting symbolic knives. You care only for fighting and drinking and what you force women to do for your pleasure.’

  ‘Force! That’s a strong word and a serious accusation.’

  Ewan thundered at the unfairness. He had never forced anyone and he’d resisted Marguerite’s flickering interest with more difficulty than he’d expected. Fortunately, his brain caught up with the implication behind her words. He added it to the memory of her handling the ballock knife with such dislike once he had pointed out the nature of what it represented and the unease with which she had first permitted him to hold her as they slept. His conscience woke and kicked the inside of his belly. He wisely closed his mouth and sheathed the knife in one smooth movement. She straightened her skirts briskly, running her open hands from waist to knee, then tugging the bodice into place evenly between her rounded breasts. It felt invasive even to witness such intimate adjustments when they were discussing matters of assault and coercion, but Ewan could not tear his eyes away.