Love in Ruins

by Erin Grace

  She eased one arm out from under the slumbering embrace and raised a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes in disbelief.

  No. Surely, Liam wouldn't have taken advantage of her. Would he? He seemed bloody determined to marry her though, despite her protests.

  She jumped as the body attached to the arm moved then stopped. Her heartbeat pounded, pulse raced. She had to get out of there, but she felt so bloody drained.

  What had happened to her?

  Straining against the weight of the encumbering limb, she tried to see the man's face, but his shoulders and head were covered by furs.

  Okay. Stay calm. He couldn't see her. This could be a good thing.

  If she managed to wiggle away from his grasp, perhaps she could slip out of the room before he'd had time to notice? She had to try something.

  Boy, Ewan really was going to get it when she finally got to his keep. Her heart sank. And what was she going to say to him? That somehow she'd slept with his cousin instead of him? That was taking 'keeping it in the family' to a whole new level.

  Shit. Who was she kidding? When Ewan found out, he'd kill Liam. And her next no doubt. But with the way she felt right now, death seemed a like a pretty good proposition.

  After counting to three in her head, she gathered all her strength and lifted the weighty arm up just enough to allow her body to maneuver from under it. Christ, even just a bit of him weighed a ton. The body shifted again, and she froze, still holding his limb in midair. Unable to support it any longer, she let it drop back down, then glanced across in panic at the sleeping man. He was sprawled out upon the fur completely naked.

  Oh, my.

  Blushing, she couldn't ignore his sculpted chest and taut stomach that lead down to a startlingly erect appendage jutting out from a nest of dark hair at the junction of his thighs.

  Despite her precarious position, she could barely contain a girlish giggle from escaping her throat. Not surprising. Liam and Ewan were cousins—definitely a family resemblance there.

  Oh, hell. What was thinking? She was losing her mind.

  Slipping out of bed, her feet found the cold floor. She tried to stand, only to discover her legs refused to hold her up. She plonked down on the edge of the bed, tucked a curl behind her ear, and tried to think how on earth she would get out of there.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she hadn't woken Liam.

  Okay. She could do this.

  Easing her way to the floor, she managed to get onto her hands and knees, then began slowly crawling toward the door. Lord knew how she'd open the bloody thing when she got there.

  Was she intending to do this all the way to Ewan's keep? Hell, no. And escaping without her joggers again wouldn't do either.

  This time she was going to steal a bloody horse.

  Chapter 19

  Ewan had been awake since dawn watching Ellie sleep, making sure that bastard Father Martin hadn't tried to kill his wife.

  His wife.

  Aye. It would take some getting used to. But there she was—beautiful, alive, and crawling across his bedroom floor. He propped his head up onto his palm, a smiling creeping to his lips, as his lingering gaze followed the seductive way her shapely hips swayed beneath the thin linen shift.

  He sucked in a sharp breath, moved his hip to ease the growing discomfort in his groin. Lord, help him. It was all he could do not to take her there and then. "That's a verra tempting position, love. But don't you think you should get a wee bit more rest first?"

  The wriggling figure stopped. "Ewan?"

  Her arms wobbled, and she crumbled to the floor.

  He was up and out of the bed, her butterfly weight scooped up into his arms. "I've got you, Ellie."

  He sat down on the bed, her soft body cradled in his arms.

  As her hand reached up and touched his cheek, her face was framed by fiery curls and her green eyes narrowed. "Ewan, am I dreaming? Is it really you?"

  "Did you miss me, love?"

  The glint in her eyes sparked, as his cheek stung with her sudden slap.

  "Miss you?" She struggled within his grasp.

  He refused to let her go, surprised but delighted by her vigor. Having seen her last night in the hands of Father Martin, he'd feared the worst.

  "Do you have any idea what I've been through? First, it wasn't enough to be grilled and roasted through a lightning storm, left on my own in the middle of nowhere. No, then I had to be captured by a willful fool intent on marrying me . . . ."

  His brow furrowed. "Liam wanted to marry you?"

  "Don't interrupt! My best shoes were burned, and I had no idea if you even existed."

  "Did Liam touch you?"

  She shook her head and grimaced. "What? Would you forget about Liam. I'm trying to tell you how much I missed you, you bloody oaf. Aren't you listening to me?"

  Hell. If his cousin had so much laid a finger on his wife—

  He placed her on the bed and rose in search of his plaid.

  "Ewan? What are you doing? No. Please don't tell me you're going after Liam."

  "This is nae your concern, Ellie. You are in ma time now." He turned to face her. Lord, but she was beautiful, though still too pale for his liking. And to think he'd almost given up on her very existence. His stomach clenched at the thought. "I will tend to matters ma way."

  He had bent down to pick up his belt, when a pillow smacked him on the head. Glancing up, he met her fiery emerald gaze. Aye, he could almost feel their intensity crackle and spark. The sight made his body tighten.

  She sat up and rested on her knees. "If you are referring to the way you handled Michael back at the cottage, he wasn't worth the effort, and neither is Liam."

  "Liam has insulted you."

  "And yet here I am, all in one piece. Can't you just accept that? Stubborn man. Do you know why I was ill? I was trying to get back to you. I was worried about you. If it hadn't been for that little brat Rory, I'd have been half way to warning you about Liam's intention to challenge for my hand."

  He began wrapping his plaid around his waist and glanced at her stormy expectant face. "Then I'll grant him his wish."

  "No! Give me strength. That's exactly what I've been trying to avoid. I risked my neck for you. Are you telling me it was worthless? That I could have just sat around waiting for you to come fight Liam and rescue me? Oh, but that's right. What if Liam had won?"

  A flare of tension hurtled through him. "You doubt my abilities to defend you?"

  She sighed and rose from the bed, her body still unsteady as she walked slowly toward him. Stopping before him, she raised her hand and cupped his cheek. His body groaned at her touch, and he swallowed hard.

  "I could never think that. I know you're no coward. But I've already given up my home, my life, and my career—possibly my mind. You are all I have, and I'm not about to lose the man . . . the man I love."

  Her words pierced his heart like a fatal arrow, penetrating deep into a place he swore never to be vulnerable again.

  His chest constricted as he reached up and placed his hand over hers.

  He didn't want to feel such blasted emotions, but damned if it didn't feel good to hear her say she loved him.

  She gazed up at him through lowered lashes and granted him a wicked smile that made his breath catch, loins ache. Brazen nymph.

  "Besides. You do realize I'd have to follow you. I mean, as an archaeologist and historian, I'd find it fascinating to observe and document . . . ."

  His mouth claimed hers, effectively silencing her foolish protest.

  So sweet she was, he couldn't get enough of her taste, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as he demanded more of her. He nipped and teased her lips, drinking in her soft gasps and whimpered moans.

  His breathing raced, heated blood surging with need he could no longer suppress, as the subtle scent of her skin surrounded him like his plaid, warming his heart and embedding itself in his soul.

  Aye, but she was perfect. And she was his. A week he
'd gone without her, a week too long. He'd never allow it again. On his life, he vowed to protect her, to keep her safe.

  Liam had to pay for his treachery.

  Her nimble fingers traced along his chest and down to his stomach, setting a blazing trail of desire in its wake. His hand clasped gently behind her neck and drew her closer. Hell, but the woman was trying to distract him from his task.

  He reached around her and lifted her up into his arms. "Verra well, woman. I'm nae saying I agree with you, but as you are obviously nae fit to be left alone, I will have to watch over you."

  He suppressed a smile as she nuzzled into his neck and sighed. Emotions would be the ruin of him if he wasn't careful.

  Liam would keep—for now.

  She ran a finger along his jaw line. "So, you will stay and rest with me?"

  "In a manner of speaking—You will be relaxing."

  As he laid her on the bed, she gave him a quizzical look.

  "And what will you be doing?"

  He leaned over her, placed a kiss on her silky shoulder, then another on her belly as he pushed her nightshirt up along her shapely legs. "I'll be making sure you relax."

  Before a glowing hearth in the MacTavish hall, Father Martin sat at a rough wooden bench, his bony hands wrapped around a mug of ale. He raised the drink to his lips, then imbibed a deep draft of the malty brew.

  He screwed up his face at the taste of bitter hops, then coughed and spat on the floor.

  Pity the beer at the MacKinnon keep was far better. It was one of the few pleasures he would miss about the wretched place.

  At the sound of footsteps, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned toward the doorway. Two maids scurried past, both glancing at him as they did so.

  A scowl curled his lips.

  So very plain, the pair.

  In the past, he'd taken whatever company the Laird MacTavish had offered him, though he never did care too much for blondes. Nae. He preferred long golden brown hair, the color of honey when the sun shone on it.

  His grip on the mug tightened.

  Margot MacKinnon had such hair.

  Damn the woman!

  He emptied the tankard, then slammed it upon the table, sending a thudding echo throughout the hall.

  Hell and the Devil!

  It didn't matter how much he drank, the sensation that Margot MacKinnon was still alive festered and crawled beneath his skin like some putrid disease, eating at his mind and rotting away his soul.

  The woman was an enchantress.

  From the moment he'd set eyes on the creature near thirty years ago, he was spellbound, drawn to her in such a way he couldn't explain, nor wished to comprehend. She'd been so young, so innocent . . . or so he'd thought. When she married the Laird MacKinnon, he'd tried to take her under his wing, offering her the spiritual guidance she would need for her married life.

  But she often refused his advice, instead choosing to embrace many heathen traditions that would have seen her banished by the church—or worse. Yet, despite her brazen defiance, he'd protected her, watched over her, tried to save her from herself.

  Aye. He knew of her secrets . . . for they were his secrets too.

  "I was nae expecting you until week's end, Father." Douglas MacTavish stood in the doorway of the great hall and removed his thick leather gloves. With a weary sigh, he ran an assessing glance over the figure in tattered robes sitting at his table, then unclipped his heavy coat and stepped into the room.

  Though his guest was several days early, he felt somewhat unsurprised. Rumor had it there was strange goings on at the MacKinnon keep, and no doubt the old priest had been discharged as a result.

  "Ma Laird." Father Martin rose from his seat and bowed slightly. "I take it you enjoyed a bountiful hunt?"

  He paused by the table and met the old man's shielded gaze. "We had a pitiful hunt and you know it."

  "Aye, ma Laird. Though with winter fast coming upon us . . . ."

  "Don't you dare lecture me, priest." He threw his gloves upon the table, then reached for the jug and poured himself a mug of ale. "I know what will happen to ma people if the larder isn't well stocked before the snows arrive. Perhaps I should be consulting you as to when I can expect the beasts to roam our forest once more?"

  For twenty years Laird MacTavish had witnessed the gradual decay of the lands surrounding his keep. Crops failed and game had become scarce. The long, cold winters claimed more MacTavish lives each year as his people grew weak and despondent.

  Even his own dear Katie lay cold in her grave for near five winters now, having died of a rampant fever that killed many of the women in the village.

  His hand clenched into a tight fist.

  Grant MacKinnon had a lot to answer for.

  "Forgive me, Laird, I was nae preaching your duty."

  Laird MacTavish eyed the priest with suspicion, as he picked up his mug and stood before the fire. "Tell me, Father, what news have you of Ewan MacKinnon? My men tell me he was found alive."

  The old man averted his gaze and reached for the jug.

  "Aye. It is the truth. I can’t explain it. Just before the battle he disappeared and for several days there was no sign of him. Just when his men had given him up for dead, they stumbled across him nae far from the keep . . ." The priest shifted upon his seat, then took a long sip of his ale. ". . . his wound was sewn up and cleaned."

  MacTavish shot the man a heated stared, raised his tankard and launched it into the hearth, the pottery smashing against the blackened stone.

  The priest recoiled as MacTavish approached, grabbed the front of his robe and hoisted him up to meet his burning glare. "You told me he wouldn’t survive such a wound. And now you tell me that nae only did he live, but someone tended him?"

  The priest's eyes bulged, his face deep red, as MacTavish tightened his grip.

  "I dinna know how, ma Laird. He should have perished. I swear it."

  "Argh!" Bloody fool he was for trusting the wretched priest. MacTavish released Father Martin, ran a hand through his hair and leaned over the hearth as he stared into the glowing embers. "And just how long do you think it will take for Ewan to figure out who stabbed him?"

  "Perhaps long enough for the task to be completed."

  Frustrated, MacTavish turned on the errant priest. "Make sense, man, I've nae time for your riddles."

  "Ewan MacKinnon is married, Laird."

  Hell. He hadn't heard that news. "Married? When?"

  "Nae a week ago, so I am told. Though, their union has nae been blessed. For the moment, I believe the lady will provide enough distraction to keep Ewan from seeking answers."

  A burning sensation twisted in MacTavish's gut. This unforeseen complication did not bode well with him. "But in time he will still seek them, priest. And what of the woman? She could be carrying his bairn as we speak."

  Father Martin rose and stood next to him, a demented expression on the priest's craggy face.

  "As I have said, ma Laird. The union has nae been blessed."

  Chapter 20

  Ellie sat in the gloomy, ramshackle chamber that was the chapel of the MacKinnon keep and peered around at the crumbling walls in dire need of repair.

  'Renovator's delight' sprang to mind, but, in her case, it was truly an archaeologist's dream. If given the chance, she would love to spend a few days in here taking notes and—who was she kidding? The one aspect of her situation that she hadn't considered until now was the fact she couldn't document anything for the future. She couldn't interfere with past—at least any more than humanly possible.

  And, sadly, she could share her own life's story with no one besides Ewan.

  "Such a pleasure to have you here, ma lady."

  "Thank you, Father Gregory. It's such a relief to know another soul who speaks English." A broad grin met her lips, as the young priest blushed beetroot red with obvious pride. He couldn't have been more than nineteen, twenty at the most. His nervous disposition around her was a tell-tale si
gn of his youthful awkwardness.

  Ewan had told her Gregory recently replaced their long-time priest, Father Martin, though Ewan seemed reluctant to go into detail.

  When he'd mentioned the old man's name, Ewan had become tense and irritable. Naturally, Ellie wanted to know why the man bothered him so much, but she now knew her husband long enough to wait for a more suitable moment.

  Her husband.

  Dragging her attention away from the fascinating architecture, she recalled just what she was doing there in the first place.

  She was supposed to be arranging her wedding.

  As if the young priest had read her thoughts, he picked up a book from the carved wooden altar and made his way next to her on the bench.

  He glanced at her, then tried to open the tome with shaking hands. The poor boy. Since when had she become so intimidating?

  Though the room carried a slight chill, tiny beads of perspiration created a soft sheen upon the priest's pale forehead.

  "We . . . we shall perform the marriage rights this Sunday during mass, ma Lady. If . . . if that is agreeable?"

  A knot formed in her throat; she found herself nodding repeatedly.

  Sunday. Three days away.

  Why was she so nervous all of the sudden? Since her arrival here, being considered Ewan's wife was a foregone conclusion. Though the ceremony itself would be nothing more than a religious formality, she couldn't help but wonder if she would be married in a traditional white gown with plaid, or if the service would have any resemblance to the ceremonies she’d read so much about in history books. But, then again, when had her family ever settled for the norm?

  Her eyes misted, as she remembered an old photo of her parents wedding. They were on an island somewhere in Indonesia at the time, and had married on a beach at sunset. Her mother wore a beautiful kabaya made from blue and white silk batik, while her father had somehow found a tuxedo and bowtie—no shoes. Not the most conventional wedding to be sure.

  But never had she seen a happier couple.