The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

by Caine, Carmen

  “’Tis simple enough,” she said with a distracted smile of her own. “A braw lad, soft of heart.”

  She didn’t speak the rest, but she thought it. Aye, she knew right well what her heart was telling her. She wanted a man with broad shoulders, long limbs, and eyes as blue as the sea. A man with a tortured soul she knew she could heal.

  It took her a moment to notice the shocked silence surrounding her.

  And then she realized her mistake.

  “A … lad?” Alec asked, clearing his throat.

  Chapter Four – “You’re No Brother to Me”

  Moridac stood there, suffering a loss of words as Ewan watched impassively from the shadows.

  “Methinks the lad is a wee bit daft,” someone muttered.

  The youth gave an almost girlish giggle. “Aye, ‘tis what my wee sisters tell me they want in a lad,” he said, slurring his words somewhat in his haste. “’Tis what I pray I’ll become one day to hold the lass of my dreams.” He scanned the room before him as a look of shocked outrage belatedly suffused his face. “Ach, now, ye dinna think I was speaking for myself, did ye?”

  Most of the men appeared downright confused at this admission. A few of them were ill at ease, and Alec’s piercing green eyes narrowed into speculative slits.

  “But we asked ye what ye want, lad,” someone grunted. “Not what ye think a lass wants, aye?”

  “Aye, who can fathom what the lasses want. They’re peculiar creatures, they are,” another remarked.

  As the talk turned then to the mysteries of the female mind, Moridac withdrew from the conversation, settled back against the wall, and nervously nibbled at his nails.

  Ewan frowned and folded his arms. He found the lad’s presence troublesome, and settling back himself, he regarded the lad from under hooded lashes.

  Since the moment he’d met him, he’d thought the lad would make a better lass. He was far too slender, too graceful, and his skin too soft. But, Sweet Mary, this evening, in the dim light of the burning embers, he didn’t look like a lad at all! The curve of the lad’s throat was downright womanly!

  And his eyes were unusually expressive. Deep, liquid, brown eyes that seemed to read his soul.

  Ewan dropped his gaze to the soft wreath of black curls framing the youth’s face. A particularly large curl lay against the nape of his neck, a neck with an unusually seductive curve.

  With his frown deepening, Ewan shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

  Tricks of the firelight, that’s what it was, nothing more.

  And then the lad bit his lip. They were full, rosy lips.

  Rubbing his suddenly aching forehead, Ewan made his mind up all at once. The lad had to go. At once. Before he lost all sense of reason.

  At first, he’d promised to escort the youth to Stirling. But after his first confusing encounters, he’d shortened it to the Scottish Border. But even that seemed too far now. He much preferred to be rid of the lad sooner.

  Mayhap one of the men had procured coin enough to pay the youth and send him on his way at morningtide. ‘Twas a bit callous but most likely safer for the youth in the end. After all, the patrols weren’t searching for a lone lad.

  And none could deny that the battlefield was too grim a place for such a gentle soul.

  A hand fell on Ewan’s shoulder and he glanced up, surprised to find Alec stooping over him.

  “And ye?” the man asked with a teasing grin. “What do ye wish for in a lass, Ewan?”

  Ewan raised a brow, surprised the conversation had gone a full circle, but even more astonished that Alec would ask him that particular question. The man knew the answer right well.

  Dropping his gaze to Alec’s hand still resting on his shoulder, he muttered thickly, “Move your hand, lest ye lose it.”

  Alec merely squeezed his fingers tighter in an obvious gesture of comfort. Then lowering his voice, he murmured, “Iona is not a fitting match for ye, Ewan, even though she be my kin. Ye deserve true love. Aye, mayhap fate has a say—”

  “Love is pointless. ‘Tis a dream, nothing more,” Ewan answered flatly.

  “Nay, I—” Alec began earnestly.

  “Enough!” Ewan grimly cut him short. And rising to his feet, he quitted the smoke-filled hovel and headed out into the darkness.

  Taking the rough stone path leading into the forest, he leaned against the trunk of a tree, and snapping a twig off a thick branch, idly began plucking the leaves. He didn’t think for a time. He merely stared out unseeing into the darkness, listening only to the soft pit-pat of the rain on the leaves overhead.

  And then his lips formed a name. Iona. Iona Hepburn.

  He hadn’t thought of her in months.

  Having grown weary of his son’s lack of progress in wedding to produce an heir, the Earl of Mull had taken matters into his own hands the year before. He had promised Ewan’s hand to Iona Hepburn, cousin to both Alec as well as Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus and Lord Warden of the Eastern March. Ewan had met her on occasion, and for the most part, struggled to recall anything about her except a vague memory of a fiery temper and red hair to match.

  Much to his father’s consternation, he hadn’t explicitly agreed to the betrothal.

  But he hadn’t objected either.

  And as time passed, both families had begun to plan the wedding, assuming his silence meant tacit approval. He himself wasn’t sure. He had felt nothing about the entire matter.

  But then, he rarely felt anything anymore. The truth was that he’d lost interest in women altogether of late.

  Clenching his jaw, he tossed the stripped twig aside.

  Aye, and that was why his fascination with the lad was so bothersome.

  Determined to see his plan through, he headed back to the cottage. The lad would be sent packing in the morning and that would be the end of it.

  Stepping inside, he returned to his spot next to the fire.

  The conversation had turned to the topic of hunting, and Alec sat on the three-legged stool, relating the tale of Moridac’s slaying of the boar, though in a much more embellished form.

  “Aye, and right skilled he was,” Alec repeated, helping himself to a swig of ale.

  “If only it were true.” Moridac laughed along with the rest as he passed around a small leather bag filled with oatcakes.

  “Aye, ‘tis true!” Alec insisted and then turned to enlist Ewan’s support. “Speak the truth, Ewan. The lad is no unskillful archer, is he?”

  Ewan drew his brows together. “Aye, Moridac is beyond skilled as an archer, I’ll grant him that,” he agreed, eyeing the slim, dark-haired youth now playing a rowdy game of dice in the corner with several of the men. “And his heart is as brave and valiant as any. But we are at war. There’s no place for a lad to ride amongst us.”

  His serious turn of the conversation caught the attention of all.

  “Ach, Ewan!” Alec protested mildly around a mouthful of oatcake. “I’d wager my finest dirk that he’s old enough.” Tipping his stool back on two legs, he raised his voice. “Moridac, lad, how many summers do ye have under your belt?”

  Across the room, Moridac craned his neck in their direction. “And why do ye care to know?” he challenged, his lively dark eyes brightening with interest.

  “Why canna ye answer a simple question?” Alec retorted, slamming his stool back down on all three legs. “’Tis always a challenge with ye!”

  “Ye’ve the patience of a nit, Alec!” Moridac answered playfully.

  As their banter continued, Ewan crossed his arms and observed the raven-haired lad once again from beneath furrowed brows.

  But then Moridac’s dark eyes met his, gleaming with amusement, and Ewan glanced away. There it was again. The odd effect the lad had upon him.

  Abruptly, the lad threw in his hand at the dice. “I’m off,” he announced. “’Tis time I saw to Diabhul.”

  It was with some measure of relief that Ewan watched him go.

  “He’s old enough—” A
lec began as soon as he’d gone.

  But Ewan cut him short. “The lad leaves on the morrow.”

  Several of the men gasped.

  “Ach, but ye’ve grown downright disagreeable of late, Ewan.” Alec’s tawny brows knit into a line. “If ‘tweren’t for Moridac, we’d be feeding the crows now, and well ye know it!”

  “I’ll brook no argument. Give the lad coin and send him on his way,” Ewan ordered, a little surprised himself at the harshness in his tone.

  At that, Alec rose abruptly to his feet, knocking the stool to the floor. “Nay! Not after what he’s done for us,” he said hotly. “Tell him yourself.”

  All eyes followed him as he stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  There was a stilted silence, one in which Ewan crossed his arms and slowly walked to his makeshift bed of piled cloak and plaid. Keenly aware of the disapproving glares of his men, he turned to his own thoughts and settled in for another long, sleepless night.

  After a time, both Moridac and Alec returned, and as they too rolled into their cloaks and plaids, snores gradually replaced all other sounds.

  Once again, sleep eluded Ewan.

  He sighed, knowing it would be another night of scant rest.

  The rain battered the windows as he laid his head upon his arms and listened to the steady breathing of his men. Gradually, the storm outside passed, and the fire burned down on the hearth, leaving nothing but silence to mock him.

  Several times, he eyed the lad’s sleeping face. He looked so young and peaceful with his raven hair gleaming in the soft firelight.

  Expelling a breath of annoyance, Ewan tiredly rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and allowing weariness to claim him, closed his burning eyes.

  But sleep only came in fits and starts, and the night passed with interminable slowness. And it was with his customary relief that he saw the dawn break.

  At a soft rustle of cloth, he closed his eyes and from under his lashes, watched Moridac rise. Tiptoeing over the sleeping men, the lad slipped outside.

  With a grim scowl, Ewan made up his mind.

  He’d tell the lad now.

  Drawing his cloak around him, he stepped out into the cold morning air. Mud squelched beneath his feet as he shaded his eyes and scanned the area.

  There was no sign of the lad.

  A bitter gust of wind lifted the hem of his cloak. The thin sunshine would do little to warm the day. In the distance, clouds gathered on the horizon, heralding more rain. It would be a miserable ride.

  Moving swiftly, he set off once again down the narrow path toward the forest. For a time, he walked alongside a murmuring brook, and he had just made up his mind to turn back when he spied Moridac through a gap in the ancient, gnarled trees.

  The lad was kneeling by the water, his cloak and his tunic had fallen from his shoulders, and he appeared to be concentrating upon unwinding a bandage wrapped around his chest.

  Ewan paused.

  Was the lad injured?

  Concerned, he stepped through the underbrush just as the bandage fell away. It took Ewan a moment to recognize what he was seeing.

  The soft swell of a breast. The gentle curve of a hip.

  And then his jaw dropped open.

  There was no doubt. This was no lad. Moridac was a woman!

  Relief coursed through him, a relief so profound that he nearly chuckled outright.

  And then the twig he was standing on snapped.

  At the sound, Moridac whirled, tripping over the exposed roots of an ancient oak to sprawl headlong into the damp earth.

  With a strangely light heart, Ewan all but laughed. “Aye, now, lass. ’Tis no cause for alarm.”

  Rolling over, she sprang to her feet and gathered her cloak close about her. “Stand back, Ewan!” She glared.

  The cloak slipped a little, exposing her bare shoulder, and all at once his blood ran hot. ‘Twas startling. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d allowed himself lusty thoughts over a lass.

  He did smile then. For the first time in months.

  Aye, he’d seen she was a lass from the start. He just hadn’t trusted his heart. And she was downright bonny. From her willowy height, short-cropped curls, to the perpetual mischievous gleam in her brown eyes.

  And then she scowled. And that simple knotting of the brows effectively doused any impulse he might have had to follow his heart.

  In that instant, he knew exactly who she was. Sweet Mary, but she’d changed since he’d helped to rescue her as a lassie from her cruel and aged husband!

  His heart sank.

  How could he even dare to think one lusty thought over Ruan MacLeod’s wee sister? Aye, he’d almost prefer that Moridac be a lad.

  Half-choking, the name tore from his lips: “Merry MacLeod!” He reeled back with his head spinning in disbelief. “What are ye doing here?”

  She was clearly surprised he knew her but recovered quickly. “How could I not come?” she challenged him in turn. And then a smile pulled her mouth, and dark, sooty lashes framed eyes dancing with mirth. “Did ye believe I was truly a lad?” she asked in a conspiratorial voice.

  He just stared, unable to wrest his gaze away. It was hard to believe that she was the wee lass he'd scaled the wall to rescue. The echoes of her screams still haunted his dreams, but there was no pain in her eyes now. They only sparkled with humor.

  “I had ye fooled,” she said with a grin, stepping closer to him.

  Finding her a wee bit too close for comfort, he stepped back, bumping into the gnarled trunk of a tree as he replied, “I’d sensed the truth was lacking.”

  “Aye, I did err once or twice,” she admitted, twisting her lip into a wry grimace, and then her expression sobered. “But I had to come. I owed ye a life debt, Ewan. I couldna live with myself it ye were to die imprisoned.”

  She stepped up to him and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand.

  It was an unexpectedly tender gesture, and one that he instinctively knew could undo him. He wanted to back away, but there was nowhere left to go. Pressing his back further against the tree, he grasped her wrist and gently pushed her hand away.

  “And Ruan?” he asked, seeking a distraction from her nearness. “Does he know ye came?”

  Her brown eyes sparkled at that, causing his heart to stir. “Do ye think he’d have let me come?” she asked, clearly amused.

  Ewan clenched his jaw and made up his mind at once. “Then I’ll see ye safely escorted to Skye afore I ride to Stirling,” he said. “We must ride fast, and ye canna let my men know you’re a lass.”

  Merry’s brow lifted curiously. “Are ye afraid they’d pester me with unwanted attention?” she asked.

  He glanced down, realizing he was still holding onto her wrist. Releasing it abruptly, he replied, “Nay, but there are those among them with loose lips. I willna have word spread that Ruan’s sister traveled unescorted and as a lad.”

  She gave a short bark of a laugh. “Are ye so protective of my reputation, then?”

  The scent of her hair teased his nostrils, and he would have stepped back more if he could. Unwilling to acknowledge the heat rising in his blood, he feigned an air of nonchalance and crossed his arms.

  “You’re like a sister to me, Merry MacLeod,” he said, knowing that nothing could be further from the truth.

  An impish grin formed on her lips, and with a daring glint in her gaze, she whispered, “But you’re no brother to me, Ewan MacLean.”

  Reaching over, she touched his hand lightly with a single finger.

  He closed his eyes, allowing himself only a moment to savor the sensation of her fingertips leaving a trail of warmth on his skin.

  And then he quickly retracted his hand.

  Aye, the lass threatened to stir his senses to life. But he couldn’t allow it. Not Merry. ‘Twould be a betrayal, though exactly of what kind he was unsure. It simply felt like one.

  “I’ll see ye safe to Skye,” he repeated abruptly.

&nbs
p; But she had only moved closer and, placing a hand on either side of his face, stood on her tiptoes to brush a soft kiss across his lips. Her lips were sweet, warm, as they lingered upon his. And it was a gentle kiss, filled with a tenderness he could almost touch.

  And just as he knew it would, his blood responded in an undeniable surge of lust.

  “Sweet Mary,” he swore, nearly toppling her over as he twisted away with a growl.

  He turned on her then, expecting to see her face rife with anger and rejection. But her brown eyes only sparkled with mischief.

  “I canna promise it won't happen again, Ewan MacLean," she said lightly. And then waving her hand at him, she ordered, “Now, turn away then, aye? If ye want me to play the part of a lad still, I’ve a wee bit of preparation to be done.”

  Swallowing hard, he turned his back upon her, and slowly his sense of calmness returned.

  He’d not let the lass weave her way into his heart.

  Not Merry MacLeod.

  A few moments later she was skipping up next to him and lacing her fingers through his. “I’m ready now,” she announced.

  He looked down at her, wondering how he could have ever thought her a lad. His eyes dropped to the rain-drenched curl on the nape of her neck, and a wave of pleasurable attraction washed over him.

  Annoyed at his lack of control, he extricated his fingers from hers. “Ruan will have my head if I dinna see ye safely returned to Skye!” he exclaimed.

  “He just might have your head, anyhow,” she answered pertly.

  He glanced at her and saw a flash of white teeth, and it took him a moment to realize that she was laughing at him.

  Rattled, he spun on his heel and headed back down the path, struggling to push all thoughts of Merry aside.

  A gray haze of smoke hung lazily over the cottage upon their return, and the scent of roasted meat permeated the air.

  Stepping inside, Ewan saw that one of the scouts had returned, apparently bringing with him a bag of clothing and another small boar now roasting merrily on the spit.

  “I’ve brought a few breeches and shirts,” the man was saying. “They’re looking for any man who wears the plaid.”