He loves them.
He looked at her and smiled. “These are only my kin within a couple hours ride of here. Were all my clan present, they’d number well over a thousand.” He gazed across the courtyard, pride gleaming in his eyes. “I sent out the call and these men answered it without hesitation.”
Yvette peered around the clearing. “‘Tis amazing.”
He winked at her. “I told ye, there’s nothing like the loyalty of Scots.”
Dugall brought Ewan’s steed forward. Mounting his horse, he signaled his brother. Dugall swung an unsuspecting Yvette before Ewan in the saddle. Her startled squeak was muffled when her face connected with his chest. A rumble of masculine laughter surged round the clearing as she clutched at him.
Roby trotted his dappled roan over to Shaidae. “Ye haven’t introduced yer bride,” he said to Ewan.
For a small man, Roby had a booming voice. His words carried to the ears of every curious Scot present.
Ewan sat tall and sure in the saddle. Taking Yvette’s clammy hand in his, he raised it to his lips. His eyes sent her a message she didn’t understand. He took a deep breath, then proclaimed to all, “Kin and kith o’ Clan McTavish, my wife, Yvette McTavish.”
A deafening roar exploded in the glen.
Yvette choked on a gasp. He did not.
Over one hundred eyes looked her way. She could feel the blush begin at her neck and creep, unchecked, to her forehead. Her head swam in great undulating waves. God in heaven, please tell her she’d heard wrong.
Closing her eyes, she swallowed against a peculiar pain in the vicinity of her heart. Why was Ewan forcing her hand? She had only said they were married last night to keep from being ravaged. Why had he not made that clear to his kin?
She tilted her head to look at him, to demand an explanation. She was certain he knew she looked at him, yet he stared straight ahead. She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but his dark head dipped in a quick, quieting kiss.
She tried again. “Ewan . . .”
His grip tightening round her waist, he cut her off. Raising his other arm, he shouted, “On to Craiglocky.”
The Scots thundered from the courtyard, their mounts tossing up great clods of mud as they left Munlocky’s behind.
Yvette sat numb, disbelieving. Every few minutes she ventured a peek at Ewan, then resumed worrying her lower lip. Each heartbeat was a painful tweak of duplicity. What was he about? He had claimed not once, but twice, in front of witnesses for pity’s sake, that she was his wife.
True, she had agreed as much the first time, though the lie plagued her conscience. She might be outspoken, and even a tad rebellious, but she was not a liar. At least she’d not been until she met him.
As if her engagement weren’t topic enough for the latest on dit, now she’d a marriage to explain away.
Ewan looked at the woman asleep in his arms. The telltale murmurs and jerks told him she wasn’t resting peacefully. When tears began slipping from the corners of her eyes, he decided to wake her, despite her sick body’s need for sleep. “Evvy,” he nudged her ear with his mouth. She was heated with fever, her skin almost translucent. “Petite, wake-up. You’re dreaming.”
“Hmm?”
“Wake-up, you’re having a nightmare.”
Her lids inched open, then shut for a moment before opening again. “I’m thirsty.” Her voice was a scratchy crackle.
He untied a leather flask from his saddle, then handed it to her. She took a sip of the water before returning it to him. Securing the flask in place, he pulled a smaller one from inside his coat. “‘Tis more of the tea Gregor concocted for you this morning. It will soothe your throat.”
Yvette didn’t argue. She took several swallows of the tepid liquid. “Thank you.”
Studying her face, Ewan recognized a lingering ennui in her eyes. They rode in silence for a time. Though the day was fair, a persistent breeze beset them. Loose strands of golden hair frolicked in the light wind.
Glancing down, he noticed she had dozed off again. He tucked her hair behind her ear. She shivered in her sleep. Wrapping his tartan around her shaking form, he settled her more comfortably in his arms.
Yvette sighed, burrowing against his chest, her face snuggled against his shoulder. Ewan’s heart tugged with what was now a familiar sensation. He would do anything to make her his, had already done so, though she knew it not. Kissing the top of her head he vowed, “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Hours later, when he gave the order for the clan to halt to rest the horseflesh and eat, Yvette didn’t stir. Duncan came alongside Ewan’s mount to lift her down after his third attempt finally succeeded in awakening her. Offering a sleepy smile, she reached for Duncan, who retained a courteous, but secure hold on her arm until Ewan’s feet were planted on the ground.
Ewan led Yvette to a willow tree. He laid his tartan beneath its sheltering branches. “Evvy, Hugh has food. I’ll fetch you some.” Handing her the flasks from earlier in the day he suggested, “Try to drink a bit of both.”
She nodded, her eyes glazed and dull.
Ewan eyed her. She was paler and looked even weaker than she had this morning. Making his way across the clearing, he sought Gregor. “Will you come with me? I fear Yvette is worse than she was this morning.”
The men approached the tree and found her curled onto her side, sound asleep on Ewan’s plaid. Gregor shook his head. “‘Tis nothing more I can do for her here. We needs get her to Craiglocky, and soon.”
Hearing the urgency in his Gregor’s voice, Ewan gave the order to mount and finish eating while on the move. Lifting Yvette, he exchanged an anxious glance with Gregor. She didn’t waken, even when Ewan passed her to his muscular cousin so he could mount Shaidae.
Worry over her caused Ewan to push his clan ruthlessly. Six hours later, the weary troop clattered across Craiglocky’s drawbridge. The thunder of two hundred horses’ hooves colliding with wooden planks roused Yvette from her stupor-like slumber.
The entire Keep’s household stood on the steps, eager to extend a warm welcome and to meet the mysterious woman under their laird’s protection. Hugh dismounted, then reached to take her from Ewan’s grasp. He set her on her feet, but retained a light hold on her, until Ewan slid to the ground. Her fever bright eyes were unfocused, and her entire body wavered unsteadily.
Hands trembling, she licked her chalk-dry lips. She tried to straighten her mussed hair and smooth the wrinkles from her rumpled, travel-stained clothing. “I must look a sight,” she muttered under her breath.
Ewan’s lips twitched. Here she was ill, and yet she worried about her appearance. He came alongside her and wrapped one arm about her waist while supporting her arm with his hand.
Gazing at him, she attempted a smile. She glanced at the steps where his family stood and her nascent smile faded. “Ewan?”
Something in her tone alerted him. The steps were too great a distance for her to walk. He scooped her into his arms and carrying her up the short flight of steps. Depositing her on the stoop in front of his mother, he said, “Yvette, this is my mother, Giselle Ferguson.”
Yvette managed a weak, “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you,” before she fainted dead away.
Chapter 23
Soft, feminine voices woke Yvette. Voices, and pacing feet with an occasional recurring slapping sound.
What was that noise? Thwack. There it was again.
She lay listening to the unfamiliar voices. Who are these women, and why are they in my bedchamber? With a jolt, she realized she didn’t know what bedchamber she was in or even where she was for that matter.
The events leading to waking in this scrumptiously soft, heather-scented bed were a blur. She scrunched her brows. She’d left Munlocky’s, riding before Ewan on Shaidae. His clansmen had been there too. And, she’d
been ill.
She stretched her legs. They didn’t hurt. She flexed her arms beneath the downy bed covers. No pain. She started to turn her head but froze in sudden remembrance.
God in heaven, Ewan had claimed they were married.
“I think she’s awake,” said a serene voice.
The pacing and slapping stopped, right beside Yvette’s head. Slitting open an eyelid, she half-smiled. “Hello, Addy.”
Adaira whomped onto the bed, bouncing Yvette an inch off the goose down tick. “‘Bout time, sleepy-head. I didn’t think you’d ever awaken. I’ve been home two whole days.” Adaira gestured wildly, her braid whipping across her shoulders.
“Oh, do be still, Addy. Give Yvette a moment to collect herself. She doesn’t need you jostling about on her bed.”
This rebuke was given by a woman with light cocoa-colored hair. She was the female equivalent of Dugall’s unrivaled male beauty. Yvette had never laid eyes on such a perfection of features before. Familiar turquoise eyes, filled with serene intelligence, gazed at her.
Yvette smiled at her and sat up, her thick braid falling over one shoulder. She winced as her stiff muscles protested the movement. She adjusted her position on the poufy mattress. There, that was better.
“You must be Isobel.” Her throat didn’t hurt anymore. She swallowed to be sure. No, the pain was gone, though her mouth felt like a herd of Shetland ponies had galloped across her tongue—after romping in a bog.
Isobel smiled and Yvette blinked in astonishment. Lud, Isobel was even more exquisite when she smiled.
“Indeed. Please excuse Addy. She’s a bit of a hoyden.” Her teasing tone belied any true censure.
Yvette’s gaze shifted to Adaira who, wearing leather breeches, sat cross-legged, swishing a riding crop through the air. Ah, the thwacking noise.
Completely unaffected Addy grinned back before sticking out her tongue and declaring, “Better a hoyden than a bluestocking.”
Looking to Yvette, Isobel arched a tawny brow. “You see what I mean?” Shaking her head she declared, “Totalement désespérée.”
Pretending to yawn, Yvette hid an amused smile behind her hand. It was apparent the sisters were close, despite their bantering. What would it be like to have sisters?
Another young woman, Seonaid perhaps, stood at the chamber’s door speaking to someone in the hallway. “Run and tell mother she’s awake.” Small feet pattered the length of the corridor.
The girl turned from the door, her mouth curved into a shy smile. Most definitely Seonaid. She was a pretty girl, resembling Adaira, though her eyes were lighter, and she’d a much timider spirit than her boisterous sister. There was a sweetness about her which touched Yvette. “Seonaid, Ewan tells me you have a special ability with animals.”
Seonaid tilted her head, her warm eyes studying her.
Yvette had no doubt she was being assessed.
Evidently she passed muster because the youngest Ferguson daughter smiled again, this time bright and welcoming. “‘Tis a gift the Laird bestowed on me.”
Giselle floated into the room, all sublime smiles and soft eyes. She bore a hot oatmeal posset and tea for Yvette. A young freckled-face girl, no more than eight, carried a bed tray with sweet gruel and custard. Taking the tray from the thin girl’s hands, Giselle’s mouth curved into a kind smile.
“Thank you, Iona. Why don’t you return to the kitchen and ask Sorcha to heat bathwater for our guest. Perhaps there are some chores you can do to help cook.”
Dipping a clumsy curtsy, the redheaded moppet turned to leave. Spinning around she exclaimed, “Glad I be to see ye awake, lady. I knew ye’d be awake today.” With that brazen declaration, she bolted from the room with her ragged dress hiked to her knobby knees exposing dirty, bare feet.
Yvette stared after her retreating form, grinning. “She’s adorable. Who is she?”
Giselle smiled once more. “One of our many orphans, bless the dears.” She placed the breakfast tray on Yvette’s lap, chatting the whole time. “They’re another causality of the war and two years of crop failures. We do what we can to care for them, but I fear ‘tis not enough.” Her soft voice with its French accent reminded Yvette of Belle-mére. A wave of homesickness washed over her. She needed someone familiar nearby. Ewan.
“Is Ewan here?” From the heat that seared her face, she knew she’d pinkened.
The Ferguson women exchanged glances before Giselle answered. “Indeed, he’s been most impatient, waiting for you to wake-up.”
He has? Another wave of emotion bathed Yvette, this one much more pleasant. While she ate, she looked around her room. It was a stone turret with long angular windows inside the semi-circular arc. She had never been inside a Scot’s keep before, but she thought this might be the bower.
She counted four doors. Heavy, solid furniture, generations old, filled the large room. The unusual shaped window boasted a raised window seat with an abundance of pillows. Seonaid sat there petting a bunny. Every-so-often, her fawn-like eyes met Yvette’s and each time, she felt like Seonaid could see her soul, or read her mind. Though disquieting, the impression wasn’t frightening in the least.
To please her hostesses, Yvette drank the posset and ate as much of the food as her shrunken stomach could hold. The bathwater arrived as she finished her meal. She was grateful none of the women mentioned either her engagement or sham marriage. She was mindful not to as well.
Pulling aside a painted screen, Giselle exposed another door. Pushing it open, she revealed a bathing room, complete with a large copper bathtub. “Come, girls, let’s help Yvette with her bath.”
Yes, she needed to be at her best when she faced Ewan. It was going to take every bit of her courage to insist he set things right and tell his family and clan the truth.
They were not married.
Ewan paced to the window, looking out for the thousandth time, before spinning about and striding back to the mahogany desk.
Hundreds of sheep roamed the rolling hills, their white coats creamy blots against the blanket of green. The loch, a glistening indigo crystal, hosted a variety of waterfowl. Across Loch Arkaig, migrating cranes wandered the ruins of the original castle. A dense forest, edged on two sides by deceptively innocent appearing bogs, was the backdrop to the ancient, sooty ruin.
The beauty of the view was lost on him. His thoughts were consumed with Yvette.
The last four days were the longest in his memory. He’d spent hours sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, willing her to wake-up. He would be forever grateful to Gregor and the old crone who’d taught him the art of healing. It wasn’t until yesterday morning, Gregor announced Yvette had regained consciousness and was now in a deep, restorative sleep.
Ewan had feared he might lose her, and the fierce emptiness which had claimed a portion of his soul at the prospect still ached unbearably.
Stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket, his fist closed around the brooch he carried with him, waiting for the opportune moment to present it to Yvette. It had to be soon. He’d threatened his clan and family with banishment if anyone so much as whispered the truth before he told her himself.
Exhaling a gusty sigh, he slumped against the window’s glass. Shaking his head in self-recrimination, he muttered aloud, “I must ask her to forgive me. Perhaps if I explain my motives she’ll understand.”
Would that be enough to earn her forgiveness though?
He wasn’t ignorant of the intricacies of courtship. Announcing one was wed before a ceremony commenced, let alone prior to the groom proposing and the bride accepting, was definitely not de rigueur, not even in Scotland.
Especially, when the young woman in question made it clear, she would not be forced into a marriage with anyone. He shouldn’t be at all astonished if Yvette didn’t spurn any further advances from him and retur
n to London posthaste. Standing at the window, gazing at the picturesque scene, Ewan hoped, with every fiber in him that would not be the case.
He could not—would not—let her leave.
“You can see Yvette now.”
Ewan whirled to face the study door. Isobel stood there.
“How is she?” His gaze flicked upward. “Did she ask about me?”
Isobel tilted the corners of her mouth. “She’s remarkably well, and, yes, she asked after you.” She crossed the study to peer into his face, then touched his arm. “You love her.” The statement was one of simple truth.
Ewan angled his head. “Aye, more than I believed possible.”
Isobel hugged him. Twining her arm through his, she tugged him to the door. “Come then, she’s waiting for you.”
Yvette scolded herself for her stampeding pulse and hopscotching heart. Good heavens, why was she all aflutter at the prospect of seeing Ewan? Plucking at the printed fabric of her dress, her mouth tilted at the corners. Giselle and her daughters had outdone themselves.
She wore one of her favorite afternoon dresses. She had decided to cast off her mourning weeds, and was gowned in a pink and yellow chintz frock. Her hair was piled into a simple knot atop her head with wispy ringlets framing her face. Seonaid had tucked a few yellow baby roses into the bun. Pink clustered pearl earrings and a dab of jasmine perfume completed her ensemble.
With Giselle and Adaira’s help, she walked to a divan placed before the hearth. Though her muscles were stiff from disuse, she needed little assistance traveling the short distance. Once seated, Giselle tucked a knitted wool afghan over Yvette’s lap. “It won’t do for you to take a chill again, now you’re mending so well,” she declared.
Three brisk raps echoed on the thick arched door leading to the chamber. Yvette’s stomach tightened. She wiped damp palms on the nubby woolen blanket. Though her back was to the door, she could hear Ewan’s velvety baritone as he spoke to one of his sisters. She remained statue-like, staring at her hands.
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