It was not easy, but Fiona murmured an agreement. Fiona would never allow him to see the strong surge of pity she felt for him. It was born of the thought of a small fatherless boy tossed aside by his own mother. Simon was right to say he had a better life than he might have had otherwise. She also suspected he had found acceptance, perhaps even a rough affection, amongst his half-brothers and the others. There had to be some scars upon the boy’s soul, but his sweet, shy nature made her believe that they were not deep ones. Simon had survived and was thriving. That was, in the end, the most important thing.
She was distracted from her thoughts on Simon’s sad beginnings by the other men. One by one, they dropped their emptied plates in front of her. Fiona supposed those grunts they made as they did so were intended as thanks or compliments. It was clear that they expected her to clean up after them. That was irritating, but not unexpected. The look of amusement upon Sir Ewan’s face, however, acted upon her temper as stinging nettles did upon her skin. Only Simon’s quick offer to help saved the man from having his ears vigorously clouted. Grumbling under her breath, she worked with Simon to clean up after the meal she had been ordered to cook.
“What are ye about?” Ewan asked Gregor when his brother carefully studied his back as they walked away from Fiona and Simon.
“Looking for the daggers,” Gregor drawled, and grinned.
Ewan briefly smiled. “Tis indeed fortunate I found all her knives. I suspect I owe Simon a boon for speaking up so quickly and saving me from a sound thrashing.” He chuckled and felt almost as surprised as Gregor looked.
“Ye find her looking as if she wants to gut ye amusing?”
“Aye. Tis a clean, clear anger. Much like a mon’s or a lad’s. I can see it and, I suspicion, soon I will be able to tell what will stir it. That could prove helpful.”
Gregor nodded. “Ye might be able to get her to spill out a few truths if ye get her into a rage.”
“That I might. Tis a far better plan than the one ye had,” he added in a soft growl.
“Seduction is a proven way to pull secrets from a woman,” said Gregor. “If ye havenae the urge to try it, I could—”
“Nay.” Ewan inwardly grimaced over how quickly and vehemently he had spoken. “We dinnae need any more enemies, and I think we will gain some if she is used ere she is ransomed.” Ewan decided that sounded very reasonable and stoutly ignored his brother’s look of amusement.
“So be it. Shall I secure her for the night? Nay sure how to do so, but ’tis needed, I believe. I suspicion that lass could cause us a great deal of trouble if she put her mind to it.”
Ewan cursed softly as he turned to look at Fiona. Gregor was right. She needed to be secured in some way. It would not be that difficult to alter the guard schedule he had arranged, ensuring that she was watched closely throughout the night. To his dismay, he could not bring himself to enact that very sensible plan. He did not like the thought of any man remaining so close to Fiona as she slept, or having the opportunity to gain her interest.
Utter madness, he thought crossly. And a weakness that could easily bring him a great deal of grief. If he were back at Scarglas, there would be places he could go, work he could do, in an attempt to put her out of sight and mind. There was no place to hide here.
He sighed, accepting his own contrariness. He did not want another man too close to her for too long, so he would have to be the one to guard her during the night. It could answer a few questions, such as just how great a weakness he suffered and how difficult it would be to fight the attraction he felt for her. It could also prove to be a very long, sleepless night.
“I will guard her,” he said. “The night guard has already been arranged. Tis easier to just leave it as it stands. I just need a wee bit of rope.”
“Rope?” Gregor asked as he followed Ewan to where their supplies were. “Ye plan to tie her up?”
“That would be the better plan, but nay. If naught else, I wouldnae wish to try and explain to the men why a mon of my size feels the need to tie up such a wee lass just so that he can sleep. I will just leash her to me so that she cannae slip away in the night.”
Without another word to Gregor, Ewan walked toward Fiona, who was just finishing the chore of cleaning up after the meal. Her lovely eyes widened at the sight of the rope he held, then narrowed. Before she could retreat, however, he caught both her slender wrists in the grip of one hand. He saw her leg tense as she slowly drew it back.
“I willnae be pleased if ye kick me, lass,” he drawled as he dragged her toward the spot where Gregor hastened to spread out a blanket for them to sleep upon.
“Weel, that would certainly keep me weeping for most of the night,” Fiona said, giving up her futile attempts to free her wrists. The man’s grasp was not really painful, but it was unbreakable. “Just what do ye plan to do with that rope?”
Ewan did not reply. He secured one end of the rope around her wrists and the other end to one of his own wrists. After checking that the bonds were secure, he met her gaze. She looked as if she wanted to wrap the rope around his neck and strangle him—slowly. He wondered why he found that amusing and decided that lust was disordering his wits.
Fiona silently called him every foul name she could think of as he gently, but firmly, pushed her down onto the blanket. He sprawled at her side, then spread another blanket over the top of them. When he crossed one arm beneath his head and draped the one she was bound to over his stomach, she found herself forced onto her side, facing him.
“I dinnae suppose ye would accept my vow to nay try to escape?” she asked as she shifted around a little in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position.
“Nay. I dinnae ken who ye are and ye dinnae plan to tell me, do ye, Fiona-of-the-ten-knives?”
She almost smiled over the name he gave her, then grimaced. Fiona-of-the-eleven-knives would be better, for that would mean that she still had one hidden away and could cut herself free. There were worse things he could have done to make sure she gave him no trouble during the night, but this would make sleep difficult.
So would this enforced closeness, she realized as she suddenly became aware of a few disconcerting facts. She was far too aware of the big, strong body so close to hers. He was enticingly warm and smelled nice, clean and with his own personal scent that she found dangerously attractive. Fiona abruptly recalled their wrestling together as he had relieved her of her weapons. A blush singed her cheeks as she realized she wanted to feel those big hands on her again; only this time they would linger and caress. It was madness, but she instinctively knew it would be very difficult to cure herself of it.
Closing her eyes, she tried to revive the fear of strangers, of men, that Menzies’s perverted pursuit had bred in her, but it would not come. For reasons of its own, her heart would not allow her to fear this big, dark man. Feelings she had never experienced before, for any man, were stirring to life within her. A part of her wanted to let those feelings grow and soar. A saner part of her wanted to bury them. Not only was this a very bad time to discover she could be attracted to a man, could even feel passion for one, but it could prove to be a very unwise choice. After silently cursing long and hard, Fiona fought to clear her mind of all troubling thoughts. Perhaps after some sleep, she could find the strength to stand back and see everything more clearly.
Ewan chanced a look at the woman he was leashed to. His gaze lingered when he realized she was asleep. The softness sleep brought to her face and the moonlight made her only more beautiful. He silently cursed as he was forced to admit that he could look at that small heart-shaped face for a very long time and never tire of doing so. Ewan knew that a lot of men would find her flawed because of the scars upon her face, but in his eyes, they did nothing to lessen her beauty.
He clenched his hands into tight fists as he fought the urge to touch Fiona. The memory of the silken warmth of her skin beneath his hands as he had searched her for weapons was a hard one to banish. Nay, it was impossible, he admitted. H
e ached to feel that warmth again, to linger over it, from the soles of her small feet to her smooth brow.
Simply thinking of touching her soon had him aroused to the point where it was painful. Ewan wanted to feel those firm, plump breasts nestling into his palms. He wanted those long, strong legs of hers to be wrapped around his waist. He desperately wanted to hear her cry out his name whilst caught fast in the throes of the passion he would stir within her.
It was madness. The dreams of a fool. He was big, dark in looks and in humor, and badly scarred. Women did not flock to him as they did to Gregor. Once a year he spent a night with a whore, who took his coin and never begged him to return soon. If a woman ever cried out his name, it was in fear.
Ewan closed his eyes and swore he would kill this attraction. For many reasons, he had decided to remain a man alone. If he was not careful, did not guard his feelings, he feared his lovely hostage could easily change his mind, could make him try to reach for what he could never have.
Chapter 3
Fiona dreamed of her horse tossing her to the ground and running away, leaving her to her fate. She scowled, wondering why she felt as if the contrary beast had thrown her, then fallen on top of her. Still more asleep than awake, she opened her eyes, but she saw neither grass nor rocky ground, only a blanket. That made no sense. People did not leave blankets spread about ready to catch someone thrown from their horse.
Forcing the lingering clouds of sleep from her mind, Fiona raised a hand to rub her eyes, only to gape. Her wrists were tied together. A heartbeat later, her memory returned and her mind cleared. It was no horse on top of her, squeezing all the breath from her lungs, but her captor.
She tried to wriggle out from beneath him, but he had her firmly pinned to the blanket. All she accomplished was to rouse him enough to make him shift his position a little. Fiona nearly gasped aloud when she became aware of exactly what was now nudging against her backside. She not only had a very big man crushing her; she had a very big aroused man crushing her. Although she told herself the way her heart raced was due to fear, she knew she was lying. There was a faint touch of alarm within her, for the man felt to be impressively well endowed. What truly upset her, however, was the sudden urge to move her hips and nudge him back. Obviously, a night’s sleep had not restored her senses at all.
When she felt him nuzzle the side of her neck, a strange warmth flooded her body. Even as she savored that feeling, she could hear her brother’s wife laughingly say that a man often rises with the sun. Her blood cooled. Sir Ewan was probably not even fully awake. He had simply risen with the sun, felt a warm female body at his side, and was planning to make use of it. Well, if he was going to nuzzle and nudge, she thought crossly, he could at least know whom he was doing it to.
“Get off me, ye great ox,” she muttered, moving whatever part of her body she could in a vain attempt to push him away. “I cannae breathe.”
Ewan opened his eyes and stared down at the woman he was sprawled on top of. He was tired, having gotten little sleep, but he woke up quickly when he realized the position he was in. God’s teeth, he had been nuzzling her neck and he was as hard as a rock. Even worse, he had obviously been rubbing that hardness against her lovely backside. The position they were in was so deliciously suggestive, he trembled faintly from the sheer strength of his desire. Silently cursing, he moved off her so abruptly, he sharply yanked on her bound wrists.
“Pardon,” he mumbled and, hearing his men begin to stir, reached over to untie her.
Fiona slowly sat up and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She had the unsettling feeling it was going to be a long while before she could forget the feel of his big, strong, and highly aroused body pressed so close to hers. That both frightened and annoyed her. Not only did she know nothing about this man, but it was a very poor time for her to be suffering such an attraction, or infatuation, or whatever it was that was plaguing her. She already had one too many men in her life, she thought angrily as she stood up, brushed herself off, and started toward the trees.
“Where do ye think ye are going?” he demanded as he leapt to his feet and began to follow her.
“Tis morning. What do most people have to do in the morning when they first awake, ye fool?” When she heard him continue to follow her, she whirled around to confront him, and was pleased when he hastily backed up a step. “I dinnae need any assistance.”
“But ye do need guarding.” He swiftly looped one end of the rope he still held around her wrist and retied the other end around his own. “Weel? Go on.” He almost backed up another step when she glared at him.
For one brief moment, Fiona considered not going. It would be humiliating to relieve herself with him standing so close by. Unfortunately, her full bladder was making it all too clear that she would regret that decision, would humiliate herself even more if she did not hurry on her way. Muttering curses against all men, she started on her way again, glaring hard at his broad back when he took the lead.
As she found herself on one side of a tangled clump of shrubs with him on the other a few minutes later, Fiona did wonder why she was so disturbed by it all. She had been raised by her five brothers, and there had been very little refinement or delicacy at Deilcladach for the first thirteen years of her life. When Gillyanne had arrived, some gentling of their rough ways had followed, but she doubted anyone would consider the MacEnroys refined. Performing a basic, necessary function within the hearing of another should not be troubling her as much as it was. It troubled her so much that, despite her desperate need, she was unable to relieve herself until he began. When had she become such a delicate flower of womanhood? Fiona prayed that her sudden sensitivity was not because she had some mad wish to appeal to the man.
“I need to wash,” she said when he began to drag her back to the campsite.
Ewan looked at her, idly wondering why he should think she looked so tempting when she was scowling at him. “Ye do understand that ye are a hostage, dinnae ye, and nay a guest?”
Fiona looked pointedly at the rope leashing her to his side, then looked back at him. “I believe my poor, wee woman’s mind has begun to grasp that fact. I still want to wash.”
“I think ye were raised with too light a hand upon the reins,” he grumbled as he led her to a small brook several yards away.
“I think I was raised perfectly.”
She ignored his grunt and tried to ignore the rope on her wrist as they both knelt by the brook to wash their faces and hands. Taking from her pocket a small square of embroidered linen Gilly insisted she carry at all times, Fiona dampened it in the cold waters. She was rubbing her teeth clean when an abrupt sense of approaching danger made her tense. A heartbeat later, as she searched the wood for some sign of what had stirred her alarm, she felt Ewan tense.
“Enemies?” she asked in a near whisper even as she stood up with him. “So close to your lands?”
“On every side and round every corner,” he muttered. “How fast can ye run?”
“If we werenae tied together, I could beat ye back to the camp.”
“Just keeping pace with me will do for now.” He caught the glint of sunlight hitting metal in the thick wood on the other side of the brook. “Now.”
They had not run far when Fiona pulled a little ahead and Ewan realized she had not been giving him some idle boast. She was not only swift, but agile, nimbly dodging or leaping over every obstacle in their path. The moment they reached the camp, he untied the rope around their wrist as he curtly told his men to prepare for an attack. He shoved Fiona toward Simon and commanded the youth to guard and protect her.
Fiona bit back a protest as Simon dragged her to a spot near the horses and to the rear of Ewan and his men. Now was not a good time to argue over her right and ability to defend herself. She did wish she had her sword, however. It felt wrong to stand there completely unarmed, a youth of but sixteen summers her only shield against any enemy who might reach them.
That enemy reached the camp b
ut a moment later. They swarmed out of the wood from two different directions so swiftly and silently, Fiona was astonished that the MacFingals were not startled into a dangerous moment of hesitation. Instead, they met the attack with a speed and ferocity that was awe inspiring. Although Simon was doing an admirable job of watching for any man approaching them, Fiona did the same. She kept an especially keen watch upon the horses. This might not be a raid, but that would not stop anyone from trying to steal whatever they could get their hands on.
The MacFingals were efficiently decimating their enemy even though the odds against them were nearly three to one, and Fiona began to relax. She hated fighting and bloodshed, but was pleased that her captor and his men were so skilled. These men had not come to make peace, but to kill. What did trouble her was what the great skill of the MacFingals implied. It seemed they were far too accustomed to people trying to kill them. Staying with the MacFingals might provide her with a haven Menzies could not find, but it appeared it would not be a particularly safe haven.
Just as the enemy began to retreat, Simon cursed and shoved her more firmly behind him. A huge, filthy, hirsute man ran toward them, stopping just out of the reach of Simon’s sword. The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth through his greasy beard. Fiona tensed when she realized none of the other MacFingals had noticed that one of the enemy had slipped past them. Instinct told her that Simon was skilled with his sword despite his youth, but he was facing a man nearly a foot taller and several stone heavier.
“Give up, laddie. Ye cannae win against me,” growled the man.
“Beating ye willnae e’en raise a sweat,” drawled Simon.
Fiona had to admit that, for such a sweet lad, Simon could produce an impressively chilling smile.
Highland Warrior Page 3