Highland Warrior

by Hannah Howell

  Ewan bit back the urge to tell Nathan to stay. He told himself he was a grown man, a man of strength and resolve. He should be able to be alone with Fiona and not give in to his base urges. She was touching his leg only to tend his wound, an innocent touch that could be ignored.

  That resolve began to fade away with each touch of her fingers against his thigh. He almost welcomed the pain of having his wound bathed with uisque-beatha and stitched, for it quickly cooled his blood. That reprieve did not last long, however. He felt his ardor stir to life again as she bandaged his leg, her soft fingers brushing perilously close to his groin as she worked. A quick look revealed that the bedcovers were bunched up enough to hide his reaction to her touch, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  “Ye have blood upon your face,” Fiona said as she straightened up from tying off the bandage on his thigh.

  “Tis naught,” he said. “Tis just a wee scratch.”

  “It should still be cleaned.”

  When she leaned over him to bathe the cut above his ear, Ewan inhaled so sharply he nearly choked. Her breasts were within inches of his mouth. He found himself staring directly at the soft swells of her breasts above the neck of her gown. Her skin was a clear, soft honey shade. No matter how hard he tried, he could not dispel the urge to see if her skin would taste as sweet and warm as it looked.

  Just as she started to move away, he wrapped his arm around her waist to hold her still. He kissed the top of each breast, inhaling deeply of her clean scent. She trembled and he heard her breath catch in her throat. Although he ached to linger there, to feast upon that soft skin, he kissed his way up her elegant throat to her lips. Her eyes were wide and held a look he was sure was one of a growing desire. Her full lips were slightly parted and he took quick advantage, kissing her deeply and with a fierce need he could not hold back.

  With each stroke of his tongue, Fiona felt her desire grow. He moved his hand over her back and it felt as if fire trailed in its wake. A soft moan escaped her when he slid his other hand up her side and ever so gently squeezed her breast. None of the fear Menzies had bred in her was roused by Ewan’s touch, only a greed to feel more.

  She was just about to crawl up onto the bed with him, when he suddenly pushed her away. Hurt and confused, she struggled to steady herself as she looked at him. There was a slight flush upon his cheeks and his breathing was ragged, both signs of what she felt sure was desire. Then she heard Mab call her name and the sting of his abrupt rejection eased a little.

  Ewan covered his eyes with an unsteady hand. “Go. Mab needs you.”

  Fiona hesitated only a moment before hurrying out of the room, meeting Mab just outside the door. She was frustrated by the abrupt end to their love-making, but knew it was for the best. Ewan was wounded and in no condition to consummate the passion they felt for each other. He was also still fighting that attraction. Now was not a good time to try to make him see that he did not have to resist. Ruthlessly suppressing all remnants of desire, she turned her full attention to helping Mab tend to the other wounded men. Ewan would not be able to run away or avoid her for several days, until his wound had begun to heal. There would be plenty of time to conquer his resistance.

  Chapter 7

  “I strongly suggest ye lie back down,” Fiona said as she stepped into Ewan’s room and caught him struggling to sit up on the edge of his bed. “Ye have only had those stitches in for two days. That wound cannae possibly be closing up so soon.”

  For a moment Ewan contemplated bluntly refusing to obey her, then told himself not to be a fool. He was dizzy and sweating and he had not even finished sitting up. Muttering curses over his weakness, he collapsed back against the pillows Mab had recently piled at his back. He scowled at the tray Fiona set down on the table by the bed.

  “That better nay be gruel or broth,” he grumbled.

  “Tis neither. Tis mutton stew,” she replied.

  When she sat on the edge of the bed, holding the bowl and spoon in her hands, he snapped, “I can feed myself.”

  Fiona said nothing, just handed him the spoon, but she kept a firm grip on the bowl. She watched along with him as he moved the spoon toward the bowl and she knew he was trying with all his might to still the trembling in his hand. Finally, he dropped it into the bowl, and slumped against the pillows.

  “I am as weak as a bairn,” he complained. “Tis because ye have been giving me naught but broth for two days.”

  She rolled her eyes as she shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Tis because ye bled so badly ere ye got the wound tended to. Tis also because ye just used what strength ye had regained by resting in trying to get out of bed too soon. I suspicion the knock on your head doesnae help, either.”

  “It only put me to sleep for a few minutes,” he said quickly before she shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth.

  “Which means it was a good hard knock e’en if it didnae crack the bone.”

  He said nothing else, simply sat there feeling a little ridiculous as she spoon-fed him his stew. It would be far better for his peace of mind if only Mab tended to him, but he could not bring himself to demand such a thing. Ewan knew that such a refusal of Fiona’s aid would hurt and insult her, especially when he could offer no good reason for doing so. One did not tell a lady that he wanted her gone because the mere sight of her made him hard as a rock. Whenever she was near him, the pain of his wounds seemed but minor twinges compared to the aching need she stirred within him.

  If he took care, he would be healed by his birthday, he mused. Then he could go to the village, take one of the willing maids at the tavern to bed, and rut away this fever in his blood. The plan had barely formed in his mind when he had to admit to himself that it would be a waste of his time and money. Since he had not had a woman for a year, he suspected he would have no real difficulty performing, but he knew it would not satisfy him, would not dim his desire for Fiona by even the smallest degree.

  It had been eight years since he had felt such a blind need for a woman, and he did not like the fact that he was tumbling into that snare again. Such a fierce desire and, he feared, such fierce emotions made a man weak and foolish. Ewan briefly touched the scar upon his face. Helena had taught him that, using his passion and love for her to betray him to his enemies. He could not allow himself to be so weak again.

  A small voice told him that Fiona was no Helena, but he struggled to ignore it. It was true that Fiona seemed to be honest and caring, but she also refused to tell him exactly who she was. There were good reasons for such a refusal, but he could not ignore the fact that there could also be sinister reasons for it.

  Just as he was about to tell her he had had enough stew, the door to his room was opened so forcefully it slammed against the wall. Ewan tensed when he saw his father standing there. The way his father was glaring at Fiona told him the man was in one of his furies. One could never be certain what Sir Fingal might do when he was in a rage. Ewan did not want to believe that his father would actually hurt Fiona, but did not feel as confident of that as he would like to be.

  “Ye are meddling in things that are none of your business, woman,” Sir Fingal yelled, pointing at Fiona.

  “And what things would that be?” Fiona was pleased with how calm she sounded, for the enraged Sir Fingal made her a little nervous.

  “Ye have been talking to the women.”

  “I hadnae realized that was forbidden.”

  “Dinnae be insolent. Ye ken exactly what I am talking about. I just told Bonnie to come to my bed and she said nay. Nay! To me!”

  Ewan stared at his father as he chewed on a mouthful of mutton stew he had not really wanted. His father sounded an odd mixture of furious, outraged, and stunned. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a faint smile fleetingly grace Fiona’s face. It appeared that she had purposefully done something she knew would infuriate the man and that astonished Ewan. What astonished him even more was that she appeared to be completely unaffected by Sir Fingal’s fury.
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  “That is her right, isnae it?” Fiona asked, her expression one of gentle confusion and utter innocence.

  “That is what she said ye told her. She said ye told her there was no law that she had to share my bed just because I had an itch to scratch.”

  “I dinnae believe I was wrong in that. I am sure there isnae a law that says she cannae refuse ye.”

  “There is my law! Tis my keep and I liked everything just as it was. Ye will cease putting foolish ideas into the heads of the women here or ye will be verra sorry.” He turned to leave, stopped, sniffed the shirt he wore, and cursed. “And I ken ye are the reason all my linens and clothes smell like thrice-cursed lavender so ye can stop that, too.” He slammed the door behind him as he left.

  Ewan shook his head when she started to give him another spoonful of stew. He watched her set the bowl aside and pick up a tankard. She was looking very guilty. She would not look him in the eye and there was the hint of a blush upon her cheeks. He grasped the handle of the tankard, but she kept her hands curled around it to steady it as he took a drink. His gaze never wavered from her face, but he had nearly finished the drink before she sighed and reluctantly met his gaze.

  “I ne’er thought to talk to the women,” he said.

  Fiona inwardly breathed a sigh of relief for he showed no hint of anger. “Weel, I dinnae mean to sound disrespectful, but I felt trying to talk your father into a little restraint might prove much akin to banging my head against a rock.”

  “Tis exactly what it would be like.” He exchanged a brief smile with her, then grimaced in self-disgust. “I confess, it ne’er occurred to me that the women might not want to share his bed. My father has a true skill at wooing the lasses, ye ken. I fear I just assumed all the women were saying aye because they wanted to, because he had charmed them or the like.”

  “I suspect some do want to. I didnae lecture them about sin and all. I simply told them that, if they really didnae wish to be used by the old laird or any of the other men here, they had the right to say nay. After all, the church praises and preaches virtue and such, and surely they are a higher power than the old laird.”

  “Are ye telling me that such a thing worked where ye came from? Tis a common practice for the men of a keep to make use of the maids within its walls. Some are e’en offered to the guests.”

  “Just because ’tis common practice doesnae make it right. Where I come from, the women are treated with respect and can say aye or nay as they choose. A mon shouldnae use his position of power to get women into his bed. The women, or most of them, dinnae dare refuse a laird, or his father, or his brother, or any mon who rules o’er them. Whores gather where’er there is coin to be had. Let the men use one of them.”

  “Or woo a lass, as my father does?” Ewan found he was curious about her opinion of his father.

  “Ah, weel, mayhap.” Seeing that he had finished his drink, Fiona set the tankard down, then turned slightly so that she was seated more comfortably on the edge of the bed as she faced him. “There is a part of me that thinks a woman who allows her virtue to be stolen by nay more than pretty words and a bonnie smile deserves whatever trouble befalls her. Yet, another part of me thinks any mon who steals a lass’s virtue with lies and walks away, leaving her to suffer whate’er consequences there may be, ought to be punished.” She shrugged. “Contrary of me, I ken it. Yet, too often, that rogue has just robbed that lass of the only thing of value she might have. Tis the lying to get what one wants that angers me, I am thinking.”

  “Women lie to get what they want, too.”

  “Aye, and that isnae any better.” She clasped her hands together in her lap and readied herself to ask a question she could no longer hold back. “Why was your father painted blue?”

  It took Ewan a moment to grasp the abrupt change of subject, then he inwardly grimaced. When Fiona had made no mention of how his father had looked, Ewan had hoped she intended to simply ignore it. He had the feeling she had tried, but how could anyone really ignore a man who had blue markings over every bit of skin one could see? Fiona was clever enough to guess that those markings were also undoubtedly all over the skin one could not see.

  “The moon is full tonight,” he replied, then cursed softly when she just stared at him, her expression making it clear that she wanted a better explanation than that. “My father and several other men paint their bodies that way at every full moon and go out to dance about in the circle of stones. Naked.”

  “What does your priest have to say about such heathenish acts?”

  “That old fool is right out there dancing with them.”

  Fiona told herself it would be unkind to laugh. Poor Ewan was clearly humiliated by his father’s behavior. “Old Iain has already been out there.”

  “Aye, he just likes to leap about out there. He willnae put on the blue paint until the moon is full.”

  “I see.” She was not surprised to hear the strain in her voice as the need to laugh was swiftly breaking all restraints she had put on it. “Why?”

  “My father heard a tale that claimed the ancients used to do it to ask the gods to make them stronger and fiercer in battle, and…” He hesitated, deeply reluctant to finish.

  “And what?”

  “More virile.”

  Fiona clapped a hand over her mouth and stared down at the bedclothes. She could feel the laughter shaking her body and clapped her other hand over her mouth as well. It was rude, perhaps even a little cruel to laugh, but how could one not laugh? The image of a group of aging men, painted blue and cavorting naked beneath a full moon, was, quite simply, hilarious. She choked a little as she struggled valiantly, but finally collapsed against the bedcovers in a fit of laughter.

  At least she isnae horrified or afraid, Ewan mused. He briefly wondered if he ought to take offense, if only out of respect for his father, then shrugged the thought aside. What the man planned to do tonight was ridiculous. He would find it funny, too, if it did not cause so much trouble by feeding the rumors of witchcraft. After a moment, he started to smile, finding her laughter infectious.

  As her laughter eased, Fiona sat up only to discover that she had edged closer to Ewan. Their faces were but inches apart. He was smiling and she wondered if he had any idea of how handsome he was. When his smile began to fade, she tensed, wondering which way he would turn this time. Would he pull her close or push her away? She wished the man would make up his mind about what he wanted from her. The way he was warm one minute and cold the next was proving a little hard to endure.

  Ewan gently grasped her by the chin and, with his other hand, wiped away a tear of laughter that glistened upon her flushed cheek. He fixed his gaze upon her mouth. When she licked her lips, he softly cursed his own weakness even as he slid his hand to the back of her slender neck and tugged her closer.

  Just one kiss, he told himself. Surely he had the strength of will to steal one kiss without losing all control. The moment his lips touched hers, however, he began to doubt his own resolve. The sweet warmth of her mouth seemed to rush through his blood straight to his groin. When she parted her lips beneath his, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close as he greedily accepted that silent invitation.

  Fiona felt as if she was melting from the heat of her own desire. She eagerly returned his kiss, making no attempt to control or hide the passion he stirred within her. When he ended the kiss, she tried yet failed to catch her breath as he kissed her throat, her cheeks, and the hollow behind her ear. She trembled and gasped when he stroked her breast.

  As he began to kiss her again, he shifted their position until they were both on their sides. Fiona took quick advantage of the change, stroking his back and thrilling to the feel of his smooth, warm skin. Slowly, she slid her hand beneath the bedcovers to caress his taut buttocks and swallowed the groan that escaped him. A heartbeat later she found herself pushed away and Ewan turned onto his back.

  Shaken and chilled by the abrupt ending of the embrace, she sat up and looked at Ewa
n. He had one arm draped across his eyes so it was difficult to read his expression. There was a slight flush upon his cheeks and he was breathing as raggedly as she was, however. Those had to be signs of a passion as strong as her own. Or signs of pain, she suddenly thought with a horrified glance at his wounded leg.

  “Ewan,” she began, appalled that she could have so completely forgotten that he was injured.

  “Go away.”

  Fiona felt all her concern for him disappear in an instant, to be replaced by a pain so sharp she nearly cried out. He was not suffering from passion or pain, but regret, perhaps even shame. It was not passion or pain putting a flush upon his cheeks and making his breathing unsteady, but disgust. Whether it was with her or himself did not really matter.

  “I think it would be best if Mab tended me from now on,” he said.

  “As ye wish.”

  Picking up the tray she had brought in, she left him. She wanted to run, to find somewhere to hide, but pride kept her from doing so. It did not please her to meet with Gregor only a few steps away from Ewan’s door. The way his eyes narrowed as he looked at her told her that she was not hiding her tattered emotions as well as she had thought. She smiled her gratitude as a passing Bonnie relieved her of the tray, then clasped her hands behind her back,

  “I left Simon sleeping,” Gregor said, still watching her closely.

  “Ah, good,” Fiona replied. “Getting a lot of rest is the best medicine there is.”

  Gregor nodded. “Is something wrong? Ye are looking a wee bit pale and wan.”

  “I am just weary, ’tis all. I believe I will seek my bed and have a wee rest myself.” Fiona started to walk around him. “If ye would excuse me?”

  After watching her hurry away, Gregor scowled at the door to Ewan’s bedchamber. He had not intended to visit Ewan, but was now determined to do so. If he judged the look upon Fiona’s face correctly, his brother and laird had just delivered that lass a sound blow. It appeared he might be forced to knock some sense into Ewan’s thick skull a lot sooner than he had anticipated.