Highland Warrior

by Hannah Howell

  “I made ye yell, but then I ruined it,” he said as he fought to regain a little control over his desire.

  “Ah, weel, I wouldnae say it was ruined. Dimmed a wee bit, mayhap, once I realized what ye had done.”

  “It wasnae because of ye,” he began, but she touched his lips with her fingers and silenced him.

  “I ken it. I want your child, if God in His grace blesses us with one. Tis true, I dinnae wish to bear a child a year like some ewe, but Lady Maldie showed me a way to prevent that.”

  “So I wouldnae have to pull away?”

  She almost smiled at the delight he could not fully hide. “Aye. What I ken will work just as weel.”

  “Then use it as ye wish, but if it fails too often, I will practice restraint. I have seen too many women sent to their graves worn out by constant child-bearing. Ye willnae be one of them.” He kissed her, pleased beyond words by the dazed look she wore when he ended the kiss. “And now I will make ye yell again.”

  “Mayhap I will make ye yell,” she said.

  “Nay doubt ye will though I doubt ’twill be heard above your screams of pleasure.”

  Before she could respond to that teasing arrogance, he kissed her again and she was soon caught firmly in the grip of the passion he roused within her. She readily gave herself over to the sweet bliss he inspired with every kiss, every caress. As she felt her release tear through her, she heard herself loudly call out his name. It only enhanced her pleasure when she felt him bury himself deep inside her body and heat her womb with his seed as he bellowed out her name.

  “I think ye were louder,” she murmured later as, after they had washed away the remnants of their passion, she curled up against his side and rested her head against his chest.

  “Nay, ’twas but a whisper compared to the noise ye made,” Ewan said.

  He grinned when her only response was a soft grunt before her body slackened in sleep against his. Ewan could not help but feel a pinch of male pride over how he had obviously exhausted her. And made her yell, he thought, grinning even wider. There was pure delight to be found in hearing a woman cry out his name as she shivered with passion.

  The fact that Fiona found pleasure in his arms amazed him, yet he could no longer doubt that she did. He found he had no doubt about the honesty of that passion, either. Over the years he had seen enough of false passion, in the beds of the village whores and in Helena’s arms, to recognize the difference. He could even feel the difference in the way Fiona moved, in the look upon her face, in the sounds she made, and even in the way her body held his deep within hers when her release swept over her. For some reason Fiona’s desire was stirred by his touch and he was humbled by that gift.

  Ewan idly combed his fingers through her thick hair, enjoying the feel of her soft, slender body so close to his, and the lingering warmth of sated desire. He had finally heard a woman cry out his name as his touch brought her to that sublime peak of pleasure, and he knew he would be greedy to hear it again and again. Big, dark, and scarred though he was, he could make the small, lovely Fiona scream. It was enough to make him vain, he mused as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

  He felt almost cheerful, light of heart and mind. Some of that was due to the fact that he no longer feared madness lurked in his blood. It was embarrassing to have a father who was more a child than a man, but that was a great deal easier to accept than madness. Fiona had given him that gift, too, and his gratitude ran deep. He had not wanted a wife, but after only one night as Fiona’s husband, he was glad that he had married her.

  The only shadow on the horizon was that he knew it would be easy to love her. A part of him wanted to, wanted to place heart and soul into her small hands and trust her to treat them well. Ewan knew it was cowardly, perhaps even unfair to Fiona, but he could not bring himself to do that. Years of protecting himself from feeling too deeply, trusting too much, were not so easily cast aside. He found it somewhat amusing, in a sad way, that he who could endure wounds to his body yet never shy from battle could cower so at the thought of a wound to his heart.

  Wrapping his arms around his slender wife, he rested his cheek against her hair and sighed as he closed his eyes. Ewan greatly feared that she was already holding his heart in her small hands despite how hard he tried to fight her allure. He could only hope that he had the strength of will to keep her from knowing it.

  Chapter 12

  “A cursed Cameron in my house,” grumbled Sir Fingal. “I ne’er thought I would see the day.”

  Fiona rolled her eyes as she sat down across from him at the laird’s table. She had faced the morning with a smile, her body still warmed by Ewan’s loving, and her appetite keen. After a bath, she had made her way to the great hall to break her fast. Even the sight of Ewan’s father seated at that table had not dimmed her good mood. Unfortunately, he had spoken to her and Fiona wondered how long it would be before he soured her mood. In the two weeks she had been Ewan’s wife, Sir Fingal had revealed a true skill for making her angry.

  “I am nay a Cameron,” she said for what she felt had to be the thousandth time. “I am a MacEnroy by blood. I am a Cameron only by marriage.” She filled a bowl with porridge and poured a little dark honey on it.

  “Ye are a MacFingal by marriage.”

  “Fine. I am a MacFingal. That still means I am nay a Cameron, doesnae it?”

  “What ye are is an insolent lass.”

  “Aye, I am.” She began to eat her porridge, disappointed to see that Sir Fingal had obviously not finished his meal and so would be her companion for a while yet.

  “My son needs to take a firmer hand with ye.” Sir Fingal filled a large bowl with porridge and smothered it in honey. “Ye need him to teach ye respect and obedience. Ye need to be brought to heel.”

  “I should like to see him try,” she muttered.

  Sir Fingal shook his head as he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth. “Weel, at least ye serve some purpose. Ewan isnae behaving anymore as if he doesnae ken what a mon’s parts are for. Ye may be able to give him a few sons, though ye look too thin and small. And ye have reminded me why I havenae taken another wife.”

  “Ye havenae taken another wife because ye are still married to the one who fled from here.” She could tell by the brief look of confusion on the man’s face that he had completely forgotten the woman.

  “Och, aye, her. Faithless bitch,” he grumbled. “She only gave me one son, then betrayed me with a cursed Gray.”

  Since pointing out to Sir Fingal that his complaining about another’s faithlessness was the height of hypocrisy would be a complete waste of time, Fiona ignored his words. “Another son, eh? Did ye ne’er breed a lass or two?”

  “Aye, three. I wed one to a Guthrie and one to Kinnaird. Thought it would gain us an alliance or two, but nay, the lasses were quick to stand with their husbands against their own father. One wee mistake and all my hard work was for naught. The other lass ran off with a Gray. Women always betray a mon in the end, e’en when that mon is their own loving father.” He sniffed and looked near to tears.

  Fiona snorted with contempt over that show of an emotion she knew was utterly false and was not surprised when he was quickly glaring at her again. She hoped the daughters’ husbands had proven to be better men than their father. She also sincerely doubted it was only one wee mistake that had ended an alliance sealed with a marriage. Since it was doubtful Sir Fingal would tell the truth, she did not bother to ask what that wee mistake had been. There was little doubt in her mind, however, that those marriages were helping Ewan mend some of the damage his father had done. Unfortunately, there had been no marriage between a Gray and a MacFingal. Just a lot of seduction or poaching of the MacFingal women.

  “Why do the Grays keep taking your women?” she asked.

  “They dinnae have many of their own,” replied Mab as she sat down next to Fiona and helped herself to some porridge. “They have a lot of enemies, too. One of those enemies got into their keep when the men we
re nearly all absent, oh, near to fifteen years ago it was. They were brutal.” Mab shivered. “They killed old and young, mon, woman, and bairn. Verra few escaped and, praise God, most of them were the bairns. Some women were taken, but I dinnae think they were e’er reclaimed.”

  “So the bastards go about helping themselves to everyone else’s lassies,” added Fingal.

  “Aye,” agreed Mab. “They have become quite notorious for that.”

  Sir Fingal nodded and looked hard at Fiona. “So ye best keep yourself within these walls.” He stood up and started to walk away. “Ye may be all bone and scars, but a Gray cannae be too particular.”

  Fiona glared after the man, strongly tempted to go and kick him. “That mon is enough to make a lass want to scream and tear out her hair,” Fiona muttered, then noticed that Mab was looking at her a little oddly. “Do I have porridge stuck between my teeth?”

  Mab smiled and shook her head. “Nay, ’tis just that, weel, I think the old laird is growing fond of ye, as fond as he e’er feels about anyone.”

  “Fond? The mon does naught but glare at me, grumble, and insult me. That is fond?”

  “He talks to ye, Fiona, almost as he talks to the lads. Fingal doesnae talk to women that way.”

  “He talks to ye much the same as he talks to me,” Fiona said even as she realized that Mab was right in a way, that Sir Fingal did not speak to women as he did to men.

  “Why so he does. It must be because I have been here for a long time and have nursed him through a few wounds and injuries. Tis different from how he speaks to the other women, though. With the other women he either tells them what to do, ignores them, or tries to flatter them out of their shifts. I sometimes think he doesnae e’en ken most of their names. At least, not unless he wants something. Then he recalls it or just calls the woman lass or wench.”

  “I am nay sure I want ye to start me thinking that there is more to the mon than I had thought.”

  “That would take some getting accustomed to, but I begin to wonder if there just might be a bit of depth to the old fool. Nay much, but a wee bit. He does have feelings for his sons.”

  “Nay, I saw how he was when Simon was wounded. He didnae blink an eye when he thought the lad was dead or ask about his wounds when he found out the boy wasnae dead after all.”

  “Of course he didnae. Ye were standing there with all the men. Fingal couldnae show any feeling o’er one of the lads there. But he did go to Simon each day whilst the lad was healing, to tell him wild tales or read to him. He also visited Ewan whilst he was healing. I thought on it and realized he always comes to see the lads if they are sick or injured. I discovered he visits the young ones, as weel, his own and his sons’ bairns. Then there is the fact that he provides for every child he has sired. Two of his children died and he visits their graves every sennight.”

  Fiona was a little shocked. That did seem to indicate that Fingal had some glimmer of affection for the children he bred so recklessly. It would explain why none of his sons seemed to dislike him or hold any anger or resentment toward him. That would also imply that, despite the man’s weaknesses and oddities, he had formed some sort of bond with his children.

  “Does he ken the names of all his children?” Fiona asked.

  Mab nodded. “All their names and all their ages. He isnae always sure who their mothers were, though.”

  That was very telling, Fiona mused as she took a drink of cool cider. Sir Fingal might not be a very good father and was an abysmal laird, but perhaps he was not as thoroughly bad as she had first thought. Of course, the fact that he had some trouble remembering the mothers of the children did not surprise her and suited the man she had thought him to be. His opinion of women was so low, it was appalling. Despite that, she knew she would be studying the man more closely now. A man who could recall the names and ages of so many children could not be all bad, could he?

  As she and Mab finished their meal, they decided it was a good day to do some work in the garden. Fiona had discovered a true love for working in the garden. She had tended herb gardens before, but it was the flowers which interested her more. It was a little strange to find such an elaborate garden within such a formidable keep, especially one filled with big, dark, somewhat rough men, but they had given Mab free rein. And Mab had created a haven of beauty, Fiona thought as she moved amongst the flowers, pulling weeds.

  As she worked, Fiona wondered what to do about her husband. The passion they shared was sweet and hot. They indulged themselves like greedy children every night and, often, in the morning as well. It would be easy enough to simply hold fast to that and leave matters well enough alone. Fiona suspected there were a lot of wives out there who would fall to their knees and offer up fulsome prayers of gratitude if their husbands could give them the bliss Ewan gave to her. It seemed selfish to want more, but she did.

  What she wanted was love, she thought as she began to trim a wildly growing honeysuckle vine. She loved Ewan with everything in her and she wanted him to love her back. Naively, she had thought that, loving him as she did, he simply had to love her back. She had also felt that love had to lurk beneath all that fierce passion. That, too, had been naive, for it was well known that a man’s passion could be a thing apart from love, or even the mildest of affection. It had taken her two weeks to wake up to the useless foolishness of that blind naiveté, but now she had.

  The problem was, she did not know what to do now, or even if there was anything she could do. He was not cold toward her during the day, but there seemed to be a wall between them that she could not break through. Despite the passion they shared, once Ewan left their bed, he became the man he had been before they had become lovers. The only thing he no longer did was run away, at least not so obviously. He did not make her a part of his life in any real way, either. More and more she was beginning to feel as if she was nothing more to him than the woman who warmed his bed and could give him legitimate children. That was starting to stir up some very bad feelings inside her. She was beginning to feel more like his leman than his wife. Somehow she had to change that, for it was a wound to her heart that would certainly fester over time, producing bile and bitterness.

  Hunger finally pulled her from her thoughts and the garden. Mab had already left to visit a woman in the village who was about to bear a child. Feeling oddly alone despite all the people around her, Fiona made her way to her bedchamber, pausing on the way to ask for a bath to be prepared. She actually missed Nathan following her everywhere. And that, she mused, was a rather sad indication of the troubled state of her marriage.

  Once the bath was prepared, Fiona sank down into the hot water and sighed with pleasure. Lost in her thoughts about Ewan and their marriage, she had worked a little too long and too hard in the garden. She rested her head against the rim of the bath and let the heat of the water soothe the various aches in her body. Closing her eyes, she sleepily wished a hot bath could also soothe the aches in her heart.

  Ewan stepped into his bedchamber and stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed upon Fiona sleeping in her bath. Never taking his gaze from her slender form, he shut the door and latched it. He had just come from a quick swim in the river to wash away the sweat and dust of training the men and was seeking a clean shirt. The shirt could wait, he decided as he strode over to stand by the side of the tub.

  Jesu, but she was beautiful, he thought as he stared down at Fiona. They had been married for two weeks and he still felt a tightening in his gut when he looked at her. There were far too many times during the day when he wanted to see her, talk to her, reassure himself that she was still there, but he always fought the urge. Trotting about after his wife like an unweened pup after his dam was no way for a grown man to act. It was certainly not dignified or restrained. If he chased her down to make love to her as often as he thought about it, he would be showing no control at all.

  It was because it was all so new to him, he told himself as he knelt by the tub. He had never had such a beautiful woman welcome h
im into her arms and turn to sweet fire at his touch. Helena had been beautiful, but her warmth had been a lie, her welcome a trap. As he picked up the washing cloth and soap, he realized he could no longer make himself doubt Fiona’s passion, but that only increased his astonishment.

  He began to bathe her, starting at her small, rather pretty feet. Ewan smiled as a frown crossed her sleeping face and she muttered something. He had finished washing her legs and had begun to wash her left arm before she opened her eyes. The blush that colored her cheeks made him chuckle.

  “Ewan,” Fiona protested, “I can bathe myself now.”

  “Nay, I am enjoying this,” he said as he began to wash her breasts. “Ye shouldnae sleep in your bath, Fiona. Ye could drown.” Tossing aside the cloth, he soaped up his hands and returned to washing her breasts.

  “I think they are clean now.” Fiona was not surprised to hear a slight tremor in her voice for her desire was stirred by his touch. “I also think ye are doing a wee bit more than giving me a bath.”

  “Aye, I am, but be kind to your husband and let him finish his wee game. I have ne’er assisted a lass in her bath.”

  That statement silenced Fiona’s last protest over the intimacy. The idea of sharing something with Ewan that he had never shared with any other woman was too tempting to resist. As she banished the embarrassment she felt, the desire that had been stirring within her broke free. Then he slid one wet, soapy hand between her legs and she lost all ability to think, wantonly giving herself up to the searing pleasure of his touch.