The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (21 page)

And then he felt a soft touch on his arm, and he glanced down, surprised to find Iona at his side.

“Allow me to provide ye refreshment, my lord,” she offered, sliding her hand up his arm.

It was a possessive gesture and one he didn’t welcome. 
He lifted his hand to pluck hers free, but the movement caused pain to lance across his ribs. Ach, he needed to rest. He glanced down at his shirt, wondering if he’d reopened his wound.

Iona thrust a cup of mulled wine into his face then, and he was tempted to slap it away. Aye, the woman was a mightily vexing one. 
Instead, he forced himself to accept the wine with a curt nod of thanks and set it on the table untouched, and then casting his eyes in a quick search, he saw that Merry had gone.

But then Alec caught his arm. “Ye’d best visit the priest, Ewan,” he advised, nodding at his shirt.

Ewan glanced down. A small patch of blood had appeared, and it was spreading. 
With a grim nod, Ewan excused himself and made his way to Lothar’s chamber in search of the holy man.

He’d deal with Iona after.

Then he would find Merry.

And he could only pray that Alec would remain a man of his word.

He took the spiraled steps at a slow pace and, peering into Lothar’s chamber, found the man awake. 
The redheaded maid sat on a stool by Frank’s side, darning a pair of woolen hose. But upon seeing Ewan, she rose to her feet without a word, and bobbing a quick curtsey, moved to stand by the fire with Lothar’s eyes following her every move.

Ewan smiled down at the man’s gaunt face. He was still pale as death, but he appeared a wee bit stronger.

And ever a man to not waste words, Lothar opened his dry lips and whispered, “I’m useless, Ewan.”

Ewan frowned and shook his head. “Nay, Lothar,” he disagreed in a calm, reassuring tone. “’Tis not a bad thing to give up the sword. Find yourself a lass and come to Mull. There’s land aplenty for ye, and ye’ll see that life is yet worth living.”

Ewan paused then, realizing that they weren’t just empty words of comfort anymore. To return to the Isle of Mull, the place of his birth, and to walk along its shores with his hands entwined with Merry’s seemed not only a life worth living but a life to give everything else up
for
.

He almost missed the man’s next words.

“Would
you
give up the sword?” the Frank asked weakly.

“Aye,” Ewan answered without hesitation. Leaning down, he clasped the man’s shoulder warmly. “And mayhap sooner than ye think, Lothar.”

And then the door opened, and the aged priest stepped inside. “Alec bade me find ye,” he said, pursing his lips as he spied Ewan’s red-stained shirt. “Come, lad, ye should be lying abed.”

After giving Lothar a hasty farewell and a promise to visit again soon, Ewan allowed the priest to guide him down the corridor to another dark wooden door. 
It opened up to a chamber with herb-strewn rushes upon the floor, a large four-poster bed in the center, and a small tapestry on the wall. A warm fire crackled upon the hearth.

Moving to the bed, Ewan sat down, a little breathless.

“The Lady Iona prepared this room for ye,” the priest informed as he pushed Ewan back onto the pillows. “Ye must stay off your feet, lad, and give this wound a chance to heal. Otherwise, ye’ll burn with a fever for certain.”

Ewan said nothing. He knew the priest was right, but he had no intention of staying in the chamber a moment longer than necessary. Iona would doubtless think it an invitation to join him.

In silence, the priest unwrapped his wound, exposing the jagged cut surrounded by bruised skin. Several stitches had indeed come undone, and l
eaving the man to his work, Ewan glanced away to stare at the fire, caught in the hypnotic spell of the dancing flames as he let his thoughts wander to Merry.

The simple desire to be near her was an overpowering one.

A smile stole across his lips.

Aye, he wished she lay at his side. Her presence alone made him breathe easier. It was as though a weight had fallen off his chest. Her laughing brown eyes warmed his soul. And the passion in her kiss … he couldn’t let himself think of that now.

Instead, he cleared his mind and listened to the peaceful sound of the rain drilling onto the roof mingling with the occasional crack of the fire.

Exhaustion swept over him.

He closed his eyes, promising himself it would only be for a moment.

* * *

It was dark when Ewan lifted his lashes.

And then he heard a soft footfall and felt a light touch upon his shoulder. Still only half-awake, he smiled and murmured, “Merry?”

There was a harsh intake of breath, and he realized the fingers moving across his chest possessed none of Merry’s warm sensuality.

Ewan sat up abruptly.

As he feared, it was Iona.

She stood by the bed, some of her hair woven in an intricate braid and her fingers bedecked with rings. Her red curls spilled over her bare shoulders, and her skin was creamy white in the dim light of the single candle that flickered on the mantle. She wore not even a shift but had wrapped herself only in a plaid, which she’d allowed to slip provocatively low.

Ewan expelled an exasperated breath. Pushing back a woolen blanket that someone had draped over him, he swung his legs from the bed and said flatly, “’Tis unseemly, my lady. Clothe yourself. I’ll not be sharing your bed.”

She stiffened but quickly hid all trace of displeasure and sent him an inviting smile instead.

“My lord, ‘tis not unseemly,” she said with a petulant pout before lowering her voice breathlessly. “‘Tis what takes place atween a man and a woman—a husband and a wife.”

“Aye, a husband and a wife,” Ewan answered in exasperation as he hastily dressed. “And ye should save yourself for your husband. I’ve already informed your father that we’ll not wed. There is nothing atween us.”

He watched awareness grow in her eyes, and then she stifled a gasp. Moving to the window, she turned her back to him and opened the shutters.

“Truly?” she asked, her voice taking on a hard edge, and then she turned upon him. The displeasure was evident in her eyes as she accused, “No doubt, ‘tis because of
her
. Ye stare at her like a besotted fool.”

It truly wasn’t because of Merry. He’d never intended to wed Iona to begin with, but he wasn’t certain if she’d like that explanation any better. 
Instead, he merely noted, “Then ye know she’s a lass.”

She stood, steeped in the moonlight pouring through the open window as it cast the room in shades of blue. 
“But what of me? Why not wed me?” Tears began pooling in her eyes. “What have I done to turn ye against me, my lord?” she gasped, choking a little.

She moved as if to throw herself into his arms, but he quickly sidestepped her and strode to the door. “Ye should go, my lady.”

But she wasn’t so biddable. She stood in the center of the room, struggling to regain her composure. “Have ye lost your mind altogether?” she asked, choking out a thin laugh.

“Nay, I haven’t,” he said with his hand upon the latch.

She darted forward then and, staying his hand, pressed her back against the door so he could not open it. 
“Ye should ponder the matter at length,” she said. Her voice took on a wheedling tone. “Dinna make so hasty a decision—”

“There was nothing hasty about it,” he said, peering down at her. “Nay, I only delayed in telling ye it would never happen. For this, I am truly sorry. Forgive me.”

She let her plaid fall to the floor then and desperately ran her hands over his chest.

Annoyance mingled with pity. “Do ye care naught for your reputation or station?” he asked harshly, his voice rough even to his own ears.

And then disengaging himself from her searching hands, he kicked the door open and strode out of the chamber.

“I curse the day I ever heard of you!” her voice followed him, rising in pitch with each word.

He would have to leave Hermitage and right soon.

Moving through the dark corridor, he made his way to the hall. There was little light, but he could barely make out the dim shapes of the servants sleeping upon on the floor. 
Aggravated with himself for falling asleep in that accursed chamber, he settled back against the wall and crossed his arms.

No doubt Alec had seen Merry safely settled for the night. 
It would be light soon. With the dawn, he would find them.

Tiredly, he lay his head back. 
And then a candle appeared in the hall, shuffling his way. He watched as the priest approached to kneel at his side.

“Drink,” he ordered, handing Ewan a wooden cup.

Accepting the cup, Ewan frowned at the noxious brew, and then looked up at the priest. “Alec and the lad, have ye seen them?”

“Aye,” the priest nodded swiftly and pointed down toward the end of the hall. “Asleep, the both of them. Now drink this, lad. ‘Tis for your health.”

With a curt nod, Ewan downed the drink and gagging a little, handed the cup back to the priest and watched him walk away.

He was exhausted, but it threatened to be his usual, sleepless night. 
Only once, had he slept the entire night through without waking, and that was with Merry at this side. 
With a smile, he leaned his head back against the wall again, and closing his eyes, thought of Merry as he willed the day to come.

* * *

Ewan opened his eyes from sleep, puzzled.

A shaft of sunlight streamed through the hall window. From the angle of the shadows, it was late morning, almost noon. For a brief moment, his brows collided in confusion and then he recalled the events of the night before.

He sat up, his head throbbing and feeling strangely groggy.

“Can ye hear me, Ewan?” Alec’s deep voice sounded by his side.

Squinting, Ewan turned to see Alec kneeling on the hall floor by his side. He’d changed into a white shirt and a fine plaid.

“Finally, you’re awake,” Alec said with thin lips. “Did ye tell the lass?”

“Tell?” Ewan frowned. He must have been drugged. “What happened?”

“The priest sought to give ye rest. He gave ye a sleeping draught,” Alec explained curtly. And then he drew his brows into a line and asked roughly, “Did ye tell the lass that ye are no longer betrothed?”

Ewan’s frown deepened. “Aye,” he said. Iona had been furious.

Alec appeared downright relieved. “Then ‘tis not as I thought,” he muttered under his breath. Standing, he passed his hand over his brow as if confused.

Still somewhat groggy, Ewan struggled to his feet. “Aye,” he said. “I told her and she wasna pleased. We should leave—”

Alec whirled and seized his shoulders. “Ach, not Iona, ye daft fool! Did ye tell the
lad
that you’re no longer betrothed?”

Ewan arched a brow and glanced around the hall. “I’ll tell her now,” he said mildly, wondering at the cause of Alec’s angst.

“Ye dinna
tell
her?” Alec shouted, combing his unruly chestnut hair back with both hands. “Ewan, you’re a fool of the highest order when it comes to women. She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Ewan repeated, alarmed.

Of course. If Merry still thought him betrothed, she would not stay. Not after the way they’d kissed in the stables. Most likely, she’d run to Ruan in Stirling.

Experiencing a jarring sense of loss, he slammed his fist against the wall.

“Ach, but you’re a fool,” Alec chided softly.

He could only agree. “And I know it,” he said grimly. He made his mind up swiftly. “We’ll leave Lothar here and ride after her at once.”

“And the king’s demand that ye bring me to Edinburgh?” Alec asked through furrowed brows.

Ewan shrugged it off. “We’ll let Cameron settle the matter in Stirling,” he said.

“The Earl of Lennox?” Alec raised a brow, and then flashed an approving grin. “Aye, the man has a silver tongue and should he fail, we can ask his wee wife, the Countess. ‘Tis well known she holds the entire court in the palm of her hand.” But then his mirth subsided, and his face grew serious. “But should ye ride with that wound of yours?”

Ewan growled. “Why even ask? Ye know I will regardless.”

“Aye,” Alec nodded and clasped his shoulder, though he still appeared concerned. “She canna have gone far.”

But Ewan shook his head. “Ye dinna know the lass, Alec.”

They took their leave from the priest. Iona was nowhere to be found. 
And for that, Ewan was grateful.

A short time later, they were off under the bright sun, galloping for the last time under Hermitage’s forbidding portcullis. 
Settling into the saddle, he set course, north to Stirling. The impact of the ride jarring his wound, but it was bearable. 
And he scarcely noticed it. His thoughts preoccupied with Merry. 
He could not chastise himself enough. Why hadn’t he told her bluntly? He ached to hold her again, close to his chest and bury his face in her hair. He should have thought to tell her the truth.

The day passed in a combination of worry, elation, and frustration. Worry that they would not find Merry and elation whenever they came upon her tracks or a peasant who had seen her fly by upon the back of her black stallion. But frustration inevitably followed when they realized the distance between them seemed only to be growing.

It was late when they finally drew rein, the horses winded and spent. Darkness had settled over the woods.

“We’ll never catch Diabhul,” Ewan grunted, dismounting stiffly.

“Does he have wings on his hooves?” Alec growled.

Ewan leaned against a tree to steady himself before sliding down its trunk and resting his head in his hands.

“How do ye fare?” Alec asked quietly. “Your wound?”

“’Tis manageable,” he replied, and it was, barely. What he needed was a good week’s rest. But he was unlikely to get it anytime soon.

They didn’t speak after that, and the night was spent as Ewan spent his nights for many years—awake, worried, and unwilling to close his eyes lest he be caught in an endless nightmare.