The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (27 page)

“Would ye truly make enemies with me over a worthless
Montgomery
?” Hugh asked angrily.

Tilting forward, Ewan placed his face inches away and warned in a barely audible voice, “Dinna speak ill of the dead else ye find yourself joining them even sooner.”

Hugh’s face lost any color that it had regained, but he managed to respond, “If ye continue this path, MacLean, ‘twill be ye who walks to certain death. The memory of Clan Cunningham is a long one.”

Ewan gave a mirthless laugh and crossing his arms, leaned back against the table. His eyes swept over Hugh in amusement. “Death is certain, Cunningham. But my death will never come by your hand—of that I am certain.”

The muscles in Hugh’s jaw worked as if he were grinding his teeth.

And then Ewan jerked his head toward the door. “I dinna want to see your face again, at least not until we’re on the battlefield. It willna matter to me which side ye fight on.”

And it didn’t. 
He knew quite well that Hugh would be attacking him at the first opportunity. And he welcomed it. It would make killing the man much easier.

Stiffly, Hugh exited the chamber and after a moment, Ewan left in search of Ruan and Merry.

He came upon them standing in the courtyard. 
They were an impressive pair. 
Ruan towered in his MacLeod plaid with his great sword belted at his waist. His tall, slender sister stood by his side. The soft breeze ruffled through her ebony curls and played softly with her skirt, causing it to hug her slim form in the most fetching of ways. 
He couldn’t resist dipping his eyes over her in quick appreciation.

Unfortunately, Ruan noticed, and his dark brows drew into a scowl.

The man’s reaction was a wee bit disconcerting, and with a cautious step, Ewan moved to join them.

“I sold it,” Merry was saying as he arrived. “To pay the man who helped me to free Ewan.”

“’Tis no matter,” Ruan replied in a distracted tone, his eyes locking over her head onto Ewan’s. “You’re safe, lass, that is all that matters to me. Ye had us fair worried. Saddles can be replaced, aye?”

“But ‘twas not any saddle,” Merry said, heaving a sigh. “’Twas finely tooled, and ye gave it to me the day I first rode Diabhul. ‘Tis a day I’ll never forget.”

And then she noticed her brother’s distraction and turning, saw Ewan.

Her face broke into a beautiful smile, a smile that made Ewan’s throat close with emotion. And suddenly, he only wanted to sweep her into his arms and hold her close to his heart.

But from the look in Ruan’s eyes, he knew he would be doing nothing of the sort. Tension spread from the man in expanding waves.

Clearing his throat, Ewan dropped his gaze to Merry and asked her softly, “Merry, will ye excuse us? I would speak with your brother privately.”

Her response was a dark scowl that mirrored Ruan’s, and at any other time, he would have found it amusing.

“Do ye think to order me about as ye please, Ewan MacLean?” she asked, a note of irritation tainting her tone.

“Nay, but I would hear what Ruan wishes to say,” he replied quickly.

A gleam entered her eye, amusement mixed with something else, but it was a something else that made it fair difficult to think of anything other than the temptation of delivering a sound kiss upon her lips right then, in front of Ruan or no.

Ach, the wee beastie was teasing him.

Ignoring Ruan’s darkening glare, he reached to lightly trace his knuckles over the curve of her jaw and whisper, “Please give us a moment, I beg ye, lass.”

She nodded with reluctance, and looking as if she’d rather do anything else, she lifted the hem of her skirts and crossed the courtyard. He watched her disappear into the castle’s main hall before turning to face Ruan with an unwelcome feeling of dread.

The man was clearly upset. He stood with his brawny arms tightly crossed over his chest, and his dark brows were furrowing into a line of displeasure that was growing deeper by the instant.

“Did ye receive my letter?” Ewan finally broke the awkward silence.

“Aye,” Ruan replied, his tone strained and his face sober.

When the silence between them stretched yet again, Ewan prodded, “Ye dinna seemed pleased at the thought of me asking for Merry’s hand.”

“Merry is my own wee sister, Ewan,” Ruan replied with a stern lift of his brow. “Ye know better than any of us how she suffered at the hands of the MacDonald.”

Ewan raised his chin. He didn’t care to hear the man mentioned. “Aye, and I’ve never forgotten,” he replied in a cool tone as he felt his jaw clench hard. “But he has naught to do with me.”

“I dinna mean to liken ye to the man,” Ruan inserted swiftly, but his face was still deeply troubled. “Ach, I dinna wish ye ill. I swear it, Ewan. But Merry’s heart is scarred. She’s suffered sorrow of the kind no one should ever see, and as a wee lassie at that.”

Ewan eyed the man thoughtfully. Merry didn’t seem to think herself that scarred. Mayhap it was the man’s brotherly protective instincts that made him believe she still suffered. Or was he himself mistaken? Somehow, he didn’t think so. Nay, the laughing, high-spirited lass he’d come to know had healed her heart and was all the stronger for it. 
But now was not the time to differ with her brother over the matter. Instead, with a creased brow, he asked, “And ye believe that by wedding me, she’ll be scarred all the more?”

Ruan averted his gaze and stared off into the distance for a time before murmuring in a low voice, “I want nothing more than to see Merry’s days filled with love and laughter, aye, overflowing with joy.”

“Aye, as do I,” Ewan supplied quietly.

But Ruan’s eyes grew hard as he replied bluntly, “I dinna believe ye are the man who can do that for her, Ewan.”

The words stung. “And why is that?” he asked in a wary tone.

“’Tis more than one reason,” Ruan answered gruffly. “The first being I willna see my sister weep over your untimely death in battle. Ye live with a sword in your hand.”

Ewan nodded grimly and glanced around him. 
There was no denying it. Everywhere, men in battle gear strode through the courtyard or along the castle’s wind-ravaged ramparts.

They were at war. Or soon would be. 
But it would be his last battle. He knew it in his heart.

But to Ruan, he merely asked quiet-voiced, “Aye, is there more?”

“Even if ye were to survive as a warrior, ye’ve changed overly much,” the man continued, drawing his mouth into an even harder line. “These past years, I’ve seen ye walking about as a man dead. I dinna believe ye remember how to smile. I fathom all too well that the years have been too harsh on ye. Aye, all of us understand. But … I canna see Merry yoked to a man who canna make her smile.”

Ewan took his words in silently, but when the man didn’t speak for a time, he let out his pent-up breath and asked, “Is there yet more?”

“I canna think of more,” Ruan admitted, jaw still set.

Ewan bowed his head in relief. ‘Twas not insurmountable.

But before he could reply, Ruan added, “I’ll nae be of another mind about it, Ewan. Let’s end the matter here, aye? We’ve a battle that must be fought. ‘Tis time to think of other things.”

He turned as if to go, but Ewan stepped in front of him and blocked his path. “Nay, Ruan. I respect ye as much as my own father, but I’ll have no other lass. So I’ll be seeing your mind changed whether ye want it or no.”

Ruan’s dark eyes locked on his. “Do ye think to fight me for her?” he growled in a low warning.

“Nay, Ruan,” Ewan replied softly. “I’ll be laying my sword
down
for her. After this battle, I’m returning to Mull to walk the beaches with my fair lady, a lady who has taught me to laugh again, and a lady whom I will see only ever smiles as we listen to the laughter of our own wee bairns. I dinna plan on leaving the Isles again, as long as I walk the face of this Earth.”

For a moment, he thought Ruan would strike him down, but then the man breathed slowly, and for the first time, the grim line of his mouth relaxed. 
“Are ye begging me to teach ye manners, lad?” he asked.

Lad.

Ruan hadn’t called him “lad” in such a fond tone in years. He knew it was a tone of concession, no matter how slight.

“If ye truly lay down your sword, then I’ll think on the matter,” Ruan slowly relented. “I’m not an unreasonable man.”

“Aye,” Ewan nodded. He couldn’t resist smiling a little.

“And I would see with mine own eyes that ye truly have changed,” Ruan continued gruffly. “’Twill take time, lad. Mayhap years.”

Ewan merely nodded, knowing he could only push the man so far at once.

And then Cameron strode across the courtyard, his dark blue mantle billowing out behind him. Raising an elegant hand, he delivered a crisp order to one of the guards before heading their way.

“The king approaches the city,” he said once he was within earshot. “Ride with me, aye? I would try one last time to end this peacefully.”

Ewan followed them to the stables where they were met by the governor leading four battle chargers and, mounting quickly, they galloped out of the castle gate and down the winding cobblestoned streets of Castle Hill.

The day was a warm one, and the sun was bright.

From his vantage point, everything appeared peaceful and serene with the swans gracefully gliding in the waters of the River Forth and a gentle breeze rippling the soft grasses on the fields below them.

But Ewan knew soon enough those same green fields would be filled with the smoke of battle and the screams of dying men. Fingering his sword hilt absently, he bowed his head and prayed that Cameron could succeed in averting the pending bloodshed.

He was weary of war.

About a mile from Stirling they met the king and several of his men upon the east side of the small brook named Sauchieburn. And after they’d all come to a halt, Cameron advanced as the king urged his fine black horse forward to meet him.

The king wore a doublet of emerald silk trimmed in sable and cinched with a silver studded belt. His pale red hair clung to his forehead in thin, wispy locks. His pallid face was long and oval, his lips thin, and his eyes heavily lidded.

He was a very different man than his tall, dark cousin, Cameron.

“The doors of Castle Stirling are shut to ye, James,” Cameron announced without preamble.

The king did not miss the flagrant omission of his title, and his face flushed with anger. Whether it was because he’d been denied entrance to his own castle or that he had been addressed by his Christian name, like a mere commoner, Ewan couldn’t be certain.

The king then raised his chin. “And why shan’t we be admitted to our own royal residence?” he asked, clearly furious. “We must speak with our son, the prince, at once!”

“I’ll not mince words with ye, James.” Cameron sat straight in the saddle, his voice ringing with quiet authority. “Ye dinna possess the talents for governing, and ye are seen far and wide as an imprudent, feeble-minded, aye, even a foolish man, with a heedless obsession to seek meaning in the stars. Heavens, for the sake of your kingdom, resign the crown for the sake of Scotland!”

The king’s face darkened. “Fie, traitor!” he sputtered. “Dare ye speak such words to us? Ye know well of the prophecy! We had no choice—”

“’Twas ye alone who made that prophecy come true.” Cameron’s lips crooked into a scathing smile. “Ye killed your own brother Mar at the advice of your lover and made enemies of us all over the words of a woman who claimed one of your own would rise up against ye. Ye forced us to stand. And even now, your son doesna wish to slay ye, even though ye seem ye dinna suffer from the same compunction.”

“He’s a traitor if he doesna obey his king and disband his army,” the king replied, his chin jiggling a little as he spoke. “But then, he’s been a traitor from the start.”

Cameron made no attempt to hide his disgust. “He’s still your son, James. Regardless of it all, he’s still your son—a son ye all but disowned at an early age and a son ye made an enemy the day ye bestowed his own wee brother with the same name of
James
. ‘Twas clear then, that ye preferred the younger lad to be king and to carry on your name. Ach, ‘twas ye who started this feud betwixt your own blood.”

“Treachery!” the king said, clearly unwilling to listen. “The lot of ye are traitors. Already the chieftains from the north are riding here to attend my standard—”

“’Tis foolish to fight us, James,” Cameron interrupted with an impatient wave of his long fingers. “If ye let yourself be drawn onto the field, ye’ll not win.”

“Your rebels are at Falkirk.” The king regarded him coldly.

“Nay,” Cameron warned, his dark eyes hardening with contempt. “Already, they are at Torwood Bridge. We’ve cut ye off, James, ye and your men. Ye havena the forces to withstand us, and the way back to Edinburgh is closed to ye now. Resign, and let us not force our men to shed the blood of their kin.”

A muscle twitched near the king’s mouth. This news was clearly surprising. And then he dropped his lids to hood his eyes as he asked, “And ye, Cameron, would ye twist the cold blade of a dirk straight into your own king’s heart?”

“Not willingly,” Cameron answered with an arch of his brow. “But I canna allow ye to drag this country through years of bloodshed and war. This matter must be settled. This must end. ‘Twould be best for all if ye resigned with Scots’ dignity and honor.”

“An insolent and arrogant man ye’ve turned out to be,” the king raised his voice along with his fist, his gold rings flashing in the sunlight. “And an insipid, treasonous one. Aye, we’ll take to the field, and we’ll lay your army waste, Cameron! And we’ll see ye hung on a bridge as a traitor!”

Ewan raised his brow in surprise at the viciousness of his tone.

And then the king wheeled his horse’s head around and galloped away with his men close behind.

“It was as fruitless as I feared ‘twould be,” Cameron said, heaving a sigh. “We must prepare. On the morrow, there is war.”

The party then returned to Stirling, subdued.

And they’d no sooner ridden under that city’s gray-stoned gate than they were met by Merry, wide-eyed with concern.