Adrienne Basso (16 page)

Ewan handed her a bowl. The delicious smell caused her stomach to growl. Embarrassed, Grace ducked her head, but ate heartily, feeling full and satisfied when she was done.

Ewan settled himself beside her. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, the quiet punctuated only by the popping and hissing of the logs on the fire. A gust of wind sent a sudden chill through her bones, causing Grace to gather her cloak closer.

Ewan shifted his position, resting his thigh, warm and solid, against her own. Grace opened her mouth to protest this familiarity, then shut it without saying a word, refusing to be so mean-spirited. It
was
cold—any warmth was appreciated.

“Try this,” Ewan said, passing her a cup.

Grace obligingly took a sip, then sputtered as the liquid ran like fire down her throat. “What did you put in this drink?”

“Hot water, whiskey, and a spot of honey. It warms ye first on the inside, then spreads to the skin.”

“Lovely,” Grace choked out, before a fit of coughing overtook her.

“Well, if ye balk at the taste, and ye’re still cold, I’ve other ways to keep ye warm, lass.”

“I’m about to enter a convent, Ewan,” Grace remarked primly.

“Aye. That’s why I figured ye could use the warmth. Ye’ll be giving up the comfort of a man’s arms forever.”

“I’ll survive.”

“Mayhap. But will ye thrive, lass? I think not.”

Grace turned away, hiding a flush. The warmth that began on her face rapidly spread through her entire body, stirring her nerves to a tingle. She could feel her heart beating, but refused to give in to the feelings that were stirring inside her.

Hastily, she jumped to her feet, stepping so close to the fire that she nearly scorched the hem of her gown. “I bid ye good night.”

“Sweet dreams, Grace.”

His voice sounded hoarse and sultry, filled with warmth and intimacy. Her eyes closed. Visibly shaking off the spell he was weaving around her, Grace stalked away, stepping inside her small tent. Edna lay curled in a tight ball on a pallet of blankets and furs, her gentle snores filling the space.

Not wanting to disturb the maid’s much-needed rest, Grace prepared for bed on her own, electing to sleep in her linen shift. Kneeling beside her pallet, she recited her evening prayers, then climbed beneath the blankets, worried she would be unable to rest.

The fur pelt tickled her nose each time Grace shifted her position, but gradually her eyelids began to feel heavy. The tent leaked in one corner, bringing an unpleasant dampness. The chilling wind howled, Edna continued to snore, yet ironically Grace drifted off to sleep with far more ease than she had the previous night.

Chapter Nine

The following days took on a familiar pattern. They rose early each morning, broke their fast with simple fare, and started their journey. The heavy carts of supplies and food stores packed to bring to the convent made it necessary to travel at a slower pace and on wider, defined roads. By unspoken agreement they rode through the small villages without stopping, passed by manors and keeps, electing instead to sleep in their own camp.

Grace didn’t mind the rougher conditions, though she did long for a proper bath. She appreciated the efforts made each night to ensure her tent was comfortable—soft pallets for her and Edna to sleep upon, extra candles to light the interior, even a chair for her to sit.

Ewan and his men were skilled hunters. There was freshly roasted meat each evening and a relaxed atmosphere of camaraderie around the campfires at night. During the day, Ewan usually rode beside her. He told her outrageous, comical tales of his boyhood and amusing anecdotes of his years serving King Robert, all of which Grace suspected contained mere grains of truth.

No matter what the situation, the man did have a talent for making her smile.

Living this carefree nomadic life with Ewan at her side was a rare treat, a grand adventure. She awoke each morning eager to begin the day, anxious to experience whatever awaited her, delighted she would be spending time with Ewan. ’Twas only on the evening of the third day of travel that Grace realized she was in no particular hurry to reach the abbey.

The thought kept her awake for the next two nights.

Ewan made no comment about the abrupt change in her daytime demeanor, though his increased efforts to entertain her let Grace know he had noticed. She tried to avoid him as much as possible, riding beside the cart that carried Edna during the day and going directly to her tent after the evening meal.

Still, there were times when closeness was unavoidable. Her throat was parched and the water skins empty when they stopped to make camp. Intending to follow the man assigned to find water, Grace was dismayed to realize that Ewan had taken the task upon himself.

Knowing she’d look the fool if she balked at accompanying him, Grace took deep breaths to calm herself. Her muscles tensed when he took her arm, but the thickening trees soon made it impossible to walk two abreast.

As they pressed their way down the narrow path, they stumbled onto a trickling stream. Though not deep, the clear water flowed steadily. It tasted cool and refreshing on the tongue and Grace savored every swallow.

With her thirst sated, Grace filled her water skins, and retreated to sit on a large flat rock positioned at the base of a tree trunk to wait for Ewan. She surveyed the area with mild interest, noting the quiet tranquility. Beyond the forest, she could see the mountains rising around them in majestic splendor.

Sighing, Grace turned her face up to the sunlight filtering through the trees, hoping they could walk slowly on the way back to camp. She had slept poorly these past few nights—emotion and exhaustion were starting to take their toll.

A cloud passed in front of the sun, pulling Grace out of her languid state of relaxation. She turned to look at Ewan, who was crouched at the water’s edge, his back toward her. She saw him pull his tunic over his head and tossed it casually on the rocky bank. Grace’s eyes opened wider. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt. She let out a squeak and sprang to her feet.

“What are ye doing?” she asked.

“Washing off,” he replied, without bothering to turn around. “I swear I’ve got a layer of dirt on me an inch thick.”

“Must ye do it now?”

“I doubt I’ll find a better place,” he answered, cupping his hands and sloshing water over his face, neck, and bare chest. “We’ve each had a good long drink, and filled the water skins to near bursting. Now is the perfect time to get myself clean. Ye can turn yer head if the sight of my naked chest offends ye so much.”

Grace fought back the urge to argue, clamping her mouth firmly closed. Offend her? Hardly. In truth, she was having difficulty keeping her eyes averted. Ewan’s sculptured body fairly gleamed, his firm muscles glistened with water droplets that reflected the sunlight like a hundred sparkling gems.

She pulled her lower lip under her teeth. Why did men find it so effortless to remove their clothing at every opportunity? And why were they not embarrassed to be seen? Was modesty only a female trait, something innate to women? Or something only taught to women?

Ewan set his hands on the ground in front of his knees, then tipped forward and dunked his head in the water. He came up with a shout, no doubt shocked from the cold. Still laughing, his hand moved to the laces on his braies.

Grace swore she could feel her heart stop.
If he removes those, then I shall . . . I must . . . Saints alive, what shall I do?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide. Rubbing his hands vigorously over his face, Ewan stood. Trying to keep the relief from her eyes, Grace struggled to assume a calm expression. Drops of water flew in all directions as Ewan shook his head like a large hound. He then picked up his shirt and tunic, draped them around his neck, and moved away from the stream.

Grace flattened herself against the tree trunk as a bare-chested Ewan strode toward her. He stopped when he drew near and stepped close to her, his eyes glittering in the sunlight.

Water dripped from the ends of his hair, beading on his shoulders and chest. There were even a few droplets on his eyelashes, reflecting the blue of his eyes.

’Twas mesmerizing.

He spoke not a word, merely leaned in closer. Then closer. Grace could feel the shock of cold as his chest pressed against hers, dampening the front of her gown. The air between them hummed with tension.

He lifted his hands, pressing them against the tree trunk on either side of her. The tingling warmth of his breath brushed against her cheek, sending a spiraling shiver down her spine. Grace caught the edges of her cloak and dug her fingers into the fabric.

He touched his lips to hers almost glancing, but that gentle touch soon grew bold. Grace shivered, but didn’t move. The kiss was sweet and slow and masterful, raising gooseflesh all over her arms. He made a sound deep in his throat and ran his tongue over her teeth. She tasted the cleanness of the water he had just drunk, and tried not to groan.

His breath grew rougher. So did hers. She wanted to throw her arms around him and pull him closer, to beg him to caress her, but she restrained herself. She tensed at the feel of the hard bulge of his arousal pressed insistently against her thighs. Sweat broke out on her palms as she tried to control her rising passion.

Ewan eased the kiss to its conclusion, pulling away slowly, pressing his lips to the corners of her mouth, then rubbing them sensually across her cheek. Grace’s heart pounded as the heat between her thighs rushed up through her entire body. She felt her back digging into the tree trunk and realized it was the only thing keeping her on her feet.

Ewan straightened. The smile was back in his eyes, along with a smoldering heat so intense it nearly scorched her. “Just a wee reminder of what ye’ll be missing when ye lock yerself behind those convent walls,” he whispered.

His hand settled on her cheek and she fought hard against the urge to turn into the caress. He moved his hand slowly, up and down, once, then twice, then one final time before breaking contact. Grace heard herself moan with objection, but Ewan never reacted. Without saying or doing anything else, he turned and walked away.

He was nearly out of her sight before Grace regained her wits. With a firm shake of her head, she calmed her erratic breathing, gathered her cloak firmly around her, and followed in his wake.

Ewan kept his eyes sharp as he stared into the darkness that surrounded the camp. Time was running out. Grace needed to change her mind about her future and agree to a marriage between them. Very soon.

He had summoned every ounce of charm he could muster these last few days, wooing her, impressing her, enticing her. There had been a few glimmers of success. She smiled more easily and was certainly more relaxed in his company. He even believed that she liked him. Yet there were times when she seemed so far away. Aye, he could be standing right beside her, yet she seemed so distant, unreachable.

He felt a small qualm of guilt strike at his conscience for his deceptive behavior. The convent was a mere four-hour ride from where they made camp. Two nights ago. Aye, he’d been leading them all in a wide circle for two days, hoping that would give him the extra time he needed to change her mind.

Ewan reached for his sword at the sound of the rustling underbrush, but it was Alec who emerged from the woods.

“Feels like rain,” Alec pronounced as he came to stand beside his leader.

“Aye. I’m thinking there’ll be no need for an early departure come morning.” Ewan looked up at the starless night sky. “In fact, we might not be able to travel at all. If the rains fall heavily, the carts will get stuck in the mud. There’s a village less than ten miles from here. We could spend the day warm and dry inside the local tavern.”

“I dinnae think that Lady Grace would appreciate passing the day drinking cheap ale and wine, gambling, singing, and watching our men seek the company of prostitutes,” Alec grunted.

“Maybe we can find a more genteel setting for her,” Ewan mused. “I’m sure she would appreciate a day out of the saddle.”

“The lady would be grateful to reach her journey’s end,” Alec said, turning to meet Ewan’s gaze. “A circumstance that should have happened two days ago.”

“All in good time,” Ewan replied.

“When?”

“When I say!” ’Twas impossible not to notice the tightening around Alec’s mouth, but Ewan refused to consider it.

“God’s wounds, Ewan, get yer head out of yer arse! ’Tis clear that Lady Grace is unused to travel, but she’s an intelligent woman. Eventually, she’ll get her bearings and realize that she’s seen that same grove of trees, winding stream, and low-lying hills three times. And she willnae be happy about it.”

“Aye, ye’re right. We should alter our course. South or north, which do ye think would be best?”

Alec let out an exasperated sigh. “We should go west, to the abbey.”

“But that’s less than a day’s ride from here!”

“Aye.”

“Nay. ’Tis too soon,” Ewan replied, biting out the words. “I need a wee bit more time to convince her to be my bride.”

Alec fixed him with a piercing stare. “Ye need more than time, my friend. Ye need a miracle.”

Angry words of denial sprang to Ewan’s lips. Yet he was a fair man and could not argue with the truth. Why was it so hard to let go of the dream? Could he possibly hold fast to it for a few more days?

“Another day,” Ewan muttered under his breath. “Mayhap two.”

Alec slammed his fist into the trunk of a nearby tree. “Och! Ye’re the most stubborn, hardheaded man I’ve ever known.”

“I thank ye.”

“’Tis not a compliment, Ewan.”

“I know.” An unfamiliar pang of failure twisted in his gut. He had not felt this helpless, this powerless, since he was a lad. “What would ye have me do, Alec? I need Grace to become my wife.”

Alec slowly shook his head. “Ye’ll have to stand down. I know it goes against yer grain to admit defeat, but ye cannae simply will this marriage to happen. The McKenna gave his sister the right to choose and she has taken it into her head to enter a convent. Ye must honor her decision.”