Adrienne Basso (29 page)

“Ye’re soft.”

“Nay!” Grace protested, pulling herself away from the pillows and sitting upright. “I work as hard as everyone else, taking pride in all that is accomplished.”

Lady Moira sniffed. “He pampers ye.”

“He tries and I find it gallant and endearing.” A flicker of guilt burned in her cheeks. Ewan did try to spoil her and aye, she appreciated all his considerate gestures. “I do my share. Ye dinnae have to like me or call me
daughter
or even be my friend, though I would be pleased if ye did any of those things. But ye need to respect me. As I respect ye.”

Lady Moira cocked a brow at her. “I still say ye dinnae deserve such a fine man as my Ewan.”

Grace shrugged. “Deserve or not, I’ve got him and I shall do whatever is necessary and fight to keep him. Ye’d best remember that, milady.”

Feeling exhausted, Grace fell back upon the bed and closed her eyes. And in doing so, she missed the grudging smile of respect on Lady Moira’s face.

Ewan’s mount nickered and tossed his mane as they crested the hill. Ewan could well understand his horse’s pleasure. The animal was muddied, weary, and overheated, but had caught a familiar scent—home. No doubt the horse was anticipating an invigorating rubdown, a hearty meal, a well-deserved rest.

As was Ewan.

He and Alec had left before sunrise and would be returning in near darkness. The outer wall of the keep had finally been completed and Ewan was anxious to begin construction of the second wall while the days were longer and filled with warmth. Though not as wide as the first wall, this new defense would require more stone than the quarry they were using could produce.

Thus he and Alec had set out in search of a new quarry to mine. They had found one, but it lay a full day’s ride from Tiree, a journey that would take even longer given the rough terrain and lack of roads for the wagons to travel.

Yet somehow these additional challenges did not dishearten Ewan. Nay, he was buoyed by the fact they had located the stone and convinced the obstacles they faced to retrieve it would be met.

His mother had once told him that those in love always saw the world in a rosy light. The bitterness in her voice had belied the sentiment of those words and he had not truly understood their meaning. Until now.

It had come on as a gradual realization, yet Ewan finally admitted to himself that his heart had indeed chosen to love Grace. And that emotion colored all that surrounded him. No problem appeared insurmountable, no crisis unsolvable, no task impossible.

With Grace at his side there was nothing that could not be accomplished. The love he felt for her calmed him, centered him, made him a better man. He embraced it. Yet he kept it to himself. At least for now.

It was not something he wished to dwell upon, yet his mind had difficulty turning away from it. He was waiting for the right time, the best circumstance to reveal his feelings to his wife. A part of him wanted to tell her the moment he saw her again, but he held back. Grace deserved more. She deserved something memorable, romantic.

Women, gentle creatures that they were, prized such gestures and men had been making fools of themselves for centuries attempting to appease them. Ewan never believed he would be one of those men, but amazingly he took pride in that knowledge. It made him happy to acknowledge it. Made him happy too, imagining that when he told her, he would hear the same words back from her sweet lips.

I love ye, Ewan.

Feeling a rising swell of excitement, Ewan growled low in his throat. Alec, riding beside him, tossed him a startled glance, then raised a questioning brow. Ewan ignored it and leaned forward in the saddle, urging his mount to a faster pace.

Home. They were nearly home.

Ewan reined in his horse and cocked his head, slowing to a walk as they entered the forest. Wind rustled through the leaves and branches of the trees. The rush of water flowed over the rocks in a stream. He startled when a flock of birds suddenly flew from the tree above him, and then he finally heard what had caused him to stop in the first place—the sounds and smells of an encampment.

Ewan kneed his mount to a trot and Alec followed behind. A cold numbness trickled down his spine as they cautiously approached a small clearing. Keeping themselves safely hidden in the thick forest, the pair silently observed the activity in the glen.

“I only see a tinker’s cart and one man,” Alec whispered. “And all he’s doing is sitting upon that fallen log, staring off in the distance.”

“Aye, but it could still be some sort of trap,” Ewan cautioned. “Ye stay here while I go and speak with him.”

Ewan urged his horse forward. At the sound, the man raised his head. Ewan could see his body stiffen, but he did not reach for a weapon.

Ewan understood the fear. The tinker was trespassing. Courtesy demanded that he ask permission, and offer the laird a small payment, before making camp in the woods, just as he would require approval to barter and sell his wares.

“Good day to you, sir,” the man said, his voice thin and reedy. He was tall and gaunt and most likely hungry, judging by his pale coloring.

“Ye are squatting on my land,” Ewan challenged.

The man’s eyes widened. “A thousand pardons, Sir Knight. I meant no offense.”

Ewan’s gaze shifted around the small campsite. “Ye would be welcomed in our village to sell yer wares.”

The tinker’s head bowed. “Alas, nearly all my goods have been sold. We travel south in search of more.”

The words were humble, but something felt wrong. Ewan’s hand slowly reached for his sword handle. “Ye’re trembling, man. Why?”

“Nerves,” he whispered.

“An innocent man fears nothing.”

“My family sleeps yonder.” The tinker waved toward the enclosed cart. “My wife gave birth last night to a fine son. They are both sleeping. I want no trouble, milord. Please, allow me to pay ye fer the privilege of staying on yer land.”

The tinker fumbled in his tunic, eventually extracting what he sought. Arm shaking, he held out his open hand. Interest peaked, Ewan leaned down to get a closer look. Resting in the palm of the tinker’s hand was a gold ring.

Ewan’s chest constricted. The ring was beautiful, boasting a design unlike any he had ever seen. Delicate and refined, it resembled golden threads intricately woven together. The workmanship was flawless; clearly this had been created by a master jeweler.

It was exactly what he had been hoping to find for Grace. No woman alive could doubt the depth of a man’s feelings when she beheld such fine craftsmanship. Seeing it upon her finger every day would be a constant reminder to Grace of how much he loved and cherished her.

Mesmerized, Ewan plucked the ring from the tinker’s hand and held it up to the sunlight. It was heavier than it appeared, further substantiating its value. “’Tis magnificent,” he muttered.

The stiffness in the tinker’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “I am glad that it pleases ye. I hope that—”

The tinker suddenly began to sway. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground in a heap. Moving swiftly, Ewan vaulted from his horse, pulled his sword, and knelt beside the fallen man, bracing for an attack.

Alec appeared, charging from under the cover of the trees. Sword drawn, he let out a shrill battle cry, but there were none to answer. “What happened?” he asked.

Ewan lowered his sword. “I dinnae know. One moment the tinker was speaking to me and the next he collapsed.”

“The way he fell, I thought an arrow had struck him,” Alec confessed.

“As did I.” Ewan drew closer to the prostrated man. His breathing was shallow and labored, his face beaded with sweat. There were red, angry-looking fever pustules on his neck and in his scalp. “He’s not been shot,” Ewan exclaimed. “He’s weak with sickness.”

The tinker’s eyes slowly opened. “Forgive me. I should have warned ye to stay away.” His eyes began to close. He gasped, twitched, and took one final shuddering breath.

“God Almighty, he’s dead!” Alec shouted.

“Aye, stay back,” Ewan warned. “Ride to the tree line and wait there until I call fer ye.”

Ewan sprang to his feet and ran to the tinker’s enclosed cart. Heart beating with escalating fear, he ripped aside the cloth that hung over the doorway and stepped inside. A rising tide of stench assaulted him, the odor so strong and offensive he started gagging.
Bloody hell!

Holding his forearm over his face, Ewan peered into the dimly lit space. The newborn babe the tinker had spoken of was nowhere to be seen. Instead there were four bodies pressed together on a single pallet, one female and three children, their limbs and faces grotesquely bloated from sickness and death.

Ewan backed away from the cart, nearly tripping in his haste to retreat. An illness such as this could kill an entire village quicker and more effectively than an invading army. He must contain the disease before it spread any further.

“Build a fire,” Ewan ordered Alec grimly. “We must burn everything.”

Grace carefully climbed the stone steps to her bedchamber. She had seen Ewan enter the keep and head for the stairs earlier. She assumed he was preparing to have a tankard of ale and then wash away the dirt and grime of the day, as was his usual custom, before coming down to partake of the evening meal.

A week had passed since Ewan and Alec returned from their successful quest to locate another stone quarry and in that time she had noticed a subtle change in her husband. Ewan seemed distracted. Worried. She knew his thoughts were occupied by many important matters, but she sensed there was something else bothering him. Something he refused to talk about.

She had asked him several times if anything was troubling him, but he had deflected her questions with a forced cheeriness and assurances that all was perfectly fine. Which raised her suspicions higher.

Well, no longer. Today she was determined to discover the reason for his uncharacteristic behavior.

The bedchamber door was slightly ajar when she arrived. Ewan stood alone in the room, looking out a window. Grace stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind her.

“I would like to talk with ye, Ewan,” Grace said formally. ’Twas not the tone she would have preferred to use, but she decided it would be the most effective.

However, Ewan remained silent and continued staring out the window.

“’Tis important,” she added in a somewhat pleading tone.

At last he turned, yet still he said nothing. Growing impatient, Grace stepped forward. The moment she touched his shoulder, Ewan staggered, then suddenly slumped to the floor. Astonished, Grace glanced at the pitcher of ale, but it was nearly full. He wasn’t drunk—was he?

Curious, she dropped to her knees beside him. “Ewan?” She shook his shoulder, belatedly realizing it felt unusually warm, even through the layers of his clothing.

Alarmed, Grace placed her hand on his forehead. He was burning! She wrenched her hand away, the fear inside her mounting. Ewan’s teeth started chattering and his body began to tremble as though shivers were racing through it, yet he could hardly be cold.

Nay, he was sick—terribly sick.

She jumped to her feet and raced from the chamber, searching for help. She ran down the stairs so quickly she nearly lost her footing, reaching the hall out of breath and no doubt looking frantic.

Grace paused. Several of the retainers were gathered near the fire, polishing their swords. Two maids were sweeping the floors, another was laying fresh rushes. Lady Moira was speaking with Cook, most likely reviewing the evening’s menu.

As much as she wanted to scream with worry and fear, Grace knew it was important not to create a panic. Even the hint of a grave illness would cause concern.

“Lady Moira, Alec, may I speak with ye a moment, please?”

Alec obediently set his sword aside and came to her. Lady Moira frowned in annoyance at the interruption, but she must have seen or sensed Grace’s agitation, for she too obeyed the command.

Wordlessly, Grace turned and hurried back up the staircase. A clearly curious Alec and put-out Lady Moira followed. Grace paused when they reached the door of her bedchamber, knowing she needed to prepare them.

“Ewan has taken ill. I need help getting him into bed.” Grace swung the door open.

“Dear Lord!” Lady Moira made a quick sign of the cross when she saw Ewan prone upon the floor, then rushed to her son’s side.

It took all three of them to move Ewan’s body to the bed. Once there, Grace and Lady Moira quickly stripped him of his clothes.

“Do ye have any idea what ails him?” Grace asked, smoothing her hand over his damp, hot flesh.

Lady Moira shook her head. “Ewan never gets sick. He has always had a strong constitution, even as a young lad.”

“I fear I might know what is wrong.” Alec’s handsome face was taut and drawn. “As we returned from our journey to the new quarry last week, we chanced upon a tinker and his family in the forest. We discovered too late that the man was ill. His family had all succumbed to the sickness and he soon followed. Ewan had close contact with him, while commanding that I keep my distance. I suppose that is the reason why I, too, have not been struck down.”