Adrienne Basso (35 page)

Ewan gritted his teeth as a fresh assault of pain ripped through him and the acrid scent of blood flooded his nostrils. Relentlessly, Roderick struck again, this time from the right.

The crowd groaned as the gash hit its mark and a fresh well of blood gushed from a second serious wound. The blow rocked him and Ewan felt his strength beginning to fail. Biting back the surge of bile that filled his mouth, Ewan took another swing at Roderick.

His blade was met with a crushing blow that sent another jolt of pain down his arm. Roderick leaned into him, pressing forward until his sword was mere inches from Ewan’s face. For several long moments the combatants stared at each other, each straining to win the advantage.

Ewan could see the fury and deadly intent in Roderick’s glare, along with his desperation. The latter gave him hope. Grunting, Ewan dug in his heels and heaved forward, using the entire weight of his body. The force broke the deadlock, successfully pushing Roderick back.

But there was barely time for Ewan to catch his breath. Roderick lifted his sword over his head and brought it down in a powerful blow. Just before it landed, Ewan raised his arm to deflect it. Snarling, Roderick twisted around and began to strike. Blow after blow rained down upon Ewan’s sword and shield and he staggered back from the relentless assault.

Stay on yer damn feet!
Legs unsteady, Ewan felt himself starting to sway.
God Almighty, I’m done fer it now.

Tightening his jaw, he made a last desperate effort, swinging his sword directly at Roderick’s skull. His opponent jerked his head back. Regretfully, the blow barely glanced his scalp. Suddenly, there was a sharp clanging in Ewan’s ears and he felt himself starting to fall. Arms flaying, he realized desperately there was no way to stop the motion. Pain exploded through every part of his body as he hit the hard dirt.

His nostrils filled with the distinct odor of blood. Roderick’s? His?
Most likely mine,
Ewan decided. He extended his left arm, searching frantically for his shield, hoping he could position it in time to avoid being hacked to bits.

He could see Roderick looming over him, his sword raised high above his head. Ewan watched it all as though he were in a dream. This would be the deathblow, a strike that would most likely sever his head from his shoulders. Gravely weakened, he felt no fear as he braced himself for this final blow, but then suddenly he heard a woman sob his name.

Grace!
An image of her beloved face swam before his eyes. His wife, the person he loved more than life itself. Her guilt would be confirmed if he lost, her death assured. She would die being falsely proclaimed a witch and no one would be able to save her. Only he had that power.

Blinking, Ewan could see Roderick’s sword descending and somehow, someway, he found the strength to roll out of its path. Reaching into his boot, Ewan drew his dirk, and hurled it with every ounce of strength that remained in his weakened body.

The dagger found its mark with unerring accuracy, lodging cleanly in the middle of Roderick’s throat. He reeled backward, his eyes glazed in shock as a spray of blood spurted into the air.

The cheers from the crowd were deafening, but Ewan blocked out the sound as he fought to maintain his wits. He watched Roderick fall, then counted ten long breaths as he waited for the verdict.

“The Lady Grace is innocent!”

Only after the full impact of those words penetrated Ewan’s brain did he allow the darkness to finally overtake him.

“Blessed Mother have mercy,” Grace choked.

The proclamation of her innocence should have been a tremendous relief, but her mind was filled with the horrifying sight of watching a dazed, bleeding Ewan fall. She leaned as far as possible over the low tower railing, nearly tumbling over it as she strained to catch a glimpse of him.

He lay still upon the ground, blood flowing from the wounds on his sides. Ignoring the monk and the burly soldier who stood guard over her, Grace turned, lifted the hem of her gown, and started running. Along the ramparts, down the staircase, across the great hall.

She burst into the bailey, pushing her way through the crowd. Victory was thick in the air and many cheered as she passed, but Grace had no time to savor the moment.

Ewan was hurt, bleeding, possibly dying.

“Oh, my love.” Grace knelt in the dirt and gently lifted his head, cradling it in her lap. “There’s so much blood.”

“Most of it was Roderick’s,” Alec replied grimly.

“Not all,” Grace retorted. Lifting her gown, she tore at the fine linen underskirt, then bound the strips around Ewan’s waist. “Have the men fetch a litter.”

“He’ll want to walk off the field of battle,” Alec said. “’Tis a matter of honor.”

“He’s too weak.” Grace hovered protectively over Ewan’s body as she waited for the stretcher to be brought. “This is hardly a dishonorable way to depart. My husband has more than proven his honor with his courage and skill this day.”

Grace noticed several of the men around them nod in agreement as they hoisted the litter and carried him off. Grace kept her hand tightly curled around Ewan’s as they walked through the bailey into the great hall, then up the staircase to their bedchamber.

Lady Moira was waiting for them when they arrived, her eyes suspiciously red. She had summoned both healers and the women quickly set about their work. Though it was difficult for her, Grace stepped aside and allowed the healers to tend to Ewan.

When they were done, Grace sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her husband. Bruised, battered, yet alive. She ran her fingers gently over the bandages. The healers insisted the wounds looked far worse than they were and that Ewan would recover, yet still she fretted.

Grace’s hand trembled and she stared down at him through a haze of tears. Then she saw Ewan’s eyelids start to flutter and she hastily wiped away her tears. The last thing she wanted was for Ewan to awaken to a weeping wife.

He blinked several times as he brought his surroundings into focus. She knew the moment he recognized her, for his face broke into a wide smile.

“I told ye not to worry, Grace,” he croaked.

“Aye, ye did, and I vow that I shall never question yer word fer the rest of my days.”

Chapter Twenty

As the healers had promised, Ewan recovered quickly from his wounds. By the second day he was either pestering Grace to allow him out of bed, or trying to cajole her into joining him in it. Though his restlessness was exhausting at times, Grace would not have traded it for anything in the world.

Indeed, she discovered she liked the challenge of keeping Ewan entertained and quiet at the same time. She recited all the stories she could remember, and made up a few more on the spot. She sang when he asked and blushed when he lavishly praised her voice, for she knew it was only passable and hardly as melodious as many other women’s.

She played chess with him, though neither of them truly understood the intricacies of the game. She began teaching him to read and write and was pleased with his excitement in learning and quick progress. It was a quiet, peaceful time and Grace relished every moment of it, for she had the one thing she thoroughly enjoyed—Ewan’s undivided attention.

On a rainy spring morning, arms loaded with a tray of food, Grace pushed their bedchamber door open with her hip, entered the room, and then pulled in a sharp breath. Ewan stood at the window, fully dressed.

“Ewan!”

He held up his hand to quiet her, then surprised her by grinning. “Dinnae start blustering at me, Grace. The healer said I could get out of bed today. In fact, she suggested some fresh air and a walk around the bailey would hasten my recovery.”

“In the pouring rain?”

Ewan shifted on his feet. “Nay, when the rains cease.”

Grace eyed him suspiciously. “I hope that ye are being honest with me, Ewan. If not, I’ll be forced to tell yer mother that ye’ve left the sickbed too soon.”

Ewan grimaced. As threats go, it was a strong one, for there was no one more tenacious than Lady Moira in the entire keep. “Well, mayhap the walk about the bailey was my idea,” Ewan hedged.

Grace set down her tray. “I’ve not spent the better part of a week caring fer ye only to see those wounds become infected. Now, come and eat and then we shall discuss yer activities fer the day.”

Looking contrite, Ewan did as she asked. When he finished his meal, he began playfully stroking her hand, then lifted it and brought it to his lips. A chill of desire skittered down her back. Grace could feel her cheeks flush and she squirmed in her seat.

“If ye truly think it best that I not go outside, I can think of a far better way to spend the morning,” Ewan said huskily.

“I’ll just bet ye can,” she replied primly, though amusement rang in her voice.

Ewan’s hearty laugh came out on a strong breath and it warmed the flesh of Grace’s hand. She answered him with a smile of her own.

“I have something fer ye, Grace.”

“Oh?” Catching the spirit of the game, Grace moistened her lips and leaned tantalizingly forward. But her sensual haze was abruptly shattered when Ewan reached down and pulled something from the pocket of his trews.

Brows furrowed, Grace looked at the gold ring Ewan held between his thumb and forefinger. It was delicate and refined, of a quality she had never before seen.

“I want ye to wear this ring and every time ye look at it remember how much I love and cherish ye.”

Grace gulped. “Wherever did ye find such a magnificent piece of jewelry?”

Ewan bowed his head. “The tinker offered it to me as payment fer staying on our land just before he succumbed to the fever. Given the circumstances, I was not sure I wanted to give it to ye, but after seeing it again I knew it was meant to be yers.”

Her throat was starting to swell shut with emotion, but Grace swallowed back the lump. No matter how long she lived she would always remember, and cherish, the look of love and reverence shining from Ewan’s eyes as he slipped the ring on her finger.

“This is truly the finest gift I have ever received,” Grace said, holding her hand up to the rainy daylight and admiring the way it sparkled on her finger.

Ewan grinned with pleasure. “I hoped that ye would like it. The gold is delicate and beautiful and just like ye, a treasure that can never be truly measured.”

Grace shook her head slowly. “’Tis not the quality of the gold that gives it such value, though it is a fine piece. ’Tis the love that goes along with it that means the most to me, Ewan.”

A crease appeared between Ewan’s brow and he cocked his head. “Dammit wife, if I had known that, then I would have had the smithy forge a ring out of iron.”

“And I would have loved it as much.” Grace wrinkled her nose and laughed. “Well, almost as much.”

The weeks and months passed. The weather grew warmer, the crops grew tall, and peace reigned throughout the land. Ewan awoke each morning with a deep sense of purpose, thankful for the happiness that surrounded him and all the blessings in his life.

On this fine summer afternoon, Ewan stood beside the small tower that housed the keep’s chapel, a sanctuary he had built as a gift to his wife. The harvest would begin soon and he had decided a prayer of thanks was in order.

His attention was drawn to the bailey and his heart swelled as he saw Grace make her way toward him. No matter what time of day or where he stood, Ewan’s heart never failed to quicken whenever he beheld his wife. The love he felt for her had continued growing until it settled around him like a warm fur.

He noticed that Grace carried a letter in her hand, no doubt from her sister-in-law, Aileen. A McKenna messenger had arrived earlier, bringing all the news. Thanks to Grace’s diligent instructions, Ewan was now able to read the correspondence sent to him and conduct business like a true lord of the realm. As such, he did not begrudge his wife her private letters, and though he never demanded it, she always eventually shared the contents with him.

“Have ye good news to tell me?” Ewan asked when Grace joined him.

She folded her arms. “Not exactly.”

“Is something amiss with Aileen?”

“This letter is not from Aileen. ’Tis sent by the king.”

Ewan tilted his head to one side. “King Robert? Why would he be writing to ye?”

Grace’s face grew pale. At the sight, Ewan felt as though someone had just punched the breath from his chest. Mind racing, he snatched the parchment from her hand. His eyes quickly scanned the document, though his brain had difficulty comprehending the words, as it was written with a flourishing script.

He glanced up at Grace. She looked so guilty that the beat of his pulse soared with worry. He had feared the charge of witchcraft had somehow again reared its ugly head, but from what he could understand of it, the missive referred to the creation of a new clan.
Why on earth would that cause Grace such misery?

“Months ago, I wrote to the king, asking him to sanction the formation of a new clan, our clan,” Grace revealed.

“Aye, that much I understand.”

He placed a comforting arm around her and she buried her head into his shoulder. “Please forgive me, Ewan. I’ve made such a mess of it. I should have asked ye first, but I thought it would be a grand surprise.”

Grace started to sniffle and then to his utter shock and dismay, she burst into tears. Ewan grimaced. He wished King Robert were standing before him so he could shout at the man for causing his beloved such distress.

“It does not matter if he refused to grant yer request,” Ewan said in a soothing voice.

“Och, but he has agreed, the daft man.” Grace pulled back, held the parchment aloft, and shook it until it rattled in the wind. “And he has seized the honor of naming this clan himself and passing that name along to all of us.”

Ewan grew still. He had taken his mother’s name, since his father had refused to give him his, but the Gilroys had disowned his mother when she had birthed a child out of wedlock—they had never acknowledged Ewan as one of their own. To have a name in his own right, and a clan that followed it, was something Ewan had never dreamed possible.