Brigand (5 page)

Ewan flicked a page of his account book but wasn’t really
paying attention. He forgot what he’d just read and flipped it back. Damn it.
Where was his legendary sharp mind today? He just couldn’t focus.

He refused to acknowledge why.

He’d done the right thing, demanding that Morna move Violet
to the cellar. He should have put her there the first day. She was a prisoner.
A servant. She should be locked up at night in an uncomfortable cell, not
hogging the covers in his bed and keeping him awake with an aching cock.

It had been pure hell having her next to him at night, warm
and fragrant—and not being able to touch her.

That was the real reason he’d banished her, wasn’t it?

It was one thing to lie there wanting her when she loathed
him wholeheartedly. But the look in her eyes when she realized who he really
was—who he’d been—changed everything. Her hate had softened, turned to
something else entirely. Something that frightened him to death.

He had always assumed she’d been the one to betray him to
her vicious father. It was her fault he’d been punished so brutally that day.
Her fault he and his mother had been cast out of service in disgrace.

He’d always assumed she hadn’t given a fig what had become
of him.

But now—given her reaction when she realized his identity—he
questioned all that.

No one would tell me where you’d gone
, she’d said,
and in a ravaged tone as though she’d wept for hours, for days when he’d left.

Maybe she had said something about that kiss to her father.
But maybe it hadn’t been a deliberate attempt to get rid of him. Maybe she
hadn’t realized what the consequences might be for a servant boy who’d taken
liberties with the master’s daughter.

So the question remained, if her betrayal hadn’t been
intentional, did it matter any less? The results didn’t change. Would never
change.

But still, her expression haunted him.

Ewan raked his fingers through his hair and growled under
his breath. He had hated Violet Wyeth for most of his life. He had spent many
long, hungry nights in a cold garret room, plotting revenge. Whenever he’d had
to commit some foul act, something that stole a chunk of his soul, he’d thought
of her. Assigned to her the burden of his guilt.

That she might have been innocent of this perfidy was too
much to contemplate. Such a truth would rock the foundations of his entire
world. He did not want to contemplate it.

So he did what any sane man would do.

He avoided her. Holed himself up in his office with orders
he should not be disturbed.

The last thing he wanted was to finish the conversation
she’d started in his chamber. No, the last thing he wanted was to answer the
burning question she’d asked. Where did you go?

He couldn’t bear the retelling.

And frankly, he didn’t want her to know the true depth of
his fall from grace. It was better that she not know. That she never know.

A scratch came at the door. “Come,” he barked.

Pippin entered with a tray. “Your dinner.”

Ewan’s gaze snapped up. He’d never heard Pip speak to him in
such a sharp tone. He’d found the boy in the dark, rat-infested alleys of
Perth, cutting purses from inebriated lords outside the local gaming hells.
He’d attempted to cut Ewan’s purse. But he’d done it so skillfully and Ewan had
been so impressed with his subsequent tearful tale of a dying mother and sick
baby sister—all of which had been a lie—he couldn’t help but take the boy in.
He’d never regretted it. Not for a second. Pip had become his most devoted
minion.

Until now.

Now he fixed Ewan with a dark glare, eyes narrowed.

Ewan sat back in his chair and surveyed the boy. “What is
it?’ he asked.

Pip grunted and dropped the tray on the table. Broth sloshed
onto the thick wood. “Soup.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The boy stopped. He was a frail thing with a delicately
boned face framed by a shaggy mop of hair. He’d been with Ewan for nearly a
year. Nearly a year with food every day and it seemed as though he hadn’t grown
an inch. He certainly hadn’t filled out the way a lad approaching manhood
should. Ewan knew what it was to starve. He knew some kinds of deprivation
could never be made up for. Many street urchins were tiny their whole lives.

But of all his men—all fellows he’d salvaged from impending
doom of some kind—this one held a special place in his heart. Pip reminded him
of himself in so many ways.

The boy crossed his arms over his thin chest and glared.
“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“Why are you so surly?”

Pip was never surly. At least, not to him. But the boy
didn’t answer. Naught but a disgusted snort. He turned on his heel and left,
slamming the heavy door behind him.

Ewan wasn’t sure why he followed.

He really should stay here in his tiny office. Where he
could avoid the sight of…her. But this little mutiny from Pip pricked his
interest. He made his way into the hall where the men were having dinner. Pip
and Jessie were serving. Of Violet, there was no sign.

Ewan frowned. Where was she? Annoyance flickered in his gut.
First because she wasn’t here and then because he hadn’t realized how much he
wanted to see her. Just see her.

Had she…?

The door to the kitchens swung open and she appeared,
carrying a tray piled with food.

Pleasure and maybe some strange kind of relief warmed his
veins at the sight of her dark hair, her slight form.

That annoyed him as well.

He should be impervious to her presence.

He was not.

Neither was Wolfe. He lifted his head and sniffed the air,
then padded to her side and followed her.

The men fell silent as she approached. An odd tension hummed
in the air. Alasdair and Mungo, sitting across the table from Craig, frowned
darkly. Violet rounded the table, serving each man a slab of meat with a fork.
As she dropped the meat on their plates, the men mumbled their thanks with eyes
averted.

Until she reached Craig.

When she came to him, he grabbed her around the waist and
pulled her into his lap. She cried out. The platter went flying. Wolfe leapt
forward—but not to gobble down the spilled pork—to growl at Craig. He wasn’t
the only one growling.

Mungo’s chair scraped back loudly. He stood and glowered at
Craig, his fingers clenching into hammy fists. Then Drummond and Rory and
Tavish stood. Lachlan and Bean.

“Let her go.” Mungo’s deep voice bounced off the stony
walls.

Craig laughed. “Fuck you.” He glanced down at Violet, who
wriggled on his lap. “Keep squirming, darlin’,” he said. “Something’s rising.”

Oh. Something was rising.

Fury.

Hot, red, blinding fury.

He had his hands on his Violet.

It whipped through Ewan’s veins, pebbled his skin, prickled
at his nape. It immobilized him. Which was good. If he so much as moved a
muscle, he would rip Craig limb from fucking limb.

He had his hands on his Violet.

He should help her. He knew he should step in and help her.

But he couldn’t.

If he did, it would change things between them. It would
give her leverage.

Besides, she was safe from harm here. There were far too
many witnesses for serious mischief.

He forced himself to stay where he was. To rein in the
seething desire to yank her from another man’s arms. To play the hero for her
once again.

As much as he wanted to.

Craig laughed again as Violet thrashed on his lap. As she
moved, something on her cheek caught Ewan’s attention. At first he thought it
was a shadow but then she arched back and the light from the fire hit her
fully.

His heart clenched. Then thudded wildly.

A huge, nasty bruise discolored nearly half her face. Her
jaw was swollen. There were dark marks on her neck as well.

The reason for Mungo’s glare became painfully clear.

Fuck.

Ewan opened his mouth to bellow for this to cease, but
before he could utter a word, Craig let out a high-pitched squeal and froze. He
glanced down at his crotch with wide eyes.

Violet said something to him but it was a low hiss, so Ewan
couldn’t make it out. Craig raised his arms, holding them high in the air. She
edged off his lap, still holding something there, holding it there until the
rest of her was far enough away. She retreated quickly, spinning and hurrying
around the table.

It was then Ewan saw what she held, what she had used to
hold Craig at bay—the sharply pronged serving fork. His lips curled. Good for
her.

Their gazes met.

Her steps slowed. Faltered. She studied his face.

She veiled her thoughts but not until he caught a glimpse of
her disgust.

He hadn’t helped her, that flash of expression said. He’d
stood there and watched as she was mauled by one of his men and he hadn’t
helped.

And the scene had amused him.

Shame rose in a tide on the back of his neck, burning his
ears.

But she didn’t notice. She had already spun on her heel and
fled the hall.

* * * * *

He couldn’t get the vision of her bruised face out of his
mind. Ewan lay in his bed and stewed. Sleep eluded him though it was deep into
the night. He’d brought her here so he could punish her for her sins, not so
one of his men could brutalize her.

When he’d questioned Pip and Jessie—badgered them to tell
him what had happened—and the story came out, a hard ball had settled in his
gut. Then swelled. It still churned there.

He couldn’t help thinking this was at least in part his
fault. He hadn’t protected her. She’d been struck. Very nearly raped. And he
hadn’t protected her.

Oh, he’d had words with Craig. Told him in no uncertain
terms he’d have his balls on a string if he so much as touched her again. But
Craig was new to his crew. And an insolent son of a bitch. Ewan had taken him
on as a favor to a friend. As much as Craig appreciated the chance to earn a
little extra coin, Ewan didn’t trust the man to keep his paws to himself.

He resolved that first thing tomorrow he’d have a talk with
Mungo and ask him to shadow his little captive.

That should have calmed him. Should have eased the disquiet
in his soul.

It did not.

The look in Violet’s eyes, there in the great room, burned
him.

He knew he shouldn’t go to her, try to explain, but he
couldn’t help himself. He would never sleep if he left things like this. He
flung back the warm covers, shuddering at the chill. This damn keep was drafty
as hell and the fire had burned down. He quickly yanked on his braes and a
shirt, grabbed a lamp and padded down the staircase to the hall. Then down
again, into the bowels of the castle.

He shivered as he descended into what had once been the Cloud’s
dungeon. It was dank and musty. Frigid air licked at his toes. It smelled. Had
he really banished her here?

Her chamber had been a storage room with an old wrought-iron
lock, but Ewan’s skeleton key opened it with a creaky clank. The door swung
open and he lifted the lamp. His heart lurched.

Violet lay on a narrow cot covered only by a thin blanket.
Her body was curled into a tight ball. Even from across the room, he could see
her trembling. And damn. It was freezing in here. Deep beneath the ground. Not
a lick of warmth. He raked his fingers through his hair and swore beneath his
breath. He was a beast, as she proclaimed. He was worse than a beast.

He quietly closed the door—though that would hardly keep out
the chill—and made his way toward the bed, his gaze locked on her face. It
could have been the wan light from the lamp but was her face really that pale?
Did her lips have a slightly blue tinge? The swelling had gone down a little on
her cheek but it was still a nasty mottled color.

She seemed so frail, so fragile it made his chest hurt.

Why Sophia leapt into his mind at that moment, he didn’t
know. His sister was safe and warm, tucked away in Hampshire at the best
boarding school money could buy. But if—God forbid—any man ever treated her in
this fashion, Ewan would kill him. String him up by his toes and gut him.

Yet he had done this. To a girl. A girl he’d once loved.

Mortification washed through him.

She detested him. But he deserved every bit of her hate.

Her lids fluttered. Her body stilled. He knew without a
doubt she was awake. Her hand moved slowly, searching for something. She found
it. Grasped it and then sprang up suddenly into a crouching position, wielding
a sharp kitchen knife.

“Stay back,” she snarled. Apprehension laced her expression.
It was threaded with desperation. And determination.

He realized she couldn’t see his face, didn’t know who he
was. He raised the lamp. “It’s Ewan. Rest easy. I won’t hurt you.”

Her eyes narrowed. She lifted the knife higher. It shook.
“What do you want?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

She put out a lip in mock sympathy. “Poor baby.”

“I wanted to talk to you. Make sure you were all right.”

She gaped at him. “All right?” Her tone made her meaning
more than clear. She was not all right. Not by far.

He blew out a sigh and raked his hair again. No doubt it
stood on end. “Violet…I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what happened with Craig. It
won’t happen again.”

Her exquisite features twisted. “Won’t it? We both know all
I accomplished tonight was making him angry.”

“Is that why…” He nodded to the knife.

She glanced at it. Realized she was still holding it aloft
and let it drop. “Yes.” She glared at him. “I’ll use it if I have to.”

“He won’t bother you again.”

Her throat worked. “I’m glad you have so much faith in him.”

“Violet…” He took a step closer and she flinched. “I just
want to look at your cheek.”