Highland Rogue (22 page)

He could not gainsay her. The MacLeods had a well-deserved reputation as good brewers, and Ewan suspected they had put by a few kegs of their best ale and cider to celebrate their youngest daughter’s wedding.

“This isn’t like the mild stuff Rosie makes.” He tried again, for he feared one of them might need to keep their wits later, and it wasn’t going to be him. “It’s
hard
cider.”

Claire nodded and clinked her mug against his. “It’s
fine
hard cider. Remind me to buy a few kegs of it to take back to London.” A wee bubble of laughter burst out of her. “Perhaps
this
could be part of our business enterprise for Strathandrew!”

“Perhaps it could, lass.” Though at the moment, business was the very last thing on his mind.

Yes, indeed! This was fine cider and a fine night for a fine party. Unlike the social functions she’d been obliged to attend in London, Claire didn’t much care if she ever went home.

Another reel broke up. This time the fiddlers set aside their instruments to take up brimming ale and cider mugs instead. The groom got everyone’s attention long enough to propose a toast to his new in-laws for the grand ceilidh they’d hosted.

Claire was more than eager to drink to that.

Other toasts followed, some in English and a few in Gaelic that Ewan translated for her. It was a haunting, musical language, she decided, far more outlandish-sounding than French or German or any of the other foreign tongues of which she could understand at least a few words. A language for extravagant, poetic endearments, capable of seducing a woman without half trying.

“This is the last one,” said Ewan as Captain MacLeod rose and lifted his mug. “A toast to the bride and groom for their life together.”

The captain spoke a phrase of rolling, lilting words that everyone else present seemed to understand.

“May you hereafter be blessed,” Ewan whispered, “with plenty of fish in your net. Plenty of oats in your kettle. Plenty of peat on your hearth. Plenty of bairns in your cradle.”

The last bit sent a ripple of laughter through the crowd.

“And plenty of love in your hearts,” Ewan concluded.

Claire drank the toast with the rest, despite some reservations. Not that she begrudged the newlyweds any of those things. “Rather modest hopes for your friends, don’t you think?”

“Do ye reckon?” Ewan glanced down at her. “I’d say that old wedding toast covers the most important things in life. Enough to eat and keep warm.”

He lifted his hand to cup her cheek. “A family to love.”

Those impossibly sweet words sounded almost like an offer. Especially when accompanied by his chaste but intimate touch.

“Claire, I’ve got something to ask ye.” The intensity of his gaze excited and dismayed her in equal measure.

She wanted to brace herself for his question with one last drink, but she had emptied her mug after the last toast. “What do you want to know?”

He opened his mouth to ask, then hesitated and looked around. “This may not be the best place to talk about it. Do ye mind if I fetch ye home?”

And bring this night to an end one moment before she must?

“Couldn’t we stay for one more dance? It looks as though they’re getting ready to start again.”

One of the musicians had picked up his fiddle and was sliding his bow in a tentative caress over the strings.

“There’ll be some singing now.” Ewan glanced up into the darkened sky. “Besides, the wind’s changed. Clouds starting to blow up.”

Perhaps it would be best to start for Strathandrew. All that cider was going to her head. If she had any more, she was liable to say or do something to embarrass herself and tarnish the memory of her time with Ewan. Besides, she was curious to find out what he would ask.

“Very well, then. Home it is.” As she surged up from the bench, her head began to spin. She might have fallen if Ewan had not risen and slid his arm under hers to keep her upright.

“None too soon for ye, I’d say.” He chuckled as he steered her toward the spot where he’d left the pony cart.

“I can walk perfectly well, Ewan Geddes,” Claire insisted, though she made no effort to pull herself out of his arms. “I got up a little too quickly, that’s all.”

“Aye, and put down a load of hard cider too quickly.”

As they made their way toward the pony cart, Claire’s maid came running over to them. “Are you going home now, miss? Shall I come along to get you ready for bed?”

The little Welsh girl sounded willing, though perhaps not eager to leave. No more eager than Claire was to have any company but Ewan’s on the ride back to Strathandrew.

“I can manage on my own for tonight, thank you, Williams.” She waved the girl away. “You stay with the others and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, miss. If you’re sure?”

“I am quite resolved.”

Jockie McMurdo drew Miss Williams back to the party.

“Don’t worry about getting up too early tomorrow,” Claire called after them. “I’m certain I shall be sleeping in.”

“Come along, then.” Ewan tugged her toward the cart. “Before we both end up sleeping along the side of the road somewhere.”

Sleeping by the side of the road on a warm summer night didn’t sound like such a hardship, if it meant lying in his arms. Claire barely resisted the urge to tell him so. Perhaps it was that lovely cider at work. The reasons for keeping all kinds of secrets no longer seemed as compelling as they once had.

As she and Ewan drove away from the ceilidh, a Gaelic song wafted on the night air. Though Claire could not understand a single word, it was impossible to mistake the poignant edge of longing, for it struck an answering chord within her.

“So,” she said after they had driven a little way in silence, “are you going to ask me that important question? Or was it just a ruse to get me away from the ceilidh before I drank any more cider and made a fool of myself?”

Ewan shook his head. “It wasn’t a trick. I’m just wondering if it’s such a good idea to ask, after all.”

“You make it sound ominous.” Claire listed sideways until her head rested against his arm. She wasn’t sleepy … exactly. Just very,
very
relaxed. “I think you might as well, though. Otherwise, you’ll never know. Then you’ll always wonder about it and wish you’d asked when you had the chance.”

“I reckon yer right, lass.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Ye talk surprising good sense for having so much of Colm MacLeod’s hard cider in ye.”

A giggle gushed out of Claire. The kind that would have set her teeth on edge if she’d been sober. “Sensible—that’s me. Even my stepmother says so. Sensible and unemotional. Almost as good as talking to a man.”

Her brainless giggle turned into a pathetic little hiccup of a sob. “Do you think I’m as good as talking to a man, Ewan? Is that why you’ve liked keeping company with me this week?”

“No, lass, no!” He pulled the pony to a stop, then twisted about to wrap his arms around her.

Oh, it felt lovely! The clouds had pretty much covered what was left of the moon. Still, Claire wondered if there was enough of its light to mix with MacLeod’s ale and make Ewan kiss her. Without any stupid glass to break this time, and bring him to his senses.

She felt his lips against her hair—a good start. She lifted her face.

Ewan didn’t kiss her, but he did press his brow to hers. “Much as it pains me to agree with Lady Lydiard, ye are a sensible person, Claire. I have enjoyed yer company and getting to know ye. But
not
because ye’re anything like a man!”

That was some comfort at least.

“Now,” he murmured. “About that question of mine …”

To hell with his question! How could she give an answer that made any sense with his lips so maddeningly close to hers?

“This business with Geordie and Winnie got me to thinking. When
we
were young and foolish, and tormenting the life out of each other, I don’t suppose ye ever … had a bit of a fancy for me?”

He sounded as though he found the notion preposterous. If she denied it, he might believe her, even as she clung to him.

“Congratulations, Ewan Geddes. You’ve finally figured it all out … ten years too late.”

“Ah, lassie.” He ran his hand over her hair until he cupped the back of her head, tilting her face a fraction of an inch higher. “Are ye certain it
is
too late?”

She parted her lips to answer. But before she could get the words out, Ewan kissed her, searing every sensible thought from her mind with the delicious heat of his mouth.

This was an altogether different kiss than the one that had taken them both by surprise on the deck of the
Marlet.
This time Ewan knew what he was doing and had every intention of continuing to do it, even if whiskey glasses began to fall around them like raindrops!

Ewan had fallen so deep into their kiss, he didn’t even notice the first raindrops falling upon them. If MacLeod’s cider tasted half as good from a jug as it did on Claire’s lips, they would make a fortune selling it!

Even more delicious and intoxicating was the certain knowledge that she had once cared for him. If she had back then, when he’d been a young fool, blind to her wit and beauty, surely he could make her care again. The challenge of winning her, and the forthright eagerness of her response to his kiss, fired his blood.

But the changeable Highland skies seemed bent on putting out any kind of fire. Drop after drop of rain kept falling, until he could no longer ignore them.

“I have to get ye home, lass.” It would be a wonder if she understood a word, for he could not bring himself to lose contact with her lips as he spoke. “Before we both get soaked to the skin.”

“Why?” asked Claire in a lazy, dreamy tone that sounded anything but sensible. “Is it raining?”

“Aye, ye daft lass. Pouring!”

It seemed the pony had more sense than either of them, for it started moving forward without any signal from Ewan. The closer it got to a warm, dry stable, the quicker it trotted. Ewan had no choice but to take the reins and exert some control over the beast so the cart did not end up overturned in the ditch. When it hit a bump in the road, jolting them, Claire squealed and threw her arms around his waist.

The rain had slackened a good deal by the time they reached Strathandrew.

“Come on, Claire, we’re home now.” He tried to dislodge her arms from their grip around his waist.

She murmured something incoherent, then laughed to herself, but clung to him tighter than ever.

Ewan shook his head. “I thought cold water was supposed to sober folks up. Be a good lass, now, and let go, so I can get ye into the house.”

With difficulty, he managed to pry himself loose and scramble down. Then he hoisted Claire over his shoulder and staggered toward the side door.

Luckily, it was not locked.

Once inside, he climbed the back stairs as quietly as he could manage with an unconscious woman slung over his shoulder and his balance none too steady. He expected Mrs. Arbuthnot to appear at any moment and give him a blistering dose of her righteous wrath.

When he finally reached the top of the stairs and gazed down the wide second-floor gallery, Ewan let out a groan.

“Claire!” He lowered her from his shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. “Which one of these rooms is yers, lass?”

Her head hung limp, but she managed to bear a little of her own weight. At first Ewan thought she could not hear him, but then she laughed. “I don’ care. Put me in any one you like. Put me in
yours!”

She laughed even louder, and when he tried to hush her, she hurled her arms around his neck. Off in the distance, Ewan thought he heard footsteps. Part of him wondered why he should care if the housekeeper caught them together. But a greater part still felt like an intruder—in the house under false pretences and needing to mind his behavior so he didn’t get turfed out.

The footsteps sounded as if they were getting closer, and his room was the nearest one. Before he had time to think better of the idea, Ewan lurched toward his door, leaning Claire against it while he turned the knob. It slid open faster than he’d expected, sending the two of them sprawling onto the floor.

He had just enough presence of mind to kick the door shut before the whole room began to spin. By the time that subsided and he could see straight again, he was shivering from the chill of his wet clothes.

Claire lay still beside him, but her face had a pale, waxy look he didn’t like. He pulled her closer to the hearth, glad for once that Mrs. Arbuthnot insisted on fires being laid in the guests’ rooms no matter what the season. Fetching the extra blanket from the foot of his bed, he tucked it around Claire.

“This isn’t the most comfortable spot to sleep off too much cider, lass.” He trailed the back of his fingers down her cheek. “We’ll do better for ye soon, though. I promise.”

He ducked into the dressing room, where he fumbled out of his wet clothes and into a dry nightshirt. Then he grabbed his dressing gown with the intention of wrapping Claire in it.

She didn’t appear to have stirred a muscle while he’d been gone. The warmth of the fire had brought some color back to her face, though. A look of peaceful contentment softened her spare, delicate features. The rain had teased stray tendrils of her hair into a winsome halo of tiny curls that no amount of primping could duplicate. Ewan found himself drawn to her more intensely than ever … if that were possible.

Hovering over her, he pressed a kiss to her cheek, then pulled back the blanket and tilted her onto her side. Next he began to wrestle with the long row of tiny buttons down the back of her gown.

“Here I thought tying dry flies took deft fingers!” he muttered as he fumbled with the stubborn wee things.

When Claire stirred and let out a tipsy chuckle, he protested, “I’m doing my best, but I never claimed I had much practice at helping ladies out of their clothes.”

Like plenty of other challenges he’d undertaken in his life, he just kept at it until his persistence yielded results.

“There!” he said when the last button finally came undone. “No wonder ye need a lady’s maid, lass. What were ye thinking, telling yers to stay at the ceilidh as late as she pleased?”