Highland Warrior (11 page)

“A cursed Cameron,” snarled Sir Fingal as he pushed through the others gathered around Ewan and Fiona to glare at her. “I kenned it. She is naught but a spy sent here by that fool Sigimor.”

Struggling to think clearly despite the shock Fiona had dealt him, Ewan put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. “She isnae a Cameron. The tie is but one of marriage—her brother’s.”

“Tis close enough. We should send her back to Sigimor.”

“Ye arenae sending her anywhere,” Ewan said, his voice cold and hard as he fought his anger over his father’s blind hatred of his own blood kin. “She is my wife now. She may already be carrying my bairn.”

“I wish ye wouldnae keep saying that,” muttered Fiona, then pressed her lips closed when Ewan gave her a brief, hard squeeze.

“The Camerons ye feel wronged ye are all dead anyway,” Ewan continued. “Sigimor is no threat to us. S’truth, I dinnae ken why he keeps coming here only to listen to ye rant and get the gates shut in his face.”

“I willnae deal with one of those cursed Camerons!”

“Then dinnae deal with them. If there is a need, I will tend to it. Tis past time we cease turning away the only ones within miles who dinnae want to kill us. They are blood, for sweet Mary’s sake.”

“Nay mine.”

“Please yourself.” He sighed when, after one last glare at Fiona, his father moved away, calling for ale.

“Do ye think that will be the end of it?” asked Fiona.

“I suspicion he will brood o’er it for a wee while, but nay more than that. Tis an
old grudge he clutches like some holy relic, but ’tis a bloodless one. The worst he will do is insult Sigimor if he appears at our gates again.”

Fiona could not fully suppress a smile. “I wouldnae fret o’er that. Sigimor willnae.” She realized everyone was still staring at her with an unsettling intensity. “What ails all of ye? Have I grown another head?”

“Nay, just an army,” drawled Gregor. “We suspected we would finally gain an alliance through ye, but Jesu, lass, we didnae expect ye to have ties to half of Scotland.”

“They arenae verra large clans,” she murmured, and frowned when Gregor laughed.

“Come, a feast has been set out,” said Ewan. “I suggest we all set our teeth to it.”

Ewan’s words broke the silence and everyone moved to the tables. Fiona studied Ewan carefully as he led her to her seat, and then sat down beside her. For a man who had been striving for years to make some alliance, he did not seem terribly pleased with the ones she had brought him. While it was true that many of them were Gilly’s kinsmen, Fiona knew they all considered her kin as well. During the times she had gone to train with Lady Maldie, she had met many of them and knew they considered all the MacEnroys part of their very diverse family. Even if one counted only her family’s alliances, it was still a fine gift she gave him. Yet, he sat there silent and distracted.

“Are ye angry, Ewan?” she asked finally, speaking softly so the others at the table could not hear her.

“Nay.” Ewan lightly stroked her hand where it rested upon the table. “Shocked. Due to my father’s skill in making enemies, we have been alone all of my life. After years of work, I have eased close to an alliance with many of those my father angered, but havenae made any true alliances. Still, only the Grays are a real threat to us now. The others may nay be true allies until my father passes from this earth, but they arenae truly our enemies any longer, just an occasional irritant. Yet suddenly, after kneeling before a priest for a wee while, I find myself fair smothered in alliances. E’en if one only counts your family’s direct allies, ’tis still far more than I had ever considered.”

“My brother was a wee bit shocked when he discovered exactly who Gilly was. We had long seen ourselves as mostly alone, as weel. It wasnae until after Gilly arrived that we discovered the Goudies and the Dalglishes were closer allies than any of us had thought, including them.”

He shook his head, slowly coming to grips with the massive change in his circumstances. Ewan inwardly grimaced when he realized Fiona was, indeed, far above his touch. For the sake of his people, he was pleased with the alliances she brought to their marriage, but such a rich prize should have gone to a richer, more powerful laird than he ever could be.

It was done, however, he thought as he watched Fiona laugh at something Simon said. He had touched her, had taken her innocence, and had married her. There was no turning back now. Considering her connections, even thinking about turning back could prove unhealthy, for him and his clan. Ewan did not really think Fiona was the sort of woman to call down a vengeance upon him if he cast her aside, but she might not have any say in the matter. It would not surprise him if he faced a tense confrontation with her kinsmen anyway, because he had held her for ransom, bedded her, and married her. It might be possible to keep the ransoming and bedding a secret, but he did not hold out much hope for that.

As they ate and suffered through increasingly ridiculous toasts offered by his brothers until he threatened them with slow dismemberment if they did not cease, Ewan asked Fiona about her family. There was more light than dark in her tales. It also troubled him a little that she probably knew his kinsmen the Camerons better than he did. One thread wove itself through it all, however, and that was the tight bond of blood and clan. That bond could stretch out to new members of the family, as it had to the Murrays and to his cousins the Camerons. Ewan wanted it to reach out to him and his clan.

He grimaced when somebody began to play music. Goaded by his brothers, Ewan forced himself to dance with Fiona once. Feeling big and awkward, he soon left her in the more willing care of his brothers. He sat and watched her, the swirl of her glorious hair and the movement of her lithe body heating his blood. She laughed and smiled, dancing with each of his brothers, including a blushing, awkward Simon. Once she even did a strange but lively dance with the children, bastards all, before they were hurried off to bed by their nurse-maids.

A spark of guilt stung him as he realized he was not simply enjoying the sight of his bride heartily enjoying herself. Ewan admitted to himself that he sought signs of deception and betrayal, but he saw none. She did not flirt, smile too long or too welcomingly at any one man, or treat one man more favorably than another. In fact, if he dared trust his own judgment, she treated them all with a friendly ease. No more. No less.

She acted, he realized, like a woman who had been raised by men, treated as just another brother, exactly as she had claimed. Fiona displayed no fear and not one drop of submissiveness. Ewan suspected she would give a man her respect only if he earned it and that she would never be blindly obedient. It appeared that, in marrying him, Fiona had made his brothers, her brothers, too. It pleased him more than he could say to see that his brothers and his men had not only accepted Fiona as his wife, but welcomed her. If only his father would do so.

Pushing aside that thought, Ewan stood up and began to walk toward his wife. He was still riddled with doubts and fears, but for the moment, he decided to banish them all to the far corners of his mind. Fate had blessed him with a beautiful wife, one who set him afire. It was time to stop brooding about her and start enjoying her. He did not intend to do that by galloping around the great hall to the tune of some badly played music, either. When she skipped past him, he caught her by the arm to halt her dance.

“Oh, Ewan, have ye—” began Fiona, only to screech in shock and surprise when he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Ewan, put me down!” she ordered, blushing as his brothers and too many others began to offer a great many somewhat crude suggestions as to what Ewan should do next. “What about the celebration?”

“The celebration can continue without us,” he said as he walked out of the great hall. “Tis time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

“Time to make ye yell.”

It was difficult for Fiona to decide which was most responsible for the flush in her cheeks and the slight dizziness she suffered when Ewan set her down—being carried up the stairs like a sack of oats or Ewan’s talk of making her yell. She was gathering enough breath to scold him when he shut and latched the door, then turned to look at her. That newly gathered air left her lungs in a rush. Ewan’s storm gray eyes were nearly black with desire.

“I am glad we didnae have to suffer through a bedding ceremony,” she said, wondering why she felt so nervous.

Ewan moved to stand in front of her and removed the flowers from her hair. “I told my brothers that they would find themselves missing precious parts of their bodies if they e’en considered it.” He combed his fingers through her hair, savoring the rich, silken thickness of it. “Why are ye afraid?”

“I am nay afraid,” she replied, silently cursing the slight tremor in her voice. “A wee bit nervous, mayhap.”

“Why? Ye arenae a virgin. There will be no pain this time.” He began to unlace her gown.

“There wasnae much last time.” She shivered as he tugged off her gown, but did not stop him. “I dinnae ken why I am nervous. Mayhap ’tis because this time it isnae, weel, sudden, but planned.” She blinked when she realized he had already stripped her down to her shift. “That was quick.”

“This will be even quicker,” he said as he began to remove his own clothes.

It certainly was, she thought dazedly as she watched Ewan’s clothes fall away from his body. She was a little surprised she did not hear anything tear. She barely had time to consider the fact that she was about to see Ewan naked when he was.

Her breathing grew ragged as she looked at him. The glimpses she had gained while nursing him and the one time they had made love had not really prepared her for this. He was all lean, hard muscle and smooth, dark skin. There were a lot of scars on his body, large and small, from the new one on his leg to one that cut slantwise across his taut stomach. She looked him over from his broad shoulders to his long narrow feet before her gaze became fixed upon his groin. Fiona decided it was a good thing she had not gotten a close look at that when he had pulled her into his bed two days ago. She was certain she would have turned craven, become foolishly terrified that he would tear her apart. Her eyes widened when she noticed a scar that ran perilously close to that proud display of manhood.

“Jesu, Ewan, ye were nearly gelded.”

“Aye.” He knelt to remove her shoes and stockings. “Eight years ago I was betrayed by a woman to my worst enemy—Hugh Gray. It did not seem to matter to them that she had crawled into my bed in her eagerness to entrap me. They both felt I ought to pay for soiling her pure white skin with my touch.” Tossing aside the last of her stockings, he ran his hands up and down her long, slender legs and heard her gasp softly. “That scar is from the cut they made to taunt me with what was to come, to make me afraid.”

“Did it work?” she asked as he picked her up and carried her to their bed.

“Och, aye, verra weel, although I believe I was able to hide it.” He savored the sight of her in his bed for a moment before unlacing her daintily embroidered linen shift.

“What stopped them?”

“Gregor and a great many of my brothers, as weel as my men. Unfortunately, Gray and Helena got away. It was felt it was more important to get me help than to chase them down. I was bleeding rather heavily. Several of the smaller scars and the one upon my face are also from that time.”

“Torture,” she whispered as he tugged off her shift, and she clenched her hands against the urge to cover herself. “For pleasure or for information?”

“A bit of both,” he replied as he climbed into bed beside her and tugged her into his arms.

Fiona trembled when her body touched his, the heat of his flesh seeming to enter her very blood. She did not think anything had ever felt so good, so right. This was where she belonged, but as he gently placed his hands on her cheeks and tilted her face up to his, she had the feeling it was going to take a lot of work to make him see that, too.

“This time, lass, ye will ken the full of it,” he said and kissed her.

By the time Ewan ended the kiss, Fiona could hear herself panting softly. She ran her trembling hands over his broad back as he kissed his way down to her breasts. A whispery moan escaped her when he took the hard, aching nipple deep into his mouth and suckled her while he tormented her other breast with his hand and long, skillful fingers. She tried to wriggle her body into a better position beneath his, needing to feel him pressing against her, but he held her firmly in place.

His manhood pressed hot and hard against the side of her leg, but he held her down in such a way she could not move that leg against him. When she slid her hand over his hip then toward his groin, he grasped her by the wrist and pulled it away. Fiona was not quite sure what she should think about his apparent wish not to be touched. When she tried again, he pinned her hand to the bedclothes.

“Nay, lass,” he said, his voice hoarse and unsteady. “If ye touch me there, ye willnae be having a chance to yell.”

The thought that her touch would be enough to break his control made Fiona’s desire soar. She wrapped her arms around him as he kissed her again, and could feel the barely leashed ferocity in him. For now she would find solace and hope in the fact that she obviously enflamed his passion enough to strain his legendary control.

When he slid his hand between her thighs, she flinched slightly, still unaccustomed to such a shocking caress. It took only a few strokes of his long fingers to banish that pinch of embarrassment. Fiona soon opened to his touch, arching her hips slightly to move against his hand with a rapidly growing hunger.

A soft cry of need and welcome escaped her as he settled himself between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him as he slowly joined their bodies. He moved within her as if he feared he would break her and it made Fiona desperate for more. When she stroked his buttocks, he growled and pinned her hands to the bed. Then he took her nipple deep into his mouth and she felt herself reaching for those heights again.

Just as she thought she could bear no more of his carefully measured thrusts, he released her hands. With his mouth still feasting upon her breasts, he reached between their joined bodies and stroked her. Fiona was just wondering what he had touched that could send such a fierce wave of delight through her when he did it again, and she shattered, crying out his name. Yet, even as she fell into that paradise she had only glimpsed before, she felt him leave her. She clung to him as he groaned and pressed his
face against her breasts, but right there next to the blinding pleasure rippling through her body was a sense of loss.

It was not until her senses began to return that Fiona realized what he had done and a chill entered her heart, banishing the lingering warmth of desire. He had pulled away, denying her his seed. Fiona told herself not to let the hurt and anger she felt cause her to make any hasty judgments. When he moved to lie at her side, she looked at him, but could find no answer in his expression. He simply looked sated, content, and a little smug. When he met her gaze, he began to frown, and she wondered if her expression revealed her feelings all too clearly.

“Why?” she asked, praying that his explanation would soothe her pain.

“Why what?” he asked cautiously.

“Why did ye leave me?”

Ewan inwardly cursed, but decided it had been foolish to think she might not notice his withdrawing from her. “I dinnae want any children.” He cursed aloud when he saw the look of pain that crossed her face, but when he tried to pull her into his arms, she wriggled free of his hold.

“Why?” she demanded, fighting to keep calm enough to try and understand.

“Fiona, ye have been here long enough to ken what my father is,” he began, struggling for the right words.

“What does your father have to do with ye denying me your child? Ye didnae suffer this reluctance two days ago.”

“I was careless then. I can but pray that my seed doesnae take root. There is madness in my blood,” he confessed.

“What madness? What are ye talking about?”

“My father, the way he acts, the things he does, he—”

“Ye think your father is mad?”

“Aye.”

“Your father isnae mad. He is naught but a spoiled child,” she snapped.

“Ye dinnae understand—”

“Nay? Ye think not?” She grabbed his hand, bringing it to each of her scars as she spoke. “
This
is madness, Ewan. I ken madness verra weel indeed. I have seen it. I have been marked by it here upon my cheeks, here in this mark o’er my heart, here in this scar o’er my womb, and here in each of these scars upon my thighs. I have seen madness in the eyes of the man who did this, a mon who could speak of love as he inflicted pain. I have felt the chill of madness as I heard each word he said as he strung me up like a fresh kill and tried to decide where to leave his mark next, as he prepared himself to rape me. I have been dealing with madness for almost two years now so dinnae tell me I dinnae understand what it is.

“Your father isnae mad. He is a spoiled, selfish mon, one so arrogant it makes one’s eyes cross, but he isnae mad. He doesnae have fits or spells, he has tantrums. The only thing wrong with your father is that he doesnae care for anyone or anything, only for what he wants.”

She flopped down on her back and covered her eyes with her arm, fighting back tears. There was some comfort in the knowledge that Ewan had not been rejecting her when he had denied her his seed, but himself. He thought his blood was tainted by madness. It would take a while for reason to soothe the hurt she had suffered, however.

Ewan cautiously slipped his arm around her small waist and pulled her up against him. Her words had chilled him to the bone. She had told him about Menzies’s pursuit, and how the man had captured her four times, but he had never really considered how it must have been for her, how the man had actually put the marks upon her lovely skin. She was right. There was madness, pure and terrifying. Although he was not quite ready to accept that there was not some hint of madness in his father, he knew there was none of the sort of poison she had dealt with for far too long.

The hurt he had seen in her face when she had realized he had denied her his seed still pained him. To his shame, it also pleased him, stroked what little vanity he had. Fiona wanted to bear his child, had been devastated by the thought that he would deny her that chance. The thought of Fiona growing round with his child was a sweet, heady one, despite his fears about childbirth. Ewan was just not sure he dared gamble on her being right about his father.

“Fiona,” he said as he nuzzled his face into her thick, tossled hair, “I couldnae taint your womb with the blood of a madmon.”

Sighing, she pulled her arm away from her eyes and looked at him. “Your father isnae mad, Ewan.”

“He sees enemies everywhere. His moods can change in a heartbeat. He can be in a rage one moment, then in the blink of an eye, be thinking of naught but how to lift some woman’s skirts. That isnae the way a grown mon, a laird, should behave.”

“Nay, it isnae,” she agreed, “but it isnae madness, either. If he sees enemies around every corner, ’tis probably because they are there and he kens he put them there.” She took a deep breath, reminding herself that they spoke of his father and that Ewan’s fear of madness was real. “Try, for but a moment, to think of your father not as a grown mon and your sire, but just as some small child.”

Ewan was a little dismayed at how easy that was to do, and he realized he often thought of his father as childish. “I will confess that he often acts as if he forgot to grow up, to accept the responsibilities of a mon.”

“That is because he did. Everything I have seen that mon do or say is, weel, much like a child, a verra spoiled child. Someone neglected to teach him how to behave or he refused to heed his lessons. He wants what he wants when he wants it, just like a child. He gives no thought to consequences or the future, just like a child. He becomes enraged when denied, just like a child. He leaps from interest to interest, just like a child. In truth, about the only differences I can see between your father and a spoiled child are that he can make bairns and, because of his size, he could hurt or kill someone whilst having one of his tantrums.” She frowned. “Has he hurt or killed someone whilst in a rage?”

It took a moment before Ewan could reply because he had to think back a very long way. “He can be bloodthirsty in battle, but nay, I can recall no time when he killed anyone whilst in a rage. Dealt out a few bruises if one didnae get out of the way fast enough, but he usually just rants, tosses out a few bloodcurdling curses, and occasionally breaks things. He has ordered us to do some rather cruel things to people he was angry with, but we didnae do it.”

“And I would guess that he didnae punish ye for disobeying him, either.”

“Nay. He seemed to forget that he had given such an order.”

“Has he e’er raped a woman who told him nay?”

“Nay, although he is verra angry that ye have taught the women here to do so,” he
replied, smiling a little.

“And yet, here I am, unpunished and unbruised.”

Ewan blinked and stared at her. Even warning himself that he should not allow his own hopes to steer his beliefs, he could not deny the truth she was showing him. The more he thought of his father as a spoiled child, the more he saw that Fiona was right. His father might not be exactly
right
, but he was not mad.

“He isnae mad,” Ewan whispered.

“Nay,” replied Fiona, feeling a pang of sympathy for the torment Ewan must have suffered over the years.

“He
is
naught but a spoiled child in a mon’s body.”

“Aye, I fear so. Think, Ewan, if your father was mad, if it was something in the blood, surely that madness would have appeared in at least one of the dozens of children he has bred, or in one of your brother’s children. It hasnae, has it?”

“Nay.” Ewan dragged his hand through his hair. “For so long I have feared there was madness in the blood, ’tis difficult to accept that I was wrong.”