Highlander's Hope (16 page)

Her mount slipped in the muck, the movement jarring Yvette’s already tender derriere. Tears pricked her eyes. Blister it. Would this wretched ride never end? How much further was . . . ? What was the name of the blasted inn? Murdock’s? Mulligan’s?

A weary sigh escaped her. Even if she was wholly, desperately in love with Ewan, she would not wed him without a meaningful declaration of affection from him. She was determined to marry a man who loved her for herself, not for what she could bring to the marriage. Specifically, her colossal wealth. But how did one know whether it was genuine love or not?

Yvette bit her lower lip. She ought to have talked with Vangie, told her of her growing doubts. But Vangie had said to trust Ewan. Bother it all. She blew out a breath. She was so confused.

Ewan shrugged tension stiff shoulders. He was uneasy. The need to get Yvette out of the elements forced him to find shelter. When Duncan fell in behind him, he told him her teeth were chattering, and she was wracked with shivers.

Dammit.

If it were only he and the other Scots, he’d not worry about boarding at Munlocky’s. He had done so many times before.

The inn was an unsavory establishment frequented by those whose respectability was unquestionably lacking. Scoundrels who made their living just this side of the law, and some boasting otherwise, were always in attendance. Munlocky’s was refuge to all sorts of rabble, brigands, and the like.

Several light-skirts, who sold their favors to anyone with enough coin, called the inn their home too. No, Ewan didn’t like taking Yvette into their midst at all. Yet, what choice had he? The gale showed no signs of abating, and she’d been suffering in silence for some time.

Though she had courage, she wasn’t accustomed to this type of hardship. His lips turned up. She hadn’t complained, not once.

He glanced skyward. His lips thinned. He could not subject her to this weather any longer. Curse this storm. It complicated his plans and slowed their progress—that could prove dangerous.

For days he’d plotted to remove Yvette from Somersfield. But under circumstances he could control and that gave him a strategic advantage, hence the arrival of his kin. He set a brisk pace, keeping them ahead of their pursuers, but intentionally leaving signs and allowing those who followed them to find their trail.

He was leading them straight to Craiglocky where his ability to protect and defend Yvette was indisputable. He’d been in a high dungeon, rage burning within him for weeks. He would use all of his skills to snare and destroy those daring to threaten what he had claimed as his.

Chapter 20

Yvette heard Munlocky’s several minutes before the inn rose into view. Rowdy drunken laughter and raucous lewd singing mingled with a plethora of foul oaths. The shrill tittering of a woman echoed dimly among the dripping trees. A ribald comment sent a wave of warmth skimming over her face.

Lud, where was Ewan taking her? Good Lord, Munlocky’s wasn’t a brothel, was it? He wouldn’t dare.

Smoke rose in steamy tendrils from the partial chimneys balanced atop the building’s thatched, poorly patched roof. Every shuttered window on the ground floor, and a few on the second, blazed with light. Most of the ground-level casings, several hanging crookedly from rusted nails, were thrown wide open, thus explaining the boisterous sounds carrying far into the saturated forest.

She tensed as the seven riders approached the cottage. This place was dangerous. The Scots grasped their weapons. She lifted her hatbox onto her lap. Better to be prepared.

Two armed men, lounging with their booted feet resting on battered whiskey barrels, stood at their approach. Their hands edged to the powerful swords at their waists. “Who goes there?” a surly voice demanded.

Duncan spoke. “‘Tis Laird Ewan McTavish, of Craiglocky, and his kinsmen. We be wanting a bed for the night if it pleases ye. This confounded weather has waylaid our journey home a wee bit.”

“How many ye be?”

“Seven, with our horses and all,” Duncan said.

Dugall sidled up to Yvette. She cast him a worried glance. His smile did little to reassure her.

A squat man’s shape appeared limned in the open doorway. He stepped onto the lopsided porch. “Did I hear the name of McTavish? Ewan, be that ye?”

“Aye, Paddy.” Ewan edged Shaidae frontward a bit. “Me and me bretheren.”

Paddy stepped off the porch and trundled toward the newcomers, beaming. “Welcome to ye. Come in the house, man, get out of the weather.”

Releasing a huff of air, Yvette turned her attention to dismounting. Lord above, was she even capable of getting off this horse? Her backside felt aflame. And her legs—could she even stand?

Dugall must have sensed her disquiet, because he reached to pluck her off the beast.

Before he touched her, Ewan growled, “Nae.” He nudged his brother aside with Shaidae. Giving Dugall a grim look he admonished, “The
lad
can get off the horse.”

Dugall’s eyes rounded, and he dipped his head. “Aye, Ewan. ‘Tis very sorry I be.”

Ewan rode his charger round the other side of Yvette’s horse, away from the curious eyes of the guards, and dismounted. His tone low he said, “Evvy, I can’t help you dismount, not without drawing attention to you. Can you get off your horse yourself? I don’t want anyone to know you’re a woman.”

The other riders surrounded her, alighting in a flurry of distracting activity, loud voices, and waving tartans. Gritting her teeth, Yvette drew her leg over the saddle. Pain, sharp as a blade, coursed the length of her leg. “Sweet Jesus,” she hissed through clamped teeth.

Biting her lower lip till it bled, she turned over. Lying on her stomach, she slid off the side of the horse. Her legs crumpled when her feet touched the ground. She grabbed the saddle to stay upright.

Ewan’s hands steadied her. “That’s my lass.”

Despite the frigid rain and blowing wind, the sight of Yvette’s bottom, tipped upward face level, as she sprawled on her belly across the mare, caused Ewan’s pulse to quicken. He sucked in a great gulp of moist air watching the delectably rounded
derrière
wiggling its way off the horse.

Curling his hand into a fist, he restrained the urge to reach out and smooth his hand over the supple mounds before squeezing their tempting fullness. Though he’d forbidden his hand from enjoying her luscious curves, he allowed his mind to fully indulge in the act. He tilted his lips into a grin.

Gripping the saddle Yvette rested her forehead against it, croaking, “Lord, I feel dreadful. I can hardly stand my legs ache so.”

Her comment jerked Ewan back to reality. He was a knave, ogling her when she was so miserable. He’d bet his finest mare, her death grip on the saddle was the only thing keeping her from slithering onto the boggy courtyard. That and his hand at her elbow.

“Evvy, this is a most unsavory public-house. Keep your eyes lowered and talk to no one. I hope to get you tucked into a room without revealing your gender. ‘Tis not what you are accustomed to, but ‘tis better than outdoors.”

She turned a bit, still clutching the saddle. “All right. My hatbox?”

Ewan’s let loose of her arm. “It will look odd if you carry it in. Hugh will smuggle it in later.”

Hugh nodded. “Aye, lass. ‘Tis not a problem to drape me tartan about the pretty box. I will see ye gets it.”

His voice low, Ewan said, “Look lively, lads. We don’t know who may be inside this night. Keep Yvette to the middle and watch your backs. Weapons at the ready, all of you. Dugall, you and Gregor see to the horses and find your way inside. Be quick about it.”

Yvette didn’t know where she found the strength to hobble unassisted into the boisterous inn. Only God could have carried her to the dismal entrance, for surely no flesh and blood effort would have sufficed. She was flanked on either side by Hugh and Duncan, with Ewan forging the way. Alasdair’s hulking form brought up the rear. 

She stumbled twice. Each time a steadying hand was there to catch her, releasing its hold on her the instant she regained her footing. Stepping across the grubby threshold, she was momentarily stupefied, by the light, by the noise, and most of all, by the women.

Curious, Yvette peeked upward through her lashes. Merciful God! A light-skirt sat on the counter, or rather, was draped across the mutilated surface. She might as well have been unclothed from the waist up, so immodest was the atrocity of a kirtle she wore.

A disheveled man, obviously in his cups, staggered to the bar, then buried his grizzled head between the harlot’s drooping breasts. The tattered kilt he wore hiked upward exposing most of his hairy backside. The hussy’s shriek of laughter clawed along Yvette’s nerves where it clung, its sharp sting echoing in her ears.

She shook her head trying to dislodge the din banging in her head. The humming persisted, whether from the bellowing thunder outside, the clamorous crowd gathered within, or the stomach-churning, relentless pounding in her temples, she didn’t know.

Her throat convulsed as she gulped against waves of nausea. She needed to sit. Now. This place was vile.

Another wench, spying the good-looking, affluent newcomers, sashayed her way to them. She slapped away the many grimy hands groping her scantily covered, but more than ample bosom and bottom.

Cozying up to Ewan, she purred, revealing stained yellowed teeth. “Laird, ye be wantin’ some company tonight? I be most pleased to see to yer manly needs.” Rubbing against him, the tart skimmed her hand along his inner thigh, brushing and cupping his manhood.

Yvette felt a wave of color sweeping her face. Beneath the cap’s low brim, she narrowed her eyes in outrage. How dare she? The . . . the ladybird.

The proximity of the strumpet assailed her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Does she never bathe? The reeking combination of cheap perfume, whiskey, stale tobacco and another repugnant scent caused Yvette to gag. She swallowed, coughing reflexively to dislodge the bile accosting her throat.

Lud, she felt ill.

The slight cough caught the attention of the fleshy floozy who grinned. “Well now, does the laddie need to be taught the pleasures of the flesh?”

Good Lord, no.

Before anyone realized what she was about, the harlot reached around Ewan, and snatched the cap from Yvette’s head. A sudden, foreboding hush encompassed the room as her mass of waterlogged curls cascaded to her waist.

“
Merde
.
”

“Shite.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

Only Duncan remained silent, deftly pulling his broadsword from its leather scabbard.

“Sweet Lord above,” Yvette gasped, horrified, her gaze darting to Ewan. This didn’t bode well. She glanced about the room, recoiling from the leering, lust-filled men gawking at her. No, this didn’t bode well at all. Where was her hatbox when she needed it?

Gregor and Dugall barged in, the door banging shut behind them. Both froze when their eyes met Ewan’s. Without a word they moved to stand with their kin, settling into defensive stances.

“Damn it, McTavish, ye know that bawds is the only women allowed.” Paddy’s angry, blotchy face bobbed above the bar he had been tending.

“Mayhap she is their
private putain,
” a clipped, cultured voice offered from a shadowy corner at the rear of the tavern near the kitchen.

“I’d be willing to pay extra for a go at her. Name your fee, McTavish. I’d welcome some fresh arse. These diseased sluts spread their thighs for any man. I’ve no doubt half of them are riddled with clap.”

Several men chortled their agreement.

“Ye filthy plug tail,” screeched one of the strumpets.

Yvette cringed and slipped closer to Ewan.

Dugall grabbed his dirk. Hugh laid a restraining hand on his son’s arm. “Easy, son, keep yer head. Just watch the laird.”

Quaffing back a dram, Paddy belched. “Ye mean to share her?”

Aghast, she met his bleary scowl. Share her? Sweet God in heaven, he doesn’t mean—

Ewan simply said, “Nae,” and laid a hand on his broadsword.

His clan followed suit.

Shouts of outrage rang throughout the pub, the rumblings growing more threatening in volume. Without warning the tart who had fondled him seized Yvette’s hair. She yanked viciously.

“No. Stop.” Yvette yelped, seizing the trollop’s hand. “Let me go.”

Her head snapped backward with the next cruel jerk. Blast it, the hair was being torn from her scalp. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she ceased struggling. The wench drug her to the center of the room.

Ewan’s growl of fury didn’t stop the infuriated harlot. She turned a belligerent glare on Yvette, shouting, “She nae be so special. Who wants her first?”

First? Yvette renewed her struggles. The trollop slapped her across the face. Yvette’s injured lip stung anew from the blow.

The tavern erupted in chaos as nearly every man present vied for the privilege. Several fights broke out. Glass shattered and whores screamed their outrage. Two young derelicts groped and tugged at Yvette, each trying to gain possession of her.

Terrified, she slapped at the hands accosting her. Raising her eyes, she met Ewan’s unflinching gaze. His face was a mask of fury. She raised her hands in entreaty.

Help me.

Why didn’t he do something?

One man mashed at her breast. A tormented cry tore from her throat. “Ew—an.”

Ewan fired his pistol in the air, drawing his broadsword simultaneously. Wood and straw exploded. His clan held weapons in both hands, prepared to wreak havoc. A piece of straw, feather-light, floated from the rafters, settling on the filthy floor of the now eerily quiet room.

His words penetrated to the far reaches. “Unhand me
wife
.”

Yvette heard Dugall’s sudden intake of breath and saw Alasdair elbow him in the stomach. She paid them little mind, focusing her blurry gaze on Ewan.

Wife
? Lawks, was there no end to the lies Ewan would tell?

He stared at the men restraining her. She stared at him. He looked like a man possessed. His eyes were black pools of rancor. Lord help anyone foolish enough to cross him.

Angling his broadsword menacingly, his voice dripped with wrath. “Ye are touching what be mine, idiots.”

Yvette tugged against their grasps, but they held tight.

Ewan stepped closer, the tip of his sword wavering between the two. “Do ye mean to die tonight?”

The response from the two despots was immediate. They released her and scuttled out the door like a pair of insects, fear distorting their mangy faces.

Driven by fevered fury, Yvette turned on the whore. Raising her hand, she let fly with more strength than she knew she had. The impact of her hand connecting with the light-skirt’s cheek rang throughout the silent room.

“Don’t—
ever
—touch—me—again.” Yvette clasped her stinging palm in her other hand.

Holding her flaming cheek, the taunting harlot slithered into a dingy corner to hide in fusty disgrace.

Yvette gripped a chair to keep from crumpling to the floor. Her head swam in dizzying waves. The chair she clutched was the only thing keeping her upright.

Good Lord, did he really say wife?

Paddy paused in lifting a cup to his lips. “Wife
?
She be yer wife?” He looked down, perplexed, apparently trying to absorb this new, confounding information. “Ye be married
to
the lass, Laird McTavish? Ye took her as yer wife?”

“Aye, I have taken Yvette as me wife.” Ewan looked her straight in the eye. “To love, honor, and cherish, till death do us part.”

Paddy turned a skeptical eye on her, then sniffed before wiping his nose on his stubby forearm. “Ye be his wife, lass? Ye agreed to marry the laird?”

Yvette flicked a look to Ewan. She read the concentrated message in his eyes. She scanned the taproom. Several men leered at her lewdly. She nodded, her wet curls swinging back-and-forth with the motion. Ouch. She ought not to have done that. She pressed a hand to her throbbing scalp.

“Yes. I . . .” Her eyes met Ewan’s again. She swallowed.

Say it
.