Highlander's Hope (17 page)

“I’m married to Laird McTavish. I’m his wife.”

The world tilted around her. Oh, Lord, have mercy. Now we’re pretending to be wed. Lud, first a false betrothal, now these people thought they were actually wed. What a bumblebroth.

She cast a glance in Paddy’s direction. Lines of doubt creased his forehead, and his mouth was curved downward in disbelief. Didn’t he believe her? He had to believe her, or else these men . . . She shuddered at the thought.

Forcing a smile to her lips, she added for good measure, “We exchanged vows. We’re married, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.” She’d never lied so much in her life.

Dugall made an inarticulate sound in his throat. Yvette sent him a quizzical look.

Why are Ewan’s relatives grinning like inebriated, oversized baboons? Did Dugall wink at me? This is nothing to be laughing about. Were
all
Scots touched in the head? Only Ewan looks serious. Why? She felt a smattering of alarm in the recesses of her muddled mind.

Lord above, whatever in the world is going on?

Paddy cackled in glee, then slapped his podgy thigh before gulping the fiery liquid he held in his stumpy hand.

“If ye weren’t before,” he chortled, “ye are now.”

Chapter 21

Yvette tottered across the room, stumbling into Ewan’s waiting arms. Pressing her aching head into his chest, she begged throatily, “Please, take me away from here.”

Ewan felt the fear shaking her slight figure. Her entire body was wracked with tremors. It was fear causing her trembling, wasn’t it? “Paddy, is my chamber ready?”

“Aye.”

Scooping her into his arms, her loose hair swishing an inch from his muddied boots, Ewan turned to Hugh. “Can you acquire warm water so I can bathe her?”

Hugh gathered Yvette’s sunny locks, carefully twisting them into a rope before laying them across her bent body. She lay against Ewan with eyes closed, face white as death. His lips thinned. “Aye, son.”

Ewan looked to Duncan. “We need to eat. Bread and cheese are fine if Paddy has naught else.” His eyes scanned the grimy parlor. “Buy a round for all. Don’t spare the coin. Mayhap we can avoid any more complications this night.”

“I’ll see to it,” Duncan assured him.

Before he turned to climb the stairs, Ewan met the two older men’s eyes. “I need to speak to you as soon as I’ve seen to Yvette.”

“Is the lass very sick?” Hugh touched her forehead.

Frowning, Ewan glanced at the bundle in his arms. Sick? Is that why she shivers so? “I don’t know.”

He prayed she wasn’t. Munlocky’s was not the place to get ill. The riff raff here would kill you in your sickbed between drams of whiskey and tussles in the sack.

Ewan reached his usual chamber, then slid Yvette to the floor, his arm supporting her limp form. He unlatched the well-worn door. Toeing it open, he left it ajar, allowing the dull light from below to lend a faint glow to the room’s interior.

Lifting her again, he strode to the bed, then set her tenderly on the rope mattress. He made quick work of lighting the candle on the bedside table before lighting two more wall-tapers.

He withdrew a wicked looking knife from his boot. He might have need of it yet this night.

Yvette lay back, her legs hanging over the edge of the bed, too tired to attempt to remove her sopped plaid. The drumming in her head had reached an apex, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. Lord, her head hurt. She fingered the bed. A fine covering lay smoothed across the bumpy surface. She’d wager a month’s worth of pin money the sheets were satin.

She quirked her mouth, the movement pulling at the dried blood on her lower lip. She ran her tongue over the cut. The cut was the least of her injuries from the grueling trip. It had been excruciating getting off that blasted horse.

She sniffed, as much against her stuffy nose as the room’s staleness. There was no doubt the chamber was seldom used. The air was musty from lack of circulation.

Ewan strode to the lone window, throwing open the shutters. “I’ll close the window once the room has aired.”

Yvette rather liked the damp, refreshing air. She remained silent though. She was too weak and tired to talk. He frowned when she didn’t respond. Sighing, she levered to her elbows.

There, that should please him. Through a haze she watched him cross to the door and push it closed with a hollow thunk, then slide the bolt into place.

He removed his tartan, hanging it on a peg, before approaching the bed. “Let’s get some of those wet clothes off you.”

She didn’t say a word as he lifted the drenched plaid from her. She felt remarkably light without the weight of the saturated tartan. Ewan kneeled before her and removed her boots, then her soaked socks. She didn’t remember closing her eyes.

They popped open when he exclaimed, “Your feet are freezing.”

She almost laughed. Well, what had he expected? Instead she shivered.

He lifted one foot. “I’m going to rub your feet to warm them.”

She slouched, staring at him.

Placing the foot on his knee, he began to rub it, forcing the blood to circulate. As her foot warmed, pins and needles galloped relentlessly through her icy veins.

Lud, that hurts
.

Glancing up, his gaze fell on her lip. Switching to her other foot he asked, “What happened to your lip?” His face darkened. “Did she do that to you?”

Yvette arched her brows in surprise. He hadn’t notice her lip below stairs? “No. I bit my lip when I dismounted.”

His rough hand lingered on her instep. “I’m sorry. I never thought . . .”

A light tapping interrupted him. He set her foot down, then rose. In three strides he was at the door and opening it to admit Duncan and Hugh. Hugh held a bucket, a cloth, and what appeared to be crudely fashioned soap. Yvette’s hatbox was tucked under one arm.

The dear, he’d remembered her hatbox.

Duncan carried a shabby, one-handled tray sporting a bottle of wine, a crusty loaf of bread, some hard cheese, and a knife.

Glancing over the tray, Ewan’s face broke into a smile. “Thank ye, uncle.” He slapped Duncan on the back. “Put it on the table, will ye?”

Duncan moved to the table. “Cock-a-Leekie soup’s about ready below,” he said. “Paddy’s daughter is a fine cook. He keeps her hidden in the kitchen. Anything else ye have need of?” He looked to Yvette, a small furrow of worry between his full brows.

Ewan followed Duncan’s gaze. “Tea, if they have it.”

Oh, that would be wonderful.

Ewan took the bucket and soap from Hugh. “Evvy cannot drink wine. It makes her ill.”

Duncan moved to the door. “Aye, I will check on the tea, though I doubt they have much call for it.”

Hugh still held her hatbox. Raising it in the air, he sent Ewan a questioning look.

Ewan slanted his head in the direction of the bedside table while depositing the bathing goods on the washstand. “Over there, please.”

Yvette slouched through the whole exchange feeling detached. The ringing in her ears had subsided into a steady low-pitched roar. She’d gone from shivering with cold to sweltering hot. She swung her gaze to the window. Yes, the window was open. She fingered her jacket and breeches. And, yes, her clothing was soaking wet. Why ever was she so warm?

Sweet Jesus, had she caught a fever?

Ewan crossed to her. Crouching before her he said, “Will you be all right for a few moments? I need to speak to the others.”

She nodded her head the tiniest bit. More vigorous movement sent shards of pain stabbing throughout her skull.

“That’s my lass.” Ewan patted her knee, then straightened. He left the room, closing the lopsided door behind him.

Yvette clutched at the bedding to stop the swirling in her head. Why did her head feel so heavy? She flopped backward onto the bed. Staring at the crude ceiling above her, she watched it cavort, spinning and dipping, before sucking her into a dark, comforting vortex of oblivion.

Ewan knew Munlocky’s revelry would continue until the wee morning hours. Most of the carousers would sleep where they passed out, sprawled on the floor or drooped across a table. Few had sufficient coin to rent a room. The bawds lived in a small cottage behind the inn, but most nights shared a bed with a paying customer.

He didn’t trust the rabble rousers. He knew their type. Those who had been intent on enjoying Yvette’s favors earlier would feel thwarted and deserving of some recompense. He wouldn’t put it past some of the more daring, unscrupulous ones to try to snatch her for ransom—or worse.

He’d already asked his kinsmen to take shifts guarding his door. Gregor volunteered to stand the first watch. As luck would have it, the room opposite Ewan’s was vacant. The others would rest there, requiring no more than their tartans to sleep comfortably.

He took Hugh and Duncan aside. Less than twenty minutes later, two riders thundered from the cottage’s soggy yard into the blustery night.

Entering his chamber, the first thing Ewan saw was Yvette stretched across the bed. He halted beside her. Was she asleep or unconscious?

“Evvy?” He caressed her cheek. The devil take it. Her skin burned with heat. He tried again, tapping her shoulder. “Evvy?”

Almost incoherent, she mumbled, “Let me sleep. I’m tired.”

“
Petite
, you need to bathe and eat.”

“Uh-uhm. Just sleep.” She rubbed her hand across her flushed face. Her bent arm plopped across her eyes. The rough fabric of her coat caught her lip. It began bleeding a tad.

Ewan moved to the washstand, then dipped the cloth in the bucket of warm water. Returning to her, he dabbed the blood from her lip. She had begun shivering again.

He tossed the cloth on the bedside table, saying, “I need to take off your wet clothing.”

“Nooo,” Yvette protested, “sleeping.”

Ewan chuckled. She had a stubborn streak.

“Stop laughing, brute.”

Restraining the chuckle that surged to his lips, he reached for her jacket. “Sorry,
petite
, it must be done.”

“Bully.”

He grinned. If she was this feisty, she couldn’t be too ill,
could she
?

After slipping the jacket from her shoulders, he began working the buttons of her shirt. Underneath, she wore a lacy ivory chemise tucked into her breeches. It stuck to her like a second skin. Her rosy nipples protruded, protesting the cold.

Casting the shirt aside, he then released the fastenings of her breeches. Already skin tight, soaking wet they had to be peeled from her quaking form. Yvette groaned as he tugged them off her.

“
Merde
,” Ewan swore beneath his breath.

Bruises were beginning to form on the tender flesh of her legs, disappearing at the juncture between her thighs. He suspected if he turned her over, her
derrière
would be covered with the offending blotches too.

He lifted the fluttering candle from the bedside table. Holding it aloft, he stood over her. The added light clearly revealed her injuries. “Bloody hell.”

His eyes were drawn to, and lingered at the shadowy triangle from where the marks emerged. Dozens of angry purple and red lesions lay across Yvette’s satiny inner thighs. Welts from upper thigh to below her knees were raised in ugly protest. Shivering, she tucked her legs to her chest, curling into a ball.

Ewan tugged the bedspread over her. He closed the shutters, then collected the items to bathe her. “Evvy, I’m going to wash you. I’ll not be overly familiar, but your skin is too cold. The warm water will help rid you of the chill.” As if caring for a newborn infant, he bathed her, everywhere except where her filmy chemise covered her.

Levering her limp form into a sitting position, Ewan toweled her hair, removing much of the moisture. Her curls sprang about her head and shoulders. They crept round his fingers and arms like living vines. He lifted her chin, searching her cloudy eyes. “Can you manage your—”

He paused, taking a different tack. “If I leave, are you able to finish bathing? There’s hot soup below stairs.” His gaze roved over her pale face. “I’ll have Gregor fetch some, and I’ll give him your clothing to dry before the fire. I want to get some ointment for your legs too. I shall be but a few minutes.”

“I can manage,” she rasped, averting her gaze.

Brows pinched, Ewan considered her. A blush crept across her fevered-flushed skin. “I’ll be but a few moments,
chérie.
”

After gathering her wet clothing from where he’d strewn them on the floor, he left the chamber. Gregor was already on duty in the corridor. He looked up when Ewan left his chamber.

“Find Alasdair and ask him to take Yvette’s clothing and hang it before the fire below,” Ewan said, passing the garments to Gregor. “He is to stay with them until they dry. I can’t leave her,” His gaze flicked to the closed door, “and she has naught else to wear. The ruffians below will steal her garments.”

Gregor draped the wet clothing over his arm. “Aye. How is the lass?”

Ewan ran his hand through his nearly dry hair, then cupped the base of his neck and shrugged. “She’s weak as a newborn kitten and needs to eat. There’s hot soup below. Fetch some for us, would you please?”

“Of course.” Gregor started for the stairs.

“Ah, Gregor,” Ewan began.

Gregor, paused after a half step. “Aye?”

“Have ye yer medicines with ye? Yvette needs a healing ointment. Her legs are . . .” Ewan shook his head in self-condemnation. “I never should have allowed her to ride astride.”

Gregor placed his great hand on Ewan’s shoulder, “Ye canna have known. I will fetch the ointment.”

Ewan nodded his thanks, then slipped into his chamber. He closed the door
,
eyeing the lump in the middle of the bed. Better to leave her be for now. Supper needed to be prepared anyway. After slicing the bread, he cut the cheese into bite-sized pieces.

As he uncorked the wine, he visually searched the table for a cup. Blast, there wasn’t one. There was nothing for it then. Raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a healthy pull. He shuddered and grimaced, re-corking the bottle. Inferior stuff, that.

A knock sounded. Ewan opened the door.

Gregor stood without, awkwardly balancing a tray with two bowls of soup, a teapot, and a cup with a cracked saucer. A small jar of salve was also on the tray. “Here be the rest of yer meal and the ointment too. Spread the medicine on her legs morn and night.”

Thank you.” With his shoulder, Ewan shoved the door closed. He strode to the bed. “
Chére,
I’ve hot soup. Sit up so you can eat.”

A tussled blonde head appeared from beneath the covers. Yvette sniffed and her stomach growled. “It smells delicious.”