Taming the Scotsman Read online

  "Unless you come bearing more ale, I suggest you head back inside."

  "And if I come bearing an apology?"

  He didn't even pause as he swung the ax. "I'm in no mood to hear it."

  "Be that as it may, I am in the mood to give it. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I dragged you into my problems when it is obvious yours are much worse."

  He tugged the ax free of the stump, then buried it into the wood again. "What do you know of my problems?"

  "Truly, nothing. You just seem incredibly sad and angry. I should have left you passed out in your cave."

  He struck the wood again. "Aye, you should have."

  Nora watched him with fascinated interest as he picked up the logs he'd made and carried them to the large pile. Sorcha and Aenos were right. It was quite a mountain of lumber.

  And he was quite a mountain of delectable male flesh. A man whose body rippled with every move he made.

  Ewan wiped his face with his arm, then retrieved the ax from the ground and headed for another tree.

  She swallowed at the strength and sight of him working. The muscles of his back rippled and flexed, making her body strangely warm and needful.

  "Tell me," she said, "does it help? Does ale really alleviate your feelings?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "In the event I don't make it to England and am forced to marry Ryan, I was just wondering if that would be way to ease the misery of the life I'm sure he'll give me."

  With three strikes, he felled the tree.

  He waited until it was down before he spoke again. "Have you ever met this man you are betrothed to?"

  "Aye, many times."

  "Is he truly insufferable, then?"

  She shivered at the thought of Ryan. They had never gotten along, and in truth, she couldn't believe he wanted to wed her given their mutual distaste.

  "You can't imagine. He is beastly. He looks at me and sees nothing but my purse. I speak and he turns away." She shook her head. "How I wish I were a man. If I were, I would never waste my life hiding away."

  "Judge not lest ye be judged."

  "I know, but still it makes no sense. You are in complete control of your life and yet you do nothing with it. I, on the other hand, must do as I am told. I can't just leave whenever I choose."

  "Is that not what you've done?"

  "Aye, and at what cost? My maid and servant will like as not be punished for it, and you would hand me back over to my father in an instant if I told you who he was."

  Ewan thought about that. He'd never given much thought to what it would be like to be a woman. He'd always taken his freedom for granted.

  She was right; he answered to no one.

  He was his own man with no ties to anyone except his family.

  Ewan paused and looked at her. "If you were free, what would you do?"

  She shrugged prettily. "I know not. Travel perhaps. I've always wanted to see Aquitaine. My mother has such marvelous stories about the acres of vineyards there. She says there's not a more beautiful place on this earth. Or perhaps I would go to Rome. Make a pilgrimage. Have you ever been to the Holy Land?"

  "Nay."

  Her face fell. "Oh. My aunt went. She had a marvelous time there."

  She unpinned a brooch from her dress, then moved forward to show it to him. "She gave me this. She said she bought it from a crusader who was selling items so that he could gain enough money to return home."

  Ewan studied the piece. It was a knight on horseback who bore a cross on his shield, and was indeed a pilgrim's badge.

  He tightened his grip on it.

  Was it possible that she really could be who and what she claimed?

  Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that it couldn't be. For all her sincerity, it wasn't possible for the niece of the most powerful woman in Christendom to have shown up in his cave without escort. Eleanor's niece would be a woman of unquestionable value.

  Under careful guard at all times.

  She would never be allowed to just leave her father's house on so foolish a quest. Not without every member of the guard being raised.

  He handed it back to her.

  Her fingers brushed his, sending an unexpected jolt through him.

  She was so soft and she smelled so feminine and warm. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her scent.

  She was so tender.

  Truly a morsel worth savoring.

  Nora trembled at the look on his face. She'd been kissed only once before. It had been quick and rather slimy. The event was so distasteful that she had never wanted to repeat it, and yet as she stood there alone with Ewan, sharing her wishes with him, she felt a strange desire to taste his lips.

  He bent his head down.

  Instinctively she rose up on her tiptoes.

  He reached out with one large hand and tipped her chin up toward him. In one heartbeat, he lowered his head and took possession of her mouth.

  Nora moaned at the intimate contact and at the taste of him mixed with ale. His tongue brushed hers, making her entire body quiver.

  Of their own accord her arms rose up and wrapped themselves around his bare shoulders so that she could feel his muscles bunch and flex underneath her hands.

  He was sweaty and hot, and she should be revolted by his smell, but she wasn't. He truly didn't stink. It was a pleasant manly scent, and the sensation of his wet skin only made her ache more for him.

  Gracious, she'd never felt the like. No wonder some women turned wanton.

  Who knew touching a man could be so pleasurable?

  Ewan growled deep in his throat as he tasted the sweet honey of her mouth. It had been so long since he last kissed a fair maid.

  So long since a woman's hands had brushed through his hair.

  He had forgotten the pleasure, and yet as he kissed her the thought was in his mind that no other woman he'd sampled had ever tasted this good.

  It was followed by another thought…

  While he was kissing her, she wasn't speaking.

  He laughed at the thought.

  Nora stiffened, then pulled back. "Are you laughing at me, sir?"

  "Nay, love," he said honestly, smiling even though he wanted to cease as he brushed her swollen bottom lip with his thumb. "It was but a passing thought that made me laugh."

  Her eyes narrowed as if she didn't believe him. "And what thought was that?"

  "That you can't talk and kiss at the same time."

  Her face turned bright pink. "You are a knave."

  "Aye, to the core of my rotted soul."

  Her gaze turned gentle, warm. "It really isn't proper for me to be out here with you like this."

  Her gaze ran over his body, making him harden in lustful need to touch more of her. To touch all of her. "My mother would be quite scandalized."

  He dropped his hand from her chin. "Your father would be furious."

  "Aye, he would indeed. No doubt he'd want your head."

  Aye, and not the one on his shoulders. "No doubt."

  She cleared her throat and turned around. She took three steps, then stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. "Oh, and Ewan?"

  "Aye?"

  "You kiss very nicely."

  Bemused, Ewan watched her leave.

  You kiss very nicely. The words rang in his head and brought an odd wave of arrogant pride to him.

  Why that was so, he couldn't imagine. All he knew was that he had an overwhelming urge to follow after her, scoop her up in his arms and see if she was so bold and outspoken in the privacy of his bed.

  And on the heels of that thought came another, much more painful one.

  He would never know.

  A man who had caused the death of his brother and best friend didn't deserve a woman like her.

  He deserved nothing at all.

  And nothing was all he would ever have. He owed that much to Kieran.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

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  Catarina paused
by the fire as she listened to the three men plotting their attack against Ewan MacAllister while a fourth man leaned back against the wheel of the wagon, watching them.

  Pagan had his arms crossed over his chest as he sat with his long legs stretched out before him, ankles crossed. His long, dark gold hair spilled over his shoulders and chest. It had a reddish cast to it from the firelight that played in the sharp, handsome angles of his face.

  He was truly a handsome warrior. Tall. Well-muscled. Serious to a terrifying level. He had the deep blue eyes of a predator who never missed a single detail.

  Whenever he looked at Catarina, she felt the profound urge to cross herself.

  No one was really sure where he came from. He refused to speak of his past or his homeland, which must be far away since he had an exotic accent none of them could identify.

  Their only clue about his past was his unnatural ability with a sword. It was obvious he had been trained and trained well, but they didn't even know if he was a knight or a former squire.

  Not to mention, Pagan wasn't really his name. It was a nickname Lysander and others had given him long ago in the Holy Land for his wild fierceness and for the fact that he feared no one. Not even the Heavenly Father Himself.

  Or so Pagan said. For a man who claimed he had no soul or respect for divine justice, he was never found without a small crucifix around his neck.

  He hadn't been in their company long. Only a few weeks. He'd joined them in England while they'd been on their way north to Scotland. Catarina hadn't been sure if they could trust him and that deadly aura that clung to him like a second skin, but Lysander and Pagan went far back, and Lysander had spoken up on his behalf.

  So after a little debate, Pagan had joined their group. Part of them, and yet he always kept himself apart.

  Pagan passed a look to her as she continued to stand there watching the men, and it was only then Catarina realized he was as amused by the other men's plotting as she was. One corner of his mouth twisted up wryly so that he could share with her his own condemnation of their discussion.

  Viktor, who was the closest thing to a father she had ever known, held an old, large, tattered bag in his left hand. It was a bag she had repaired earlier that day. His gray hair stuck out in the front as if he'd been tugging at it while trying to prove his point. "I say we attack him from behind."

  Viktor looked to his right and handed the bag to the man beside him. "Bavel, take this sack. We toss it over his head and conk him right on the noggin."

  Bavel nodded in agreement. Not much taller than she, Bavel was the musician of their clan. At a score and a half in age, he was only three years older than she, with black hair and flashing black eyes. He was a handsome man who had always been like a brother to her.

  "I can use my hammer and we can have him in the wagon in a matter of minutes," Lysander added. A tall, fierce warrior, Lysander had been sent to keep watch over her and to be the strong arm should they need one.

  "Or the lot of you could kill him," Cat said, joining their discussion.

  She looked at each man in turn. Viktor's tired gray eyes held an uncommon spark to them, while Lysander's green ones glinted in anticipation.

  Bavel looked away, shamefaced.

  Pagan gave a deep, rich laugh that drew scowls from the others.

  Lysander kicked at Pagan's booted feet, but before he could make contact, Pagan moved them quickly away as if anticipating the "friendly" attack.

  It was eerie how fast Pagan could move and how well he knew the minds and intents of others, sometimes even before they did.

  "What do you know of it, woman?" Lysander asked irritably, turning his attention back to her. " 'Tis men's business you're interrupting."

  "Oh aye," she said, laughing bitterly. "Murder most often is, but if you'll recall we were paid to abduct Ewan MacAllister, not kill him. Think you, what would happen if we return with his corpse?"

  Pagan subtly nodded his head as if impressed by her speech. Without a word, he watched the others to see how they would respond.

  "Have you a better plan?" Viktor asked. Unlike his other two coconspirators, he respected her ability to think.

  Cat nodded. "I say we drug him."

  "A devious woman's trick." Lysander spat. "I say we be forthright like men."

  She scoffed. "You'll kill him if you do. A man like him won't come with you peacefully. If you attack him, he'll attack you."

  Lysander made a rude noise at her. "Come, let us be about this. Cat, you make the wagon ready for him."

  "Pagan?" she asked, looking to the man who still appeared amused by their debate. "What say you?"

  His voice was rough and deep, like thunder, as it resonated with his foreign accent. "I say you should never involve yourself in the machinations of others unless invited. Throats have been slit for far less."

  "Will you join us, then?" Lysander asked.

  Pagan shook his head. "I hold no grudge against this man and have no wish to fight him. I leave the entire matter to the three of you."

  Lysander gave him a curt nod.

  Catarina threw her hands up, unwilling to argue further. "When Ewan MacAllister ends up dead and his brothers demand the lives of the lot of you, I want you to remember who had the voice of reason."

  As Viktor started off with them, Lysander made him stay behind. "You make too much noise, Viktor. It'd be best if you leave this to Bavel and me."

  Reluctantly, Viktor agreed.

  He ambled back toward the fire where Cat still stood with her hands on her hips as she watched the other two imbeciles head off.

  "They are such fools," she said under her breath.

  "Now, Cat, don't be so angry because they didn't listen to you."

  "I'm not angry. I'm perfectly calm. See."

  He laughed at that, then he and Pagan helped her clean up their dinner remains. Catarina washed their cups and platters while Viktor fed the scraps to their horses.

  Pagan returned to sit by the wagon, where he remained totally impassive and silent.

  After a short while, Bavel and Lysander returned, empty-handed. Both of them had lost a good deal of color in their cheeks.

  "Well?" Viktor asked, his voice a cross between fear and hope.

  "Have you seen the size of the man?" Bavel gasped. "He's even taller than Pagan."

  Cat looked at said man who stood at least a head taller than any other man she'd ever seen.

  Even Lysander's face was pale, and Cat had never known anything to daunt the ex-soldier. A veteran fighter of the Crusades, Lysander had always had fearless nerves.

  Until now.

  "I don't want to be hitting this man, to be sure," Lysander agreed. "Like as not, it will only upset him."

  Pagan laughed at that.

  "How big can he be?" Viktor asked.

  Lysander stretched his arm over his head and stood on his tiptoes. "He's a giant. No one said anything about kidnapping a giant."

  Bavel nodded furiously. "We'll need a bigger wagon to hold him."

  Cat exchanged an amused look with Pagan, who continued to watch them in silence.

  Viktor stroked his gray beard as he considered their words. "I was told he drank much. Was he not in his cups?"

  Lysander shrugged. "All I know is he had an ax and I watched him cut down a tree twice the size of me with only three strokes. I wasn't about to get between him and that ax to figure out if he was drunk or not. And if he could do that drunk… Well, I'm thinking he's a mighty fine terror."

  Suddenly, all three men looked to Pagan, who arched a brow at their attention.

  "You won't be involving me in this madness. If you want him, you'll have to get him on your own."

  In unison their gazes moved on to her.

  "Oh," Catarina said snidely. "Now why you be staring at me, huh?"

  Lysander cleared his throat. He looked at the others, then back to her. "What's your idea, woman?"

  "So now you be facing me for ideas, eh? What makes you think a simpl
e, brainless woman like myself would have any idea on how to accomplish men's work? Why, I feel faint just trying to think any thought at all."

  Lysander curled his lips.

  "Please," Bavel said, moving over to stand by her. "You've no idea what we've just seen. If you be having any more ideas, I'm willing to listen." He shot a look at Lysander over his shoulder. "And if he insults you again, it'll be his noggin we conk."

  Nora woke up early, even before the brewer and his wife did. As quietly as she could, she left the small cottage to attend to her needs.

  It was barely after dawn, with the light just creeping through the village. This was one of her favorite times of the day. She almost always woke up before anyone else, and she treasured the times where she was alone in the world.

  But she wasn't alone, she realized as she neared the small stream that ran behind the cottage.

  Ewan had beaten her awake and to her spot.

  She froze the instant she saw him in the early morning misty light. His black hair slicked back from his sculpted face, he was waist-deep in the water, holding a knife to his throat as he shaved himself.

  Her gaze feasted on the sight of his tanned flesh. On the way the waves of the water lapped against his bare, tawny skin, caressing and teasing it to a fine sheen.

  She traced the line of his muscles with her eyes, watching the way his body bunched and flexed with every move he made.

  Aye, Ewan MacAllister was the finest-looking man she'd ever beheld.

  Always sheltered at home, Nora had never known such desire for a man, but she felt it now. Felt it in every part of her body. Her heart that raced, her lungs that struggled to breathe, her legs that threatened to buckle.

  What was it about this unrefined ruffian that he appealed to her so? He wasn't the kind of man to woo her with poetry. Nor the kind of man who would sit for hours with her while she listened to a bard sing.

  Like as not, he'd be like her father, ever impatient with a minstrel. She couldn't count the times her father had forced her mother up to their room rather than sit and listen to a bard's tale.

  Her father was ever quick to bellow for her mother and never content to sit and listen to others.

  Her mother, God bless her soul, was ever patient and caring as a wife should be. Whenever her father wanted to retire for the night, her mother went, even if she was in the midst of something else.