Page 5

T he first sensation that crept into Ewan's consciousness was warmth and the most exquisite scent he'd ever encountered: honeysuckle and herbs, with undertones of something uniquely feminine.

Heaven, he thought drowsily. I must have died and gone to heaven.

A soft voice drifted through the golden haze of his awareness, melodic and desperate in prayer.

"Please, dinnae let this man die. I ken I've been willful and disobedient, but surely that's no cause to make me a murderess at my tender age.

And it would be such a waste, truly: he seems a good sort of man, even if he is my unwanted betrothed.

The clans would go to war, and all because I cannot control myself when startled. "

Despite the throbbing in his skull, Ewan found his lips twitching with amusement.

"And his poor clan," the voice continued with growing desperation.

"What will become of them? How am I to explain to the cruel Connor MacNeil that I've accidentally murdered his brother with a pipe?

He'll think me a witch, then Clan MacNeil will seek vengeance upon my father.

Who has a bad heart, as ye very well ken. He will no doubt die because of me."

As awareness gradually returned, Ewan became conscious of other sensations: the soft press of a woman's thigh beneath his head, providing the most comfortable pillow he'd ever known.

Silken strands of hair fell across his cheek, and the gentle dabbing of a cool, damp cloth against his forehead brought blessed relief.

The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Good grief , he realized with a start. The daft lass has her bosom pressed against my face.

The thought sent an entirely inappropriate surge of heat through his body. This was hardly the time or place for such reactions, yet he found himself acutely aware of every point of contact between them.

Memory returned like cold water thrown in his face.

This was no angel ministering to him: this was Lileas MacDonald, the woman who had tried to brain him with a copper pipe moments ago.

Yet here she was, cradling his head in her lap with infinite gentleness, her voice thick with genuine concern as she prayed for his recovery.

His eyes snapped open to find himself staring up into a face of genuine concern and startling beauty. Her dark hair had come completely loose and now fell in waves around them both like a silken canopy.

"And he has such bonnie green eyes," she was saying, apparently unaware that those very eyes were now fixed upon her face.

"It would be a shame to close them forever when they've barely had a chance to see the world properly.

Why, I'd wager he's no more than thirty winters, although he does look somewhat haggard and aged. "

"My eyes," Ewan growled, his voice rough with pain, "are working perfectly well, thank ye. And I am only nine and twenty!"

Lileas's reaction was immediate and unfortunate. With a cry of pure joy she leaped to her feet, exclaiming, "Oh, blessed saints, ye're alive! I thought for certain I'd killed ye!"

The sudden removal of his cushion sent Ewan's head crashing back against the stone floor with another sickening thud.

"Bloody hell!" he roared, his vision exploding in stars for the second time in as many minutes.

"Oh no, I've done it again! I'm so very sorry. Here, let me help ye sit up."

She slipped her arms beneath his shoulders and helped him rise to a sitting position against the wall.

Her movements were gentle but efficient, and as she supported his weight, Ewan caught another intoxicating scent and found himself wondering how someone who worked with copper pipes could smell like a summer garden.

"There now," she murmured, her voice soft with contrition. "Just lean back against the wall and try not to move too quickly."

"How many fingers am I holding up?" she asked anxiously, thrusting her hand before his face.

Ewan blinked, focusing on her upraised fingers. They were long and elegant, he noticed, with ink stains. "Two. And if ye make me hit my head again, lass, I swear I'll—"

His threat was cut short by the sound of running footsteps approaching, followed by the cottage door flying open with such force it rattled on its hinges.

A figure burst through the entrance like an avenging angel, her brown habit billowing behind her as she wielded a wicked-looking quarterstaff with the skill and confidence of a seasoned warrior.

"Lileas! I heard a scream," Sister Margaret cried, her eyes quickly assessing the scene before her.

Without hesitation, Sister Margaret spun the staff in a deadly arc above her head, the polished wood whistling through the air. She brought it down in a strike that would have felled an ox, aimed directly at Ewan's already battered skull.

Ewan pushed Lileas out of harm's way then threw himself sideways, rolling across the floor as the quarterstaff whistled through the air where his head had been moments before. The wooden weapon struck the stone wall with enough force to send chips of mortar flying.

Sister Margaret followed through with a spinning movement that brought the staff around in another vicious sweep, this one aimed at his midsection. The nun moved with fluid precision, her brown robes swirling around her as she executed what was clearly a well-practiced series of attacks.

Ewan ducked and scrambled backward, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the stone floor. "By the saints!" he roared, dodging yet another expertly executed strike that would have broken his ribs. "What is the matter with the violent women in this abbey?!"

"Sister, wait!" Lileas scrambled to her feet, placing herself between the advancing warrior nun and the increasingly battered Ewan. "Please, he's not hurt me. Quite the opposite, I fear. I've nearly killed him twice."

Sister Margaret paused and lowered her quarterstaff slightly, though she kept it at the ready. Her eyes never left Ewan's face. "Ye've... what?"

"I hit him with a copper pipe when he startled me," Lileas explained. "I think I may have addled his wits completely."

Ewan touched the tender spot on the back of his head and winced. "My wits are perfectly sound, thank ye. It's my skull that's taken a beating."

Sister Margaret eyed Ewan suspiciously, noting his disheveled state. His dark blonde hair was mussed, his clothing rumpled, and there was definitely a glazed look in his eyes. "And who exactly is this man?"

"Laird Ewan MacNeil," Lileas replied quietly, her cheeks flushing. "My... my betrothed."

The effect of this revelation on Sister Margaret was immediate and dramatic. Her eyebrows shot up skyward and her mouth fell open in surprise.

"This is the MacNeil?" She looked him up and down with obvious astonishment. "The laird ye called a brute and a dunce? This is he?"

Ewan's eyes narrowed dangerously as he turned to glare at Lileas, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed anger. "A brute and a dunce, am I?"

Lileas's face went from pink to scarlet. "I... well... ye see... I may have been... harsh in my judgement..."

"Harsh?" Sister Margaret snorted, apparently forgetting all about propriety. "Lileas, ye've done nothing but complain about yer 'boorish, arrogant betrothed' for months! Just yesterday ye said he was probably too stupid to find his way here even with directions."

The nun's words hung in the air like an accusation, and Lileas felt her mortification reach new heights.

"Sister Margaret!" Lileas hissed, mortified beyond measure. "I said no such thing!"

"Aye, ye did!" Sister Margaret replied with the righteousness of someone defending the truth. "Remember? We were gathering water from the well when ye said ye'd rather wed a muddy pig than—"

" Haud yer wheesht !" Lileas interrupted in a panic. "Sister, I was not talking about Laird MacNeil."

The lie was obvious to everyone present, and the silence that followed was deafening. Ewan's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as he stared at her. The air in the cottage seemed to crackle with tension, and Lileas found herself taking an involuntary step backward.

Then, very quietly, Ewan growled: a low, rumbling sound that seemed to emanate from deep in his chest and filled the cottage with menace. It was the sound of a predator who had just identified his prey, and it made the hair on the back of Lileas's neck stand on end.

Sister Margaret looked between them with growing alarm, finally seeming to realize she might have said too much.

The warrior nun who had been prepared to brain a stranger with her weapon suddenly looked like nothing more than a frightened woman who had inadvertently walked into the middle of a lovers' quarrel.

"Perhaps... perhaps I should fetch the abbess?

" she suggested weakly, backing toward the door with her quarterstaff held defensively before her.

"Aye," Ewan said, his voice still carrying that dangerous undertone. "I think that would be wise."

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