Page 8

A s evening approached and they made camp for the night, Lileas noticed Patrick hunched over the cooking pot with the determined expression of a man doing battle with forces beyond his understanding.

"Sweet Mary," she muttered under her breath as she caught sight of whatever unholy concoction was bubbling in the iron vessel. The mixture resembled nothing so much as what might result if someone had attempted to make porridge from tree bark and regret.

"Patrick," she called out, approaching cautiously. "What exactly are ye preparing there?"

The burly Scotsman looked up with obvious relief. "Och, mistress, 'tis meant to be a stew, but I fear it's gone a bit..." He gestured helplessly at the pot, where something gray and lumpy was doing its best impression of mortar.

Grant, who had been gathering firewood nearby, peered over Lileas's shoulder into the pot. "God's blood, Patrick, what did ye do to it?"

Lileas peered into the pot and immediately regretted it. "This looks like it could be used to patch the castle walls."

"Aye," Grant added cheerfully, "or perhaps as weapon against our enemies. One whiff of that and they'd flee for the hills."

"Aye, well," Patrick scratched his beard sheepishly. "At least I try to cook, which is more than can be said for some who just scratch their arse and do nothing."

Lileas couldn't help but grin at that quip.

Grant replied, "At least I can ken me arse from me face."

Patrick turned as if he was ready to clobber Grant, so Lileas intervened.

"Perhaps," Lileas said, pulling a small leather pouch from her traveling pack, "ye just need to work on the natural humors of food."

Patrick blinked. "The what now?"

"Move aside, warrior," she said with surprising authority. "The sisters at the abbey taught me that all foods contain the four humors: hot, cold, wet, and dry. Yer mistake lies in creating a balance so poor that even the devil himself would turn away from this pot."

She began pulling small cloth packets from her pouch, each tied with string and labeled in her careful script. "Thyme, sage, and fennel... These will help bring the dish back into balance."

"I dinnae ken all this talk of humors," Patrick grumbled, but he stepped aside, watching with fascination as she began to work.

"Of course ye dinnae ken it. Ye cook like a berserker." Lileas tested the mixture with a wooden spoon and smiled. "That's better. Now for a pinch of salt."

She set to work with practiced efficiency, adding pinches of herbs while muttering to herself. The transformation was remarkable, both in the pot and in Patrick's expression as he watched his culinary disaster slowly become something that smelled... edible.

"There," Lileas announced with satisfaction. "The humors are balanced and the devil is banished."

Patrick leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply. "By Saint Andrew's bones, that actually smells like food!"

"Try not to sound so surprised," Lileas said tartly, but she was fighting a smile.

It was at that moment Ewan returned from seeing to the horses, following his nose toward what he expected to be Patrick's usual attempt at sustenance. Instead, he found his wife standing over the cooking pot while Patrick looked on with something approaching worship.

"What sorcery is this?" Ewan asked, breathing in the savory aroma. "Patrick, have ye finally learned to cook?"

"Yer lady wife has informed me that I've been lacking... what was it again?"

"The natural humors of food," Lileas supplied helpfully.

Ewan raised an eyebrow. "Ah. Of course. How foolish of ye to ignore the natural humors, Patrick."

"Exactly what I told him," Lileas said primly, ladling the stew into wooden bowls.

When Ewan tasted his portion, he groaned with such evident pleasure that Lileas felt a warm flush of pride. "Patrick," he said solemnly, "Ye are never to cook ever again."

"Och, I'll not argue with that," Patrick laughed.

Grant agreed as the men devoured their food in silence. Lileas smiled as they praised her cooking.

"Wife," Ewan said quietly, setting down his empty bowl and turning to face her. "I thank ye for this meal." Without warning, he leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

The sudden tenderness of it caught Lileas completely off guard. Her cheeks blazed crimson, and she felt something flutter in her chest like a bird taking wing.

"Ye are welcome, husband," she stammered, which only made her blush deepen.

Ewan smiled at her obvious flustering, and his expression softened.

For the first time since this marriage had been arranged, Lileas felt like perhaps—just perhaps—she was exactly where she belonged.

***

A S THE LAST EMBERS of the cooking fire settled into glowing coals, Ewan rose and extended his hand to Lileas. "Come," he said quietly. "There's a stream nearby where ye can refresh yerself before we rest."

Lileas accepted his hand, grateful for his thoughtfulness. They walked in comfortable silence, their hands entwined, until they emerged into a small clearing where a narrow burn tumbled over smooth stones, creating a natural pool edged with moss and ferns.

"The water will be cold," Ewan warned, "but clean. I'll stand watch while ye..." He gestured vaguely toward the stream, then turned his back to give her privacy and walked a few yards away.

"Thank ye," Lileas said softly. She stripped down to her shift and set about washing as best she could with a cloth. The burn was indeed cold, but refreshing after the day's ride. When she was finished, she dried herself and changed into a long woollen tunic.

"Yer turn, husband," she called out quietly.

Ewan approached the water's edge while Lileas turned away to study the star-scattered sky emerging overhead.

She could hear clothing being removed and then the splash of water as he washed.

For a fleeting moment she wondered what he looked like naked, then mentally slapped herself for such errant thoughts.

"Ready?" his voice came from behind her, warm with something that might have been affection.

Startled, she blushed and stammered, "Aye." But not before he caught her gazing at his naked chest, wrapped only in his plaid.

Ewan returned a wicked grin before clasping her hand and leading her back to camp.

When they returned, Lileas noticed that Grant and Patrick had made themselves busy with checking the horses. Near the dying fire, a sleeping area had been prepared: Ewan's travel pallet spread with additional blankets and furs, positioned by the fire with the shelter of a large boulder.

"Grant, Patrick," Ewan said quietly, "I'll take the dawn watch."

"Aye, laird," Grant replied, not quite meeting anyone's eyes. "We'll keep vigil through the night."

The two men melted away into the darkness beyond the firelight, leaving Ewan and Lileas alone beside their makeshift shelter. For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, the reality of their wedding night—such as it was—settling between them.

"The pallet is large enough for two," Ewan said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "But if ye'd prefer, I can make another bed by the fire."

Lileas looked at the inviting pile of blankets and furs, then at her husband's face in the firelight. She saw no demand there, no expectation, only an offer of warmth against the cold.

"I... I think I would like to share," she said quietly, surprised by her own boldness. "If ye dinnae mind."

Ewan's smile was soft and genuine. "I dinnae mind at all, wife."

He helped her settle onto the pallet, then arranged the heavy woolen blankets and his own clan plaid around them both. When he lay down beside her, Lileas felt a moment of shy uncertainty, but the dropping temperature and Ewan's solid warmth beside her was undeniably welcome.

"Come here," he murmured, opening his arms in invitation. "Ye're shivering."

Indeed she was, though she wasn't entirely certain the cold was to blame.

Still, when Ewan gathered her close against his chest, wrapping his strong arms around her and pulling the plaid snugly around them both, she felt her tension melt away.

His warmth enveloped her, and despite her nervousness about their strange new intimacy, exhaustion was quickly winning the battle for her attention.

"Better?" he asked softly, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

"Much," she admitted, allowing herself to relax fully against him.

She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, could smell the clean scent of him mixed with woodsmoke and Highland air.

It was unexpectedly comforting, this closeness with a man who was still largely a stranger yet was now her husband.

They lay quietly for a while, listening to the soft sounds of the night and the distant murmur of Grant and Patrick's voices. Gradually, Lileas felt herself growing drowsy, lulled by Ewan's steady breathing and the secure circle of his arms.

"Lileas," he said quietly, and she made a soft questioning sound. "Thank ye for marrying me."

She tilted her head to look at him in the dim firelight. "Thank ye for being patient with me."

Ewan's hand came up to stroke her hair with surprising gentleness. "We'll make this work, love. I give ye my word."

"I believe ye," she whispered, and meant it.

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, his lips warm against her skin. "Sleep now, Lil," he murmured, the nickname falling naturally from his lips for the first time.

The unexpected endearment sent a flutter of warmth through her chest. "Lil?" she asked softly, smiling.

"Aye," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Lileas is a lovely name, but perhaps too formal for a husband to use with his wife under the stars."

"I like it," she admitted, snuggling closer to his warmth.

"Good night, then, Lil."

"Good night, Ewan."

As she drifted toward sleep in the circle of his arms, Lileas marveled at how right this felt. They were still learning each other, still finding their way, but tonight they were not just two strangers bound by political necessity, but a man and woman choosing to trust each other.

It was, she thought drowsily, a very good beginning indeed.

That night Ewan and Lileas slept more peacefully than they had in months.

***