Page 10 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire (Kilted Kisses #2)

CHAPTER TEN

G race woke with her face and hands slightly chilled, and her back pressed against something wonderfully warm. She felt stiff, and still very tired. With a sigh, she made an effort to wiggle backward, to get closer to the source of the warmth.

The warm surface vibrated, and a low rumble of laughter sounded next to her ear. “Nae that I mind wakin’ up tae ye lass, but if ye want tae get on the road any time soon, ye’ll need tae stop pressin’ up against me like that. Unless…” the voice dropped to a rough purr. “...ye’d prefer tae dae something else.”

Grace jolted upright and scrambled away from Ewan as he sat up. “You… what are you…” Her brain felt hazy with sleep, as if the morning mist had shrouded her thoughts.

Ewan sat up, a slow, easy smirk on his face as he stretched. “Relax, lass. I didnae dae anything, save offer ye some warmth while we slept.”

Grace flushed as her memories returned. The rain. The cold. The small brazier and the night’s conversation, ending in huddling together for additional warmth. “Oh.”

“’Tis fine.” Ewan cracked his back. He was moving stiffly, as if he felt the same aches and weariness she felt. Then he rolled to his feet, and she saw another reason for the stiffness.

Grace scrambled to her feet, her cheeks blazing with a warmth she would have welcomed the night before. “Oh, I…”

Ewan opened the door to let in the fresh morning air, then turned back. She saw his jaw clench, eyes dancing before he burst into laughter. Grace stared at him. “What is so humorous?”

“Naething. But ye may want tae neaten up.” His hand gestured toward her hair.

Grace frowned, then reached up to touch her hair. There was straw stuck in it. Then she felt the tangle of it, and the way it stood out from her head, like the awful teased and curled styles her uncle had once tried to make her adopt.

The other side of her head, the side that hadn’t been slept on, was tangled but much less outlandish. It was still somewhat tamed into the traveling braid she’d wound her hair into some days before.

She must look frightful. Grace turned scarlet. “I… my brush. Where is my brush?”

She searched, but she’d brought only the very basic necessities into the hut. There hadn’t been room for much more.

Ewan was still laughing. “Och, I’ll go find it fer ye. ‘Tis in the smaller case, is it nae?”

Grace nodded, preoccupied with trying futilely to untangle the mess her hair had become. The long strands made it all the more difficult, as did the traces of dirt. Her hair always was a little more troublesome after it had gotten wet. She’d been so irritated last night with Ewan she’d completely forgotten to undo, comb and re-braid her hair.

She was still working to untangle several pieces of straw - she couldn’t see them, and that made it far more difficult - when Ewan came back, holding her brush in his hand. He watched her for a few moments. “Dae ye need some help?”

She wanted to refuse, but with no mirror and no way to see all the straw, she was too afraid that refusing would only end with her looking ridiculous. “I could use some assistance, if you would be so kind.”

Grace forced herself to stand still as Ewan approached her. A second later, however, she yelped. “Ouch! Yer supposed tae brush gently, nae yank!”

Ewan snorted. “Ye act as if I’ve ever brushed a lass’s hair.” His next touch, however, was far more cautious, almost tentative, if such a word could be applied to a man like Ewan MacDuff. “Is this better?”

“Yes, it is.” Grace nodded, then winced as Ewan’s stroke hit a snag. “It generally goes better if you grip the strands near my head… no not like that… here, give me the brush.”

She took it from his hand, and held up a thick lock of hair. “You hold it like this…” she demonstrated, “...and tug the brush through the strands below, so it doesn’t pull so. And for knots and tangles… you ease them apart, a little like this…” She showed him again. “There.”

“Seems simple enough.” Ewan’s voice sounded oddly doubtful. Certainly, his touch was still cautious as he lifted a lock of her hair and began to run the brush through it. For a moment, it seemed to go smoothly. Then…

“Ouch!”

“Apologies, lass. Me hand…” he shifted. “Calluses.”

“Oh, of course.” Grace flushed, chagrined that she hadn’t thought of that. Ewan was no lady’s maid, like the servants she was used to. His hands were strong and rough, meant for swords and guiding horses. “I… it was not really so painful. I was only startled. I would appreciate it if you would continue. It would be difficult to get all the straw from the back without assistance, and I wouldn’t wish to be seen with straw in my hair!”

“Aye. Tis a problem at times.” Ewan nodded. “I’ve had difficulties o’ me own. ‘Tis why Catriona makes all o’ us get our hair cut at least once a season.”

“It seems quite a sensible precaution.”

Ewan actually chuckled. “Aye. Catriona refuses tae cut hers, so she braids it - nae one large braid, but several smaller ones. When she undoes them, ‘tis like a cloud eruptin’ around her head. Startles me every time.”

Grace laughed a little at the mental image. Then she considered the idea of smaller braids. It wasn’t something she’d dare attempt on her own, but it sounded intriguing. “Do you think… is there a chance I might meet her? I would like very much to know if she would teach me.”

“Ye’ll meet her. She’s Niamh’s cousin and the castle healer. Indeed, the trick will be nae getting wearied o’her presence.” Ewan’s voice was wry as he combed through another section of her hair. “She’s a very… persistent lass.”

“So is Niamh.” Grace pointed out. “Did she not persuade you to come for me?”

Ewan laughed. “’Twas me braither, but ye’re right, even so. She did the work o’ persuading him afore he came tae me.”

Another section of her hair was combed through. There was a slight tugging that she guessed came from another callus snagging on the fine strands. Grace kept herself still, refusing to voice the slight discomfort. It really was very minor, after all, and she’d certainly tugged her own hair far worse while combing out tangles.

And despite the trepidation she felt at having Ewan behind her, she found the warmth of his presence to be oddly soothing. Grace allowed herself to relax into the warmth as the two of them worked to set her hair to rights.

Taming Grace’s hair took the better part of a candlemark, and the sun was fully above the horizon before they managed to leave the messenger’s hut. Ewan took care of the horses, while Grace tidied up the hut a little and emptied out the brazier. Ewan left a handful of copper for whoever came to restock the peat for the brazier, as a token of his gratitude.

His wounds were healing well, no sign of festering despite the cold and wet they’d been subjected to, or the condition of the hut they’d stayed in. Grace insisted on checking each one after she’d braided her hair. By mid-morning, they were on their way.

A candle-mark of riding served to warm his body and loosen the muscles stiffened by the day’s ride. Another candle-mark or so served to bring them to a moderately sized village with a tavern that served hot meals. Ewan swung down off his horse, helped Grace off hers, then passed the reins and two copper coins to the young boy who served to watch the horses for travelers. Then he led Grace inside.

The tavern was mostly empty, with the farmers and laborers still at work. They’d not be in until the noon meal. Ewan hoped they’d be gone by then - as a Highlander in Lowlander country, he was only slightly less disliked than the English. The tavern-keeper wouldn’t care so long as he had the coin, but the villagers might not be inclined to ignore his presence. Without the storm to remind the folk of hospitality rules, it was wise to be cautious.

A silver got them two bowls of thick, hearty stew, fresh bread, a mug of ale for him, and watered wine for Grace. He took them back to the table, and settled in to eat. After the cold fare of the past day or so, the warm meal was a welcome change.

He was almost done with his stew when the door opened and three men in the rough tunics and trews of field workers came in. All three of them went straight to the bar and collected a pint. The first drink vanished quickly, to be replaced by a second round, and Ewan felt the hair on the back of his neck rise with apprehension.

A moment later, one of the men spotted him. “Och, and look what we have here! A Highlander, eatin the bread and stew provided by our labor! But what else would ye expect o’ a clan barbarian? Like as nae, ‘tis the only way he could get a decent meal.”

Laughter. Ewan forced himself not to react. No good would come of responding to the taunts. And it wasn’t as if they knew his clan name, so they couldn’t disparage his family. After the past several days, he’d grown used to personal slights.

“Och, Highlander! What brings ye tae our lands? Did ye finally realize what fools yer folk are?”

Ewan refused to respond, and concentrated on spooning up the soup from his bowl, then mopping up the remains with his bread.

“Oi! Have ye nae manners? Dae yer kin nae use utensils like proper civilized folk? Or have wit tae answer when they’re spoken tae?”

He was tempted - he was very tempted - to answer, but he knew it would only end in a fight. He had no interest in brawling with Lowlanders who had likely never held a weapon in their lives. Likewise, he’d no interest in drawing the attention of their laird, who would want to know why the brother of Laird MacDuff - and the potential Laird MacTavish - was getting into fights on his lands.

He heard the rustle of cloth - one or more of the men was moving away from the bar. “Highlander… I’m talkin tae ye…”

“And he has the good sense not to speak to you.” Grace rose abruptly from her seat, her chin held high as she faced the men.

“Grace…” Ewan got no further than that before she stalked past him.

“Do you think my companion does not know that you are trying to bait him into a fight, that you might cause trouble for him and his kinfolk, and all for your foolish dislike?” She folded her arms and glared at the three men. “At least he has the wit to avoid a fight, rather than provoke one!”

“We… we didnae…”

“You did not care to pay enough attention to see that he is clearly my guard and escort. Of course, as a proper gentleman, he would not engage in such folly when he has my safety to see to. And I am most gratified that he has the restraint you louts so clearly seem to lack.” Grace’s tone was cold, her manner haughty, and her bearing was every inch that of a proud, well-born lady.

The villagers visibly cowed. After a moment, the men turned back to the bar, muttering what could have been apologies or insults under their breath. Ewan took the chance to reach out and tug Grace gently back to her chair. “What are ye thinking?”

“They were being rude. I did not appreciate their disparaging you, especially when they had no cause to do so.” Grace stared at him for a moment, utterly certain of herself, then went back to finishing her stew.

Ewan nursed his mug of ale. Under normal circumstances, he might have gone back to the bar for a second mug, but the men were still there, and he had no desire to risk another altercation, especially after Grace had defended his honor and implied that he’d do no such thing.

Of all the things he’d expected to happen, Grace protecting him was not one of them. He’d intended to endure the taunts, then leave as soon as possible. He’d thought, if Grace did anything, she would be content to stay at the table and watch. After all, why should she intervene in a fight between Scotsmen?

She owed him nothing, and she’d demonstrated several times that she thought little of Scots in general, whether they were Highlanders or Lowlanders. And yet, she’d defended him and kept him from being insulted - or getting into an unfortunate altercation.

Her changing moods confused Ewan to no end. And yet, he found himself admiring her for all of it - even her temper and the occasional sharp edge of her tongue. The fact that she’d used both to come to his rescue made him feel oddly warm inside. The closest he could come to the feeling was how he’d felt as a child when Alistair stood up to older, stronger boys in the castle for him.

Grace Lancaster was not the woman he’d expected to be escorting across the Lowlands and the Highlands. She was… kinder. More stubborn, and yet at the same time more practical when she was shown the necessity of it. Sharp-tongued and sharp-tempered, and yet she used both in defense of family and friends.

She’d scolded him for calling her ‘his lady’, but she’d slept nestled against him the night before, and let him brush and braid her hair that morning. They’d argued the previous day, and now she was defending him.

By the time they finished their food and resumed their journey, Ewan had determined all of two things: he owed Grace some gratitude and tolerance. And, against all odds and his own inclination, he was beginning to like Grace Lancaster far more than he had ever expected to.