Page 7 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire (Kilted Kisses #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

T raveling with Ewan through the wilds of Scottish lands was an entirely new experience for Grace. As the days passed, the riding grew easier and the terrain more rugged. They passed through villages and larger towns, and regular farmlands. As they rode, Ewan began to point out different landscape features, introducing her to both the lands of his people, and the terms Scottish Highlanders used for them.

The words were strange, rolling off the tongue oddly. Lakes became ‘lochs’. Meadows became ‘moors’. What she had always thought of as simply ‘grass’ became heather. For the first time, she saw a peat bog, and wild moorland ponies. Ewan introduced her to cliffs, and the difference between rivers, streams, rills, and cascades.

Somewhat to her surprise, Ewan was also versed in reading and writing, though he admitted that neither were things he found particularly interesting. “A laird’s son needs tae be able tae read, write and keep tally. Otherwise, how could he tak’ proper care o’ his people?”

“I had not thought of such matters.”

Ewan offered her his increasingly familiar half-smile, green eyes warm with easy amusement at his own expense. “Och, most dinnae. But ‘tis common practice fer a laird’s sons tae be taught such things. And our stewards as well, when we can. Alistair is more inclined tae it than I, but neither o’ us holds a candle tae our cousin, Catriona.”

“Catriona?”

“The healer for Clan MacDuff.” Ewan gestured. “She could tell ye the name o’ every flower on the moors, and where tae find almost any herb. She’s fair passionate about collecting herbals.”

“I have some fondness for herbals, though I’ve read many things.” Grace admitted. “I have little else to do besides read and practice my embroidery.”

Ewan made a soft noise that might have been a snort, or a scoffing sound. “Embroidery. Most lasses in the Highlands only practice fancy stitchwork for weddings or festivals like Samhain.”

Grace blinked. “Samhain? I am not familiar with such a festival.”

“Ye will be. Samhain is what we call the turnin’ o’ the year, ‘tis about a half-season after the Harvest Fest, midway between that day and Yule.”

“Yule… the year’s longest night. We do celebrate that.” Grace nodded. “Niamh mentioned that there were festivals celebrated in various parts of the Highlands that her father did not regularly observe.”

“Samhain’s night ‘tis like tae be one o’ them. ‘Tis true that Lowland clanfolk dinnae always celebrate the same things Highlanders dae.” Ewan shrugged, eyes scanning from side to side as they entered a small wooded area. “Niamh found some o’ the customs strange too, but she adjusted well enough.”

“Did she celebrate Samhain?” Grace edged her horse closer, curious about the life of her best friend since she’d left Clan Cameron.

“Aye. However…” A branch cracked. Ewan went silent at once, shoulder’s tensing and one hand falling to his sword.

“Wh…”

“Quiet. Dinnae speak.” Ewan’s hand clenched around his sword hilt. His eyes flicked from one side of the track they followed to the other. “Ride for the open field, and ride fast. There’s someone else in the woods here.”

“Wh…”

“Bandits. Ride!” The last word was a sharp command, and Grace obeyed without thinking. She kicked her horse into a fast canter. Ewan was right behind her.

From the woods off to the left, she heard a snarled curse in a hoarse voice, using a language that sounded foreign to her ears. The two of them broke into open country just as half a dozen men came from the trees and converged on them, weapons drawn.

The path wound up toward a rocky area, and Ewan swore sharply as several more men charged them. “Follow me tae the rocks!”

He kicked his horse hard, setting it into a gallop that put him ahead of her for a brief moment, just as the bandits trying to cut them off converged. Grace gasped as Ewan’s sword cleared its sheath and cleaved deep into a bandit’s arm, all in one smooth motion. The bandit fell with a scream, blood gushing from his wound.

Ewan slashed out again, just as his horse kicked out and hit another bandit in the ribs with an awful crunching sound. Then they were at the rocks. Ewan swung down off his horse and flung the reins to her. “Keep the horses here!”

Grace grabbed the reins, too startled to do otherwise as Ewan spun and launched himself at the oncoming bandits. She watched, wide-eyed, as the men attacked, enclosing him in a storm of steel and violence.

Ewan was fast and strong, but he was outnumbered. Grace saw him stagger from what looked like a glancing blow from one brigand’s knife. He returned the blow a moment later, a long knife in his left hand sliding between the man’s ribs and sending him to the ground, but there were still so many more…

There were rocks all around her. Grace acted without thinking. She grabbed a rock and flung it. The rock fell short, but the clatter distracted one or two of the men. Grace didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a second rock, slightly smaller, and threw it as well.

That rock was more successful. It crashed into a brigand’s skull and made him stagger.

One moment he was on the verge of being overwhelmed, outnumbered six to one. The next, two of the bandits turned, startled by the clatter of a rock nearby. Ewan blocked a chipped axe, slashed another man across one hand, and turned his head, just in time to see Grace throw another stone that hit one of his attackers on the temple. The man staggered, then went down with blood sliding down his face. Ewan helped him to the ground with a boot to the temple, then turned to engage another man.

The two men still standing were little challenge, though he took a light, slashing blow to the ribs before he felled the second. One of the two, who’d been distracted by Grace’s first stone, attacked him, and Ewan drew a second dirk from his belt, blocked the man’s semi-rusty sword, then plunged his dagger home in the man’s chest.

The one remaining man hesitated. Ewan gave him a sharp, wolf-like smile and lunged. The brigand’s nerve broke, and he turned and fled. Ewan let him go. Without companions, it would be a long time before the bandit worked up the nerve to attack anyone, and it was likely he’d make a mistake, or wind up starving on the moors first.

In the aftermath, Ewan became aware of several minor wounds. In addition to the light wound across his side, one arm had been slashed, and his jaw was bruised, as were the backs of his hands and one side of his ribs. Minor wounds, but they stung, and he was all too aware of how serious they could have been. The wound across his side could have been a gut stab, had it been closer.

He might have been killed, had it not been for Grace’s intervention. A little slip of an English lass, who’d likely never held a weapon in her life, and she’d still had the wit to distract the bandits. She’d probably saved his life.

He retrieved his daggers, wiped them clean on a dead brigand’s shirt, then sheathed his sword and turned back toward the rocks, where Grace was waiting with the horses.

He’d barely reached the horses before Grace dismounted and hurried toward him. “You are hurt.”

“Nae badly. I’ve had worse in the trainin’ yard with me braither.” Ewan hissed as she passed a hand across the wound on his side. “’Tis barely more than a scratch.”

“They should still be tended to. Even a minor scratch could get infected, and those weapons… they cannot have been properly cared for…” Grace was already fussing with his sash and vest as she spoke, tugging them free to try and get a closer look at the slash.

“I ken well enough. But ‘tis minor enough…”

“I have heard that alcohol can be used to treat wounds. And your salve, is it safe to use on open wounds? I have little knowledge of medicine, but I can clean and bandage a wound.” To his surprise, she glared at him. “And I would like to know what you were thinking, to charge at them so recklessly. What would I have done if you had been killed?”

“Ye’d have managed.”

“And how? I scarcely know the country, nor where I need to go to find Niamh. I would have been completely alone.”

The words stung, and Ewan’s own temper sparked. “And what o’ ye? Attacking them like that, with nae more than a rock. What would ye have done if they’d left me tae come after ye? Ye could have been killed.”

“I was in less danger than you were.”

“An’ also unarmed. ‘Twould have tak’n all o’ them tae bring me down, but one man might have killed ye, and then what would I be tellin’ Niamh?”

“I did well enough with a rock, despite my lack of other weapons.”

“That wouldnae have been enough if they’d all attacked ye at once, instead o’ bein’ tak’n by surprise.” He wasn’t sure why he was arguing, but it suddenly seemed terribly important that Grace Lancaster not be wounded while under his care.

“And if I’d not thrown the rock, then you would not be faring so well now, even with all your weapons and skill.” As if in emphasis, Grace poked the wound on his arm.

Ewan tugged his arm away with a scowl. “’Tis me job tae protect ye, nae the other way around.”

“It is your job to escort me to my friend, not throw yourself heedlessly at bandits in my defense. We might have outrun them, seeing as they were on foot and we were mounted.” Grace scowled, then turned and stalked to his horse. Moments later, she returned, carrying the tin of horse salve, his whisky flask, and some cloths.

Ewan grumbled, but stood still as Grace dabbed whisky into the slash. It stung, but he had to admit her manner was calm and competent as she cleansed the wound, applied the salve, and wrapped a strip of cloth around it in a makeshift bandage. “Ye’ve a dab hand with this.”

“After my family perished, I had no desire to be completely helpless. I’m not sure that I would ever wish to be in battle, but I thought I might at least be able to tend the wounded afterward.” Her voice was soft.

“Ye’ve the skill fer it. If ye wished tae learn more, Catriona could show ye, while ye’re visiting with Niamh.”

Grace blinked, her expression taking on a thoughtful cast. “I… perhaps I will consider it.”

“Ye should. Ye’ve the nerves fer it as well.”

Grace didn’t answer. Instead, she turned her attention to tending his wounds, brow furrowed as she carefully applied the whisky and the salve. Ewan watched her, admiration stirring in spite of his inclinations to distrust all things English. She might be a slight, proper young English woman, but underneath her proper manners and her seeming softness, there was a core of strength and steel to Grace Lancaster that was a match for any lass he knew.

How many lasses would have been both brave and calm enough to attack bandits with nothing more than a few rocks? How many would have risked being attacked when they were so vulnerable? Grace had courage, as well as spirit, and the combination was as entrancing as her golden hair and bright blue eyes.

She had compassion as well, to tend his wounds, despite how gruff and dismissive he’d been with her at the start of their journey.

He’d misjudged her in so many ways. He’d been unwilling to consider that she might be more than a soft English lass who’d happened to befriend his brother’s chosen bride. Had it not been for the past few days, the fall in the river and the attack, he might have continued to misjudge her.

Now, he wondered - what else might he learn about Grace Lancaster, if he only allowed himself to see her for the woman she was, rather than the woman he’d imagined she her to be?