Chapter Eleven
When they arrived back at the keep, Ewan took Violet directly up to his solar, ignoring the greetings and catcalls from his men. She decided to struggle on the landing so he picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and carried her the rest of the way.
The door slammed against the wall as he entered. He didn’t care. He stormed to the bed and tossed her onto the downy mattress. “Stay. There.” He untied the rope and yanked it from her wrists, forcing himself not to look at the red marks it had left.
She glared at him. “I’m hungry.”
“Good,” he snapped. But he clomped down to the great room and bellowed at Pip to take her something to eat and drink. “And don’t forget to lock the door,” he barked. He was not losing her again.
Colin uncurled himself from the bench at the table and slapped him on the shoulder. “How did it go?” he asked with a smirk. Ewan wanted to plant him a facer. Just to wipe that sly grin from his face.
He reined in his annoyance and scrubbed his forehead with a palm. “Fine. Thank you for your help.”
Colin nodded. “I’m glad we found her.” He nodded toward the assemblage of men. “William’s here.”
Ewan slanted a glance at the table, a frown puckering his brow.
“William?” William Winslett, Lord Wickham, was one of his partners.
Gentry, but a good sort for all that. He kept his ear to the ground in Edinburgh and London, feeding Ewan information on business opportunities and promising partners.
“I thought he was in England. What’s he doing here? ”
Colin shrugged. “Now that you’re back with...everything under control, I’ll be taking my leave.”
Ewan nodded. “Again, thank you, Colin.”
“Anytime.” His friend grinned as he made his way from the room.
William stood then and made his way over to Ewan. Everything, from his dress to his swagger, proclaimed him Quality with a capital Q.
Usually Ewan despised such men. They’d never caused him anything but trouble. But he and William had been through a lot together over the years. Ewan knew the true measure of the man. He liked him immensely.
“McCloud.” He nodded. A small smile graced his lips. It was always there, that smile, no matter the circumstances. Ewan knew not to trust it. Instead he gauged the hard glint in William’s eyes, the tightness of his lips. He knew this was not a casual social visit.
“Shall we repair to my study?”
William chuckled. He was used to Ewan’s mockery of the haute ton. “Indeed.”
They sat in his office and Ewan poured them each a dram of whisky. It was not yet noon, but he felt in the course of the last few days he’d earned a drink. Or seven. Regardless of the time of day.
“So. What brings you to the wilds of Scotland?”
William tossed back his drink with a grunt and leaned forward. “I thought you should know. Word is out on the streets. There’s a bounty on your head.”
Ewan nearly guffawed. There had been a bounty on his head since he was eighteen.
But due to the reputation he had worked very hard to build and the fact that he never forgot a debt or failed to repay a betrayal—not to mention that he’d had made everyone in league with him very, very rich—no man with a brain in his head would turn on him. “And?”
“The man searching for you is, ahem, rather powerful. A duke.”
A tiny chill crawled up his spine. Violet had mentioned a duke the other night. A cousin. Who would be searching for her. He frowned.
“Word is he’s on his way to Scotland to reclaim something you have of his.”
Ewan cleared his throat and refilled both their glasses. “I appreciate the information.”
“There’s more.”
The bottle stilled. “What?” Fuck. He didn’t want to know.
“It’s the Duke of Moncrieff.”
Ewan’s heart stalled and then set up a rapid chatter in his chest. A cold chill gripped his bowels. The Duke of Moncrieff?
Duke of Moncrieff was Violet’s cousin? How had he not known this?
He hadn’t heard that name in years. He disliked hearing it now. Especially in this context.
Of all the men to be searching for Violet, why did it have to be the one to whom he owed his life?
He’d been a reckless idiot when he was young and had ended up in a French prison, charged as a spy. He’d been housed in a cell crammed with soldiers and heroes collected during the war.
Ewan had been neither a soldier nor a hero.
He’d been smuggling brandy—a very profitable trade upon which he’d built the foundations of his empire.
A French platoon had captured him on a beach and carted him off to some ancient castle on the coast and tossed him into the dungeons.
A real dungeon, this. Fetid and dank and unspeakably foul.
The captors had been cruel, hard men who hated the British.
And though Ewan was a Scot, they hadn’t seen the difference.
He’d been beaten, starved and near worked to death.
He would have died there if a wealthy man hadn’t bribed the guards to engineer an escape for his son.
On one dark, moonless night, their cell was left unlocked, allowing them—all fifty men—to melt into the shadows.
They’d been met in the woods by a band of privateers and escorted to a sleek cutter anchored in the bay; the privateers had carried them all to England—and safety.
The one word on every man’s broken lips was the name of their savior. Moncrieff.
Fuck.
When he came, when he demanded Violet, Ewan would have to comply. He would have to hand her over. He was honor-bound to do so.
But now...after what they had shared, he didn’t think he could bear to let her go.
It was late by the time he and William finished their conversation—catching up on all that had passed since they’d seen each other last—so it was easy for Ewan to convince his friend to stay the night.
And truth be told, Ewan was in no hurry to return to his solar.
Oh, he was anxious to hold her again, to bed her. But he didn’t savor the prospect of looking in her eyes and seeing her hatred. He was sick of that to the depths of his being.
He knew he wasn’t the man for her. He’d always known that, even as a boy. But now it chafed, like chains binding his soul.
He had always been one to challenge authority, to taunt the powers that be. For the first time in his life he regretted some of his choices. He’d done what needed doing, to be sure. But he longed to step outside his skin and become someone else. A man who could claim her. For real.
A man who could engender and hold her love.
Life would be a dismal slog without her.
When he finally made his way up to the tower room, she was sleeping. She was so peaceful and sweet it made his heart ache. He didn’t have the heart to wake her. So he nestled in beside her and held her. Just held her, savoring her every murmur, her every breath.
When he awoke in the morning—much later than he’d intended—she was still there. He stifled the annoying flare of relief. Of course she was still there. He’d locked the door.
He levered up on his arm and stared down at her, studying her face, glorying in the sooty arch of her lashes on her cheeks, her rosy glow, the plump pout of her sleeping lips. He dipped his head and kissed her neck. She muttered something and rolled over into his embrace.
God, she was adorable. Tiny and curvy and warm. He kissed her awake. His heart flared when she responded. When her lips moved under his. When her tongue dabbed at his.
His cock surged. He growled deep in his throat and shifted on top of her. Her thighs spread. Not far, as she was still wearing her dress, but far enough for him to wedge against her. He rubbed her with his hardness, showing her his need.
She looked at him, her eyes soft with sleep, welcoming. Her lips parted and a sigh slipped out. A delicious sound.
He couldn’t help but nuzzle her neck, nibble and nip and taste the essence of Violet.
Ah. She should know better. She should know better than to wriggle against him so. He shot her a smile and reached for her hem.
A knock rattled the door.
He dropped his head on her shoulder and groaned. “What?” he bellowed.
No response. Just the knock again.
Fuck.
He rose from the bed and made his way across the chamber, opening the door a crack. Alasdair stood on the landing, a flummoxed expression on his face.
“What the fuck is it?”
“You have visitors. A man. And a woman.” Thank God he had the sense to whisper. Still, Ewan’s heart seized.
“A woman?” Was it Kaitlin? Had she come? Hell. So soon?
“Aye, and demanding to see you. She’s...rather adamant.”
Ewan relaxed. Well, it couldn’t be Kaitlin. Kaitlin wasn’t adamant. Not ever. She was as timid as a church mouse.
“You’d better come.”
Ewan glanced over his shoulder at the bundle of fragrant woman curled in his bed.
She stretched, giving him a blinding view of her breasts.
Even encased in that wretched dress, they made his mouth water.
He didn’t want to leave her—he really wanted to make love to her, and now—but he could deal with whatever this was quickly and return. Then he’d make love to her all day.
He stormed down the stairs, yanking on his shirt, but his step faltered at the sight of his men scurrying about, scrubbing flagstones and tidying up rancid dishes. “What the—”
“Ewan McCloud,” a shrill female voice bellowed. The sound rang off the walls.
His gaze snapped to the entryway. Callum MacAllister stood there with a small woman by his side.
Ewan blanched as he recognized his betrothed, but in a fine fury—unlike he’d ever seen her.
Her red hair was down and wild and she stood with legs apart, hands fisted on her hips like a general on the verge of a bloody battle.
Which he suddenly suspected it might be.
Their marriage, that was.
“Kaitlin? W-what are you doing here?”
She advanced on him, her fury preceding her. “What the hell do you think I’m doing here? You kidnapped Violet.”
He took a step back. “I dinna kidnap Violet. He did.” He pointed at Callum, who flinched.
“I only did it because Kaitlin ran away.” This, the little ass whined.
She glared at them both in turn. “I am here to marry you.”
He attempted a cocky grin. “You doona need to sound so happy about it.”
“What the hell did you expect?” she snarled. “Forcing me to marry you. Kidnapping my best friend—”
“That was not I.”
“Making my brother do it then. Holding his debt over his head.” With each accusation she stepped closer, and with each of her advances he retreated until he was flat against the wall. “You, sir,” she poked him in the chest with a sharp finger, “are a brigand.”
He blinked. “Hardly a brigand.” This, he said in a tiny voice.
She crossed her arms. “I have delivered myself into your clutches. Release Violet at once.” The silence in the hall following her demand settled in. She spun around and glared at the thunderstruck men. “And you lot, get back to work or I will have your guts for garters.”
A rather frenetic activity resumed.
Holy hell. Ewan stared down at the tiny and fierce creature he had promised to marry, a skirl of dread skating through his bowels. “Kaitlin MacAllister, you, I fear, are something of a termagant.” He raked his hair and muttered, “Small wonder you and Violet are friends.”