Chapter 6
"How long has it been?"
Maia asked after what couldn't have been more than thirty seconds.
"Thirty seconds."
"Oh." A pause. "And now?"
"Thirty-five seconds."
Maia squirmed slightly against him. "This is harder than I thought."
"That's because ye never stop talkin'," Ewan muttered.
"I'm talkin' now because I'm askin' about the time, which is different from talkin' about things I see, so really this doesnae count against me eight minutes."
"It counts."
"But."
"It counts, lass. Every. Word."
Another pause. Ewan could practically feel her vibrating with the effort of staying quiet.
"What if I see somethin' really excitin'?" she asked.
"Then ye stay silent and point."
"But what if ye daenae see where I'm pointin' and ye miss it entirely, and then later I'll have to describe it anyway, which means I've wasted me silence for nothin'?"
"Seven and a half minutes left."
Maia made a small, frustrated sound but finally went quiet.
Ewan counted the seconds in his head, how long she could stay quiet. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Is it seven minutes yet?"
Just four seconds. She can stay quiet for just four seconds.
"Nay."
"How much longer?"
"Longer than it was five seconds ago when ye asked."
"This is so annoyin'.” And she fell silent again.
Ewan had always preferred silence.
Silence was safe. Predictable. It didn't demand responses or force unwanted emotions to the surface. His father had been a man of violent words, and his mother had wielded her tongue like a weapon, so Ewan had learned early that the less he spoke, the less ammunition he gave them.
Silence had become his armor, and he wore it well.
But this lass—this infuriating, chattering, impossibly enthusiastic lass—seemed determined to shatter that armor with her endless observations about every bloody thing they passed.
Ewan had given up trying to get her to stop after the first hour. She'd honor their bargain for only two minutes, and then she'd launch into another breathless monologue about butterflies or streams or the particular shade of grey in the stones scattered across the hillside.
It should have driven him mad.
But somewhere around the third hour of riding, when she'd gasped with genuine wonder at a hawk circling overhead and spent ten full minutes speculating about what it might be hunting, Ewan had realized something unsettling.
He liked listening to her.
Not the content of her words, necessarily, he didn't give a damn about whether the moss on the north side of trees was really greener, or if that was just a myth.
But the way her voice lifted with excitement, the breathless quality it took on when she spotted something new, the pure, unfiltered joy that radiated from her with every observation.
It was intoxicating.
Most women in her position would be weeping hysterically, or plotting escape, or bargaining for their freedom.
Maia Ferguson was providing running commentary on the local wildlife.
And she wasn't afraid of him.
That was the part that confused Ewan most. She should be terrified. He was easily twice her size, armed, and had made it abundantly clear that she was his prisoner.
Any sensible woman would be cowering in fear.
But when he'd felt her body against his during that endless ride, it hadn't been trembling with terror. Oh, she'd shivered plenty, but those shivers had felt like something else entirely. Something that had made his own body respond in ways he was still trying to ignore.
And the way she'd looked at him when he'd told her his name, those grey eyes wide and curious in the dawn light, her lips slightly parted.
Stop it. Stop it right now.
Ewan shifted in the saddle, trying to ease the discomfort that thinking about her mouth caused.
He needed to focus. They'd been riding for hours, and both he and the horse needed rest. More importantly, he needed to put some distance between himself and the lass before he did something profoundly stupid.
Like kiss her.
"Oh!" Maia sat up straighter, pulling him from his increasingly dangerous thoughts. "Is that a village? Are we stoppin'?"
"Aye.”
Ewan guided the horse toward the cluster of buildings that marked the edge of a small settlement. It was barely more than a few cottages and an inn, but it would serve his purposes. They'd rest here for a few hours, get some food, and then press on.
The less time he spent in close quarters with her, the better.
"An inn!" Maia twisted in the saddle, trying to see better. "I've never been to an inn before. Well, I mean, I have, but I was so young I barely remember it. What's it like? Are the beds comfortable? Is the food good? Do ye think they'll have anythin' interestin'?"
"Eight minutes," Ewan interrupted, his voice gruff.
Maia's mouth snapped shut, but he could see the effort it cost her. Her lips pressed together firmly, and she vibrated with barely contained enthusiasm as they approached the stable yard.
Ewan reined in the horse and dismounted in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the packed earth with a solid thud. He reached up for Maia, gripping her waist and lifting her down.
She was heavier than most lasses he'd handled, all those curves he'd been trying not to think about, but he liked the weight of her. Liked the substantial feel of her in his hands.
The moment her feet touched the ground, she stumbled slightly, her legs unsteady after hours in the saddle. Ewan's hands tightened on her waist, steadying her, and she looked up at him with those wide grey eyes.
"Thank ye," she murmured.
He should let go. Should step back, put a proper distance between them.
Instead, he found himself reaching for his cloak, swinging it off his shoulders, and wrapping it around her. The heavy wool engulfed her smaller frame, and he pulled it closed at her throat, his knuckles brushing the soft skin there.
Her breath hitched.
"Keep that on," he ordered, his voice rougher than intended. "And stay close. Daenae wander off, daenae talk to anyone, and for God's sake, daenae draw attention to yerself."
"I'm only wearin' me shift," Maia pointed out, pulling the cloak tighter around herself. "I think people might notice that regardless."
She had a point. The thin cotton barely covered her, and even with the cloak, it was obvious she was improperly dressed. Ewan would need to remedy that soon, find her proper clothing before they attracted too much unwanted attention.
But first, rest.
He kept one hand on her arm, his grip firm but not painful, and guided her toward the inn's entrance. A stable boy materialized from somewhere, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Maia's bare feet peeking out from beneath the cloak.
"See to me horse," Ewan said, flipping the lad a coin. "Rub him down proper, give him oats and water. I'll be wantin' him ready to ride later."
"Aye, sir." The boy caught the coin and scurried off to tend to the destrier.
Maia opened her mouth, either to ask about the horse, or comment on the inn's exterior, or share some observation about the chickens scratching in the yard, but Ewan squeezed her arm in warning.
"Silent," he reminded her. "Until we're alone."
She nodded, though her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed words.
The inn's common room was dim and musty, smelling of old ale and wood smoke.
A handful of early-morning travelers hunched over bowls of porridge at rough-hewn tables, too focused on their meals to pay much attention to new arrivals. A serving girl moved between them, her movements efficient and disinterested.
Behind the bar, a portly man with thinning hair and a grease-stained apron looked up as they entered. His gaze swept over Ewan—taking in the weapons, the travel-stained clothes, the general air of danger—and his expression shifted to cautious welcome.
"Good day to ye," the innkeeper said, his tone carefully neutral. "Ye'll be needin' a room?"
"Aye." Ewan approached the bar, keeping Maia tucked against his side. His hand moved from her arm to her waist, fingers splaying possessively across the curve there. "Two beds. And food sent up. Whatever ye have that's hot."
The innkeeper's gaze flicked to Maia, taking in her disheveled appearance and bare feet, then quickly away. Whatever he thought about the situation, he was smart enough to keep it to himself.
"Ah." The man scratched his chin. "Well now, that's a bit of a problem. We're fuller than usual, what with the market day comin' up in the next village over. Most of me rooms are spoken for."
Ewan's eyes narrowed. "Most."
"Aye, most." The innkeeper shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable under Ewan's stare. Ewen could see him gulp nervously. "I've got one room left. But it's only got the one bed in it. A good bed, mind ye, clean linens too."
"I'll take it."
"But…" Maia started.
Ewan's hand tightened on her waist in warning. "We'll take it," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. He pulled another coin from his pouch and set it on the bar with a decisive clink. "The room, food, and privacy. I daenae want to be disturbed."
The innkeeper's eyes lit up at the sight of the coin, more than enough to cover the room and food, with plenty left over for his trouble. "Aye, of course. Privacy, ye say? Ye'll have it. Top of the stairs, last door on the right. I'll have the girl bring up food directly."
He handed over a heavy iron key, and Ewan pocketed it before steering Maia toward the narrow staircase in the corner of the common room.
They'd barely made it three steps when Maia dug her heels in, forcing him to stop.
"I'm nae sharin' a bed with ye," she hissed, her voice low but vehement. "I daenae care what that innkeeper said, I refuse."
Ewan looked down at her, taking in the stubborn set of her jaw and the fire in her grey eyes. She'd been so pliant during the ride, so distracted by her surroundings, that he'd almost forgotten she possessed a spine.
Good to know it was still there.
"Ye daenae have a choice, lass," he said quietly. "Ye're me prisoner, remember?"
Some of the fire dimmed, replaced by uncertainty.
"Ye can take the bed. I'll take the chair or the floor. But we're stayin' in the same room, and that's nae negotiable." He started up the stairs again, his hand still firm on her waist. "Now move. We're drawin' attention."
It was true, the serving girl had stopped mid-pour to watch them, and one of the travelers at the nearest table was openly staring.
Maia's mouth pressed into a thin line, but she allowed herself to be guided up the stairs. Her bare feet made soft padding sounds on the worn wood, and Ewan found himself hyperaware of every inch of her body that pressed against his side.
The room was small and spartanly furnished with a narrow bed against one wall, a single chair near the window, a washstand with a cracked basin, and a chamber pot discreetly tucked in the corner. But it was clean, or clean enough, and the bed looked reasonably comfortable.
Ewan closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock.
Maia immediately put distance between them, moving to the far side of the room and wrapping his cloak more tightly around herself. "I meant what I said. I'm nae sleepin' in the same bed as ye."
"And I meant what I said. Ye can have the bed. I'll take the chair."
"Oh." She blinked, clearly surprised. "Ye… ye'll really sleep in the chair?"
"Did ye think I was lyin'?"
"I dinnae ken what to think." Maia's hands twisted in the fabric of the cloak. "Ye kidnapped me. Ye set fire to the servants' quarters. Ye killed me friend. Why would ye suddenly care about me comfort?"
The accusation stung more than it should have. Ewan leaned against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm nae a monster. I took ye to send a message to yer uncle, aye. But I daenae force meself on women, and I daenae harm them unnecessarily."
"Ye killed Mollie."
"I—" He stopped, swallowing the words that wanted to escape. He couldn't tell her the truth. Not yet. Not until they reached Castle McGill and she was secure within his walls.
Let her think the maid was dead. Let her hate him for it. Let her believe him ruthless enough to burn innocents without a second thought.
Fear would keep her compliant. Fear would ensure she didn't try anything foolish during the journey. And right now, he needed her obedience more than he needed her trust.
It was safer that way.
"Like I said, it is what happens durin' war," he said instead, echoing his earlier words. "I'm sorry yer friend was one of them. But that doesnae change what yer uncle did, or why I took ye."
Maia's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Me uncle willnae care. I've been tryin' to tell ye, he doesnae value me. Ye might as well let me go now and save yerself the trouble."
"We'll see about that." Ewan moved to the chair by the window and dropped into it, his body grateful for the rest after hours in the saddle. "Once he receives me message, we'll ken exactly how much he values his niece."
"Ye're wastin' yer time." Maia's voice was flat now, resigned. "He's probably celebratin' right now. Grateful that someone else solved his problem for him."
"What problem?"
"Me." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm the problem. He believes me a disgrace to the MacMahon name. He has been lookin' for ways to be rid of me for a long time. Ye've just saved him the trouble."
"We'll see," he said again, though the conviction in his voice had wavered slightly. "ye'll ken the truth soon.”
Maia shook her head. "Ye'll see I'm right. And then what? What will ye do with me when ye realize I'm worthless as a hostage?"
It was a fair question. One Ewan didn't have a good answer for.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said finally. "For now, ye need rest. Take off the cloak and get in the bed."