Chapter 10
"Wake up lass. We need to go."
The morning sun was already climbing high when Ewan finally stirred from his uncomfortable position in the chair. His neck ached, his back protested every movement, and his legs had gone numb somewhere around the third hour of his vigil.
Worth it, he told himself firmly. Better a stiff neck than the alternative, climbing into that bed with Maia and discovering exactly how little control he actually possessed.
The kiss had been a mistake. A spectacular, earth-shattering, completely irresponsible mistake that had left him harder than iron and aching in ways he hadn't experienced since he was a green lad of fifteen.
He'd tasted her. Had felt her soft body yield beneath his hands. Had heard those breathy little sounds she'd made when his tongue had swept into her mouth.
And now he knew. Knew what she tasted like, knew how she responded to his touch, knew that beneath all that fire and defiance was a woman who burned just as hot as he did.
Ewan ran a hand over his face and glanced toward the bed. Maia was still asleep, curled on her side facing the wall, her brown hair spilling across the pillow in tangled waves. The blanket had slipped down during the night, revealing the curve of her shoulder beneath the thin shift.
He forced himself to look away.
They needed to leave. Soon. The longer they stayed here, the more time MacMahon had to organize pursuit. And the more time Ewan spent in close quarters with Maia, the harder it became to remember why touching her again was a terrible idea.
Maia stirred, making a small sound of protest before her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she looked disoriented, confused about where she was.
Then memory clearly returned, her gaze found him across the room, and her cheeks flushed pink.
"Good mornin'," she said quietly, pulling the blanket up higher.
"Mornin'." Ewan stood, stretching out his protesting muscles. "Get dressed. We're leavin' within the hour."
"Dressed in what?" Maia gestured to herself. "I'm still only wearin' me shift."
Bloody hell. He'd meant to arrange for proper clothing last night, but the kiss had scrambled his thoughts, and he'd forgotten entirely.
"We'll stop at the village up ahead," he said. "Get ye somethin' suitable. There's nay seamstress in this village. But we need to go now, I want to cover as much ground as possible before midday."
Maia nodded and climbed out of bed, wrapping his cloak around herself once more. She wouldn't meet his eyes, he noticed, probably remembering exactly what had happened between them last night.
Good. Let her be uncomfortable. It would make the ride easier if she weren't chattering away about every bloody bird they passed.
Ewan headed for the door. "Come on, then. Let's get movin'."
It took another hour to reach the village of Drummore. It had barely more than a handful of cottages clustered around a small kirk and a market square, but it had what Ewan needed, a seamstress.
Maia had been silent for most of the morning ride, though her eyes had tracked everything they passed with that same hungry curiosity he'd seen yesterday. She hadn't asked her usual endless questions, hadn't pointed out every deer or interesting cloud formation.
Ewan told himself he was grateful for the peace.
He was lying.
As they entered the village proper, Maia finally broke her silence. "Can we…" She stopped, started again. "Would it be possible to stop? Just for a moment? I'd like to look around."
"We need to keep movin', lass."
"Please?" The word was soft, almost tentative. "Just for a wee bit? I promise I'll nae cause any trouble."
Ewan glanced down at her. She was looking up at him with those wide grey eyes, her expression hopeful in a way that made something in his chest tighten uncomfortably.
"Thirty minutes," he heard himself say. "Nay more. And only because ye need proper clothin' anyway. I'll nae have ye wanderin' about in yer shift for the rest of the journey."
Maia's face lit up like sunrise, and Ewan had to look away from the sheer joy radiating from her.
She's been locked away for six years. Of course, she wants to explore a village. Daenae read more into it than that.
He dismounted and reached up to help her down. His hands spanned her waist easily, and he was struck again by how she felt in his grip, solid and real and wonderfully soft.
She steadied herself with her hands on his shoulders, and for a moment they stood frozen, close enough that he could see the flecks of silver in her grey eyes.
Then Maia stepped back quickly, color rising in her cheeks. "Thank ye."
"Aye." Ewan's voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat and turned toward the seamstress's cottage. "Come on. Let's get ye sorted."
The seamstress, a plump woman with kind eyes and graying hair, took one look at Maia wrapped in Ewan's cloak and immediately ushered them inside.
"Oh, ye poor dear," she clucked, eyeing Maia's bare feet and disheveled appearance. "Let's get ye fixed up proper-like, shall we?"
"I need somethin' suitable for travel," Ewan said. "Sturdy. Warm. And quickly, we daenae have much time."
"Aye. I've got just the thing." The seamstress beamed at him; clearly, she recognized him, or at least his status, and immediately began pulling out garments. "This one here, I think. Good wool, well-made, should fit the lass nicely."
She held up a simple gown in deep green, with long sleeves and a modest neckline. Nothing fancy, but serviceable and appropriate.
Maia's eyes widened. "It's bonnie."
"It's practical," Ewan corrected. "Which is what matters."
The seamstress shooed him toward the door. "Out with ye now, sir. A lady needs privacy to dress."
Ewan started to protest. Maia was his prisoner; he needed to keep an eye on her, but the seamstress was already closing the door in his face with surprising firmness for someone half his size.
He waited outside, keeping watch on both the door and the surrounding village. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, more from habit than any real sense of danger. Drummore was well within McGill territory; they were safe enough here.
Still, old habits die hard.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only ten minutes, the door opened, and Maia emerged.
Ewan's breath caught.
The green gown fit her perfectly, highlighting the curves he'd spent the past day trying not to think about. The color brought out the warmth in her skin, made her grey eyes look almost luminous. Her hair had been brushed and pinned back, though loose waves still framed her face.
She looked less like a prisoner and more like a lady. His lady, some possessive part of him whispered.
"Well?" Maia asked, uncertainty flickering across her face. "Is it suitable?"
"Aye." The word came out gruff. "It'll do."
Behind her, the seamstress appeared with Maia's discarded shift. "I'll just dispose of this for ye, shall I? Poor thing is filthy and half-torn. Barely fit for rags now."
Maia's cheeks flushed, but she nodded. "Thank ye. For everythin'."
Ewan paid the seamstress more than was due because she had been quick and discreet, before turning back to Maia. "Ye've got twenty minutes left. Where do ye want to go?"
Her whole face brightened. "Really? Ye'll let me explore?"
"I said ye could, dinnae I?" He gestured toward the market square. "But ye stay where I can see ye, understand? And if I call ye back, ye come immediately. Nay arguments."
"Will ye be quiet for the rest of the journey if I agree?" The words slipped out before Maia could stop them, a teasing lilt to her voice that reminded him of how she'd been during their ride yesterday.
Ewan felt his lips twitch despite himself. "Will ye?"
"Probably nae." She grinned at him, and the sight of that dimple in her cheek made his chest do something strange. "But I promise to try."
"That's what I thought." He shook his head, fighting back his own smile. "Go on, then. But remember, stay close."
Maia didn't need to be told twice. She practically skipped toward the market square, her new skirts swishing around her legs, her face alight with wonder.
Ewan followed at a more sedate pace, keeping her in sight while trying to maintain the appearance of casual indifference. He wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.
"Oh!" Maia's gasp reached him from three stalls away. She'd stopped at a baker's stand, her hands clasped beneath her chin. "Is that... is that honey bread?"
The old woman behind the stall beamed. "Aye, lass. Fresh this mornin'. Would ye like a taste?"
"Could I?" Maia's voice was reverent, as if she'd been offered the crown jewels.
Ewan's jaw tightened. Honey bread. She was acting as if she'd never seen honey bread before.
She moved from stall to stall, touching everything with reverent fingers. A basket of apples. Root vegetables still dirty from the earth. When she reached a pottery display, she actually gasped.
"Look at the glaze on this one," she breathed, running her fingertip along the rim of a simple bowl. "The color—it's like the sky just after dawn."
The potter, a grizzled man with clay-stained hands, grunted. "Ye've got a good eye, lass."
What kind of man locked away his own niece? What kind of monster kept a young woman imprisoned from the age of sixteen, depriving her of even the most basic freedoms?
The kind of man who raided his neighbors and killed innocent people. The kind of man who deserved exactly what was coming to him.
Ewan's hand tightened on his sword hilt.
Movement caught his eye. Maia had drifted farther away than he'd intended, drawn toward a stall displaying ribbons and hair combs. She was examining a blue ribbon, holding it up to the light, her expression soft and wistful.
"Bonniest color I've ever seen," she murmured to herself.
Why would a laird's niece be so enchanted by ribbons? She should be used to fine things, to silks and velvets and jewels.
But there she was, running her fingers over that ribbon like it was spun gold.
There was a story there. Something he didn't know, didn't understand.
He was so focused on Maia that he almost missed the man approaching her.
Almost.
The stranger was young, maybe five-and-twenty, with the look of a farmer's son about him. Clean-shaven, reasonably well-dressed, decent enough looking.
"That color would suit ye well, lass," the man said, his voice carrying just enough for Ewan to hear.
Maia turned to him with that open, friendly smile she seemed to give everyone. "Do ye think so? I've never worn blue before."
"Never?" The man leaned closer. "A crime, that. With yer bonnie eyes—"
She's mine.
The thought was primal, irrational, and completely inappropriate. She wasn't his. She was his prisoner, his leverage, a means to an end.
But watching another man smile at her, watching her smile back, made Ewan want to commit violence.
He was moving before he'd consciously decided to, crossing the distance between them in long, purposeful strides. His hand came down on Maia's shoulder, possessive and unmistakable.
"There ye are, lass," he said, his voice pleasant enough but with an edge that made the other man take a step back. "I've been lookin' for ye."
Maia blinked up at him, surprise flickering across her face. "Oh. I was just talkin' to me new friend."
"Time to go." Ewan turned his attention to the young man, letting all his considerable height and presence bear down on him. "Get lost."
The man's eyes widened. "I dinnae mean any harm."
"Now."
The stranger fled.
Maia rounded on Ewan, indignation replacing surprise. "That was rude! He was just being friendly!"
"He was eyein' ye," Ewan corrected flatly.
"He was nae." Maia's cheeks flushed. "He was just, we were talkin' about the ribbons, and he liked the color."
"He was flirtin', lass. Trust me." Ewan's hand was still on her shoulder, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her gown. Could feel her pulse beating quick and light beneath his palm.
"Well, even if he was, ye dinnae have to be so mean about it!" Maia pulled away from his touch, wrapping her arms around herself. "I wasnae goin' to ask him to help me escape or anythin'. I ken I'm yer prisoner. I ken the rules."
Ewan stared at her. "What?"
"That's why ye're angry, isnae it?" Maia's voice took on a defensive edge. "Ye thought I was tryin' to get away. But I wouldnae, I gave ye me word I'd behave, and I meant it."
She'd misunderstood entirely. Thought his jealousy was suspicion, his possessiveness a concern about escape attempts.
He should let her think that. Should maintain that distance, that clear line between captor and captive.
"Aye," he heard himself say instead. "That's exactly what I thought."
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
Maia's expression shifted, some of the defensiveness fading. "Well, ye daenae need to worry. I'm nae going to run. Especially nae now that I ken Mollie's alive and safe." She bit her lip. "Though I suppose safe is relative if she's with ye."
"She's with me man-at-arms," Ewan corrected. "Leon. He'll make sure she's treated well."
"Oh." Maia looked down at her hands, at the blue ribbon she was still clutching. "That's, that's good, then."
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Around them, the village continued its daily business, merchants calling out their wares, children playing in the dusty street, the distant sound of a hammer ringing on an anvil.
Finally, Ewan spoke. "We need to leave. Now."
"But ye said thirty minutes."
"Now, Maia."
Something in his tone made her stop arguing. She nodded, setting the ribbon carefully back on the display, and fell into step beside him as they headed back toward where he'd left the horse.
Ewan told himself the burning in his chest was irritation at the delay, at the unwanted interaction, at the way this entire morning had thrown him off balance.
He was lying.
It was jealousy, pure and simple. Jealousy and possessiveness and a primal need to mark Maia as his in ways that had nothing to do with kidnapping and revenge.
Which was a problem.
A very significant problem.