Читать книгу The Highlander - Heather Grothaus - Страница 11

Evelyn did not wish to open her eyes. She could tell by the numbness on the tip of her nose that the peat fire was exhausted and the hut was cave-cold, but in the little box bed under the woolen horse blanket and snuggled with Alinor, ’twas toasty. She felt as if she’d not gone to bed at all, was weary to her bones still, even after a night of unusually peaceful sleep. Evelyn wanted only to drift away once more, where ’twas always warm and quiet and no wolves howled. Fire be damned.

If she opened her eyes, she would also have to deal with Conall MacKerrick once more, and she blamed her unusually large deficit of energy on the highlander’s arrogant presence.

Evelyn had allowed him the shelter for the night, only because she could not in good conscience demand he expose himself to the threat of the grays on a night journey. Although “allowed” might have been too generous to her pride—the highlander had not asked her permission to stay in the hut, only nonchalantly made a pallet out of Alinor’s pen with pine boughs and his long length of plaid. He’d then simply lain down upon it with a mumbled, “G’night, Eve” and was asleep.

So ’twas a choice of “Eve” sleeping out of doors or climbing into the box bed with Alinor, which Evelyn did after several moments spent staring confusedly toward the pens. At least she was not fearful of her virtue with the wolf at her side, and Alinor ensured a cozy companion to huddle with. Evelyn had fallen asleep instantly, it seemed.

“Good girl,” Evelyn whispered and snaked a hand from beneath the blanket to tangle her fingers in the wolf’s thick ruff. She encountered bony rump instead, and smoothed her palm up Alinor’s haunch, letting her lips curve in a contented, exhausted smile.

The smile fell from her lips when her palm moved onto rough, warm linen, radiating heat from the hard flesh beneath. Evelyn’s eyes snapped open.

“Good morn to you, Eve,” the highlander said, his face inches from her own, Evelyn’s fingers resting on his shoulder.

Evelyn was so shocked that she could not speak. She took quick, mental inventory of her person: belly, warm; thighs, warm; feet and legs, warm and weighted down. She was facing the highlander fully on her side and she raised her head to peer down the length of her body.

Alinor was curled across the end of the bed, atop the woolen blanket, the highlander’s plaid, and both Evelyn’s legs.

The traitoress.

Her eyes flicked back to Conall MacKerrick’s. “What are you doing in my bed, sir?” she asked in a low, calm voice.

“Gettin’ warm,” he trilled in his equally low brogue and gave her a sleepy smile.

Those two words—their meaning deeper than his simple answer—combined with the man’s big body to cause Evelyn’s stomach to lurch uncomfortably. And so she did the first thing that came to mind.

She slowly, languorously, gently, placed both hands on the man’s thick, muscled chest, returned his smile, and shoved.

The highlander disappeared over the side of the bed with a strangled cry and a grunt. Alinor lifted her head to peer down onto the floor and then flopped back across Evelyn’s legs with a great sigh.

“Why, good morn to you, as well, Conall,” came the highlander’s disembodied voice. “Did you sleep well? Oh, that’s grand! My thanks to you for keeping me warm through the night, and I do apologize for snorin’ in your ear like a bull elk. Terrible rude o’ me.”

Evelyn rose up on one elbow to look down at the man on the cold, hard floor. “Collect your things, sir, and be gone. You’ve taken enough liberties with my person and I’ll not tolerate it a moment longer.” She started to lie back down but paused. “And I do not snore—’twas Alinor.”

MacKerrick snorted and sat up with a groan. “I’ve a hard time believing a great black wolf could make a sound like a duck being strangled, but as you wish, Eve.”

Evelyn frowned crossly and turned over on the thin ticking to face the wall. Already she could feel the hut’s chill creeping beneath the covers. She just wanted to go back to sleep. God help her, she had never been so tired.

The sheep bleated from her pen and Evelyn cried out indignantly as Alinor trampled her to turn ’round and bound from the bed. Both her legs ached this morn, an unwelcome change.

“Och, back…back, you beast!” MacKerrick chastised from somewhere over Evelyn’s shoulder. The sheep bleated again and then Evelyn heard the scrape of wood and felt a rude rush of frigid air before the hut door closed and all was blessedly still.

She closed her eyes, only barely acknowledging once more how unusually poor she felt. She really ought to rise—’twas scandalous to lie about, drowsy as she was, while a strange man came and went as he pleased. She ought to get up and see him on his way, and that he didn’t abscond with the rest of the meat—’twas all she and Alinor had to eat. In truth, ’twas all they’d had for weeks.

But she didn’t care at that moment. She had no energy. Her hip and leg pained her more than they had in days. She was cold and tired and wanted only to sleep…

Conall watched the great black wolf bound off into the forest and he followed in her tracks at a more leisurely pace, tugging the sheep along on her tether. He relieved himself on the edge of the wood, letting the shaggy little sheep nose around in the dry undercanopy of a wide pine.

Dawn had come, but Conall didn’t bother looking for the bright rays of morning sun in the east. The sky was low, thick, and the color of the gray tree trunks surrounding him. Weather coming. A slight breeze caused the branches overhead to sway, sending echoing crackles ricocheting though the wood, the sound of ice everywhere.

Finished with his business, Conall led the sheep back toward the hut. The small enclosure to the left of the house was covered over with snow and so Conall was forced to spend the better part of an hour digging it out. He sent the sheep inside with a swat to her rear and kicked over the small, half-rotten trough to empty it of yet more white stuff. He’d have to melt water for her in a bit. For now, the animal was content to explore beneath the snow with her soft brown muzzle.

Conall secured the pen and stood looking at the hut. No smoke came from the roof yet and Conall was mildly surprised and a little perturbed. The long, sloping room had been cold enough when he’d left Eve abed—’twould be like ice since he’d opened the door, for certain.

Mayhap she was waiting for Conall to start the fire. He thought about that for a moment. He’d wanted to do that very thing when she’d tossed him out of bed, but by her prickly behavior, Conall had thought it best to let her be and get accustomed to the fact that he was still at the hut. Obviously, he’d been mistaken, but he would be more than pleased to build a fire for Eve Buchanan, aye.

In fact, he’d do it right now.

Alinor came trotting out of the wood, sparkling with snow, and met Conall at the door. The wolf looked up at him expectantly.

“You’re a wolf,” Conall whispered. “Do you nae wish to be out in the wild?” He swept an arm around to indicate the clearing. “’Tis nice, is it nae?”

Alinor raised a paw and scratched once at the door, then looked at Conall again.

Conall sighed and shoved the door open, admitting the beast reluctantly. He followed her inside and left the door ajar in preparation for laying the fire.

Conall frowned when he saw that Eve was still abed—Alinor had swiftly rejoined her with a graceful leap. He told himself that she might not have drifted off to sleep quickly last night, a strange man being about. He stacked some rotting peat on a loose pile of kindling, and smoke soon curled toward the ceiling.

That chore done, he stood near the bed, looking down at Eve’s still, slight form. He didn’t wish to wake her, but he could not locate the hut’s fine, large crock and he had need to water the sheep. Eve’s back was to the room and Alinor had her wide head resting on the curve of Eve’s hip.

“Eve?” Conall called softly and reached out a hand to place it on her shoulder. In a flash, Alinor growled and snapped her powerful jaws but a hairsbreadth from Conall’s smallest finger.

“You bitch,” Conall hissed, snatching his hand back and glaring at the animal.

Alinor’s lips quivered with a final, breathy growl before she laid her head down again.

“Eve,” Conall called more loudly, keeping a wary eye on the wolf.

The form under the covers twitched. “Go away.” She sounded more than half asleep.

“I’ve need to get the sheep water and us some food—where’s the pot you cook in, lass?”

She didn’t reply for several moments, so that Conall was readying to turn her over himself—and wrestle the wolf to do so, more likely than nae. He was growing concerned at the woman’s lethargy. From their meeting last night, he hadn’t gotten the impression that Eve Buchanan was a layabout.

But then she did speak. “I don’t cook in the pot. Cook on the spit. Meat over there.” She raised an arm from beneath the blanket to point past Conall and when she did, her loose sleeve slid up past her elbow. “On the shelf.”

Conall’s head drew back—the woman’s spindly right arm was mottled with purple and green bruises.

She drew the covers back over her shoulder, hiding her arm from view. “Now, do go ’way.”

“What happened to your arm, lass?” Conall asked carefully. “Did you fall?”

He saw her head move slightly, a jerky nod. “Through the smoke hole. When I found the hut.”

Conall felt his worry ease, although with bruises like that, the lass was lucky she hadn’t broken anything. He crossed the floor to the shelf and surveyed the pitiful supply of dry-cooked horsemeat. “When was that, Eve?” he asked conversationally over his shoulder. “How long have you been at Ronan’s hut?”

A long pause, then, “I know not—a month? Mayhap…longer.”

Conall froze. The bruises should have long since faded. He thought of her sudden lethargy.

Not wishing to have his arm removed, Conall moved quickly to the door once more and opened it wide.

“Come on, you bea—Alinor,” he amended, gesturing through the portal. He had to get rid of the wolf in order to confirm his dire suspicion.

The wolf looked at him disinterestedly.

Conall stepped through the doorway. “Come on, then.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, feeling the ultimate fool. “To me, Alinor. Lovely, to me.”

The wolf unfolded herself slowly, stretched leisurely, and at last stepped from the bed. Crossing the floor with an inky swagger, she stood before Conall, still inside the hut. She looked as though she knew exactly what the man was about and had no intention whatsoever of exiting the house.

But fate chose to smile upon Conall for once, and sent a rabbit to bumble into the clearing at just that moment.

Alinor was through the doorway and across the narrow clearing in a black blur.

Conall ducked back inside and closed the door. After pausing for only an instant, narrow-eyed, he dropped the bar in place—just in case. Then he quickly crossed to the bed, taking hold of Eve’s shoulder and pulling her gently onto her back.

“What are you doing, sir?” she demanded groggily, and Conall noticed then the deep purple circles beneath her eyes. “Unhand me at once.”

“Shh…Eve, I must look inside your mouth, lass.” He reached his fingertips to either side of her face.

“What? You’ll do no such thing.” She tried to turn her head away weakly.

But Conall easily pushed her lips away from her teeth with his thumbs and what he saw in that brief moment confirmed his fear.

Eve began to struggle in earnest and Conall released her, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Eve, listen to me, lass—you are verra ill. You’ve had naught but horsemeat to eat since you’ve come?”

Eve’s eyes narrowed over flushed cheeks. “What else is there to eat, I’d like to know. I’m not ill, MacKerrick, only tired.”

Conall nodded, not wanting to further upset her. “Where’s the pot, lass?”

“Buried.”

Conall blinked. “Buried?”

“I cooked all the meat I could, put it in the pot, and buried it. But there’s not much left to be had,” Eve answered wearily. She sighed as if in defeat. “Under the large, flat rock, straightaway from the door. Mayhap twenty paces.”

Conall was stunned for a moment by the woman’s ingenuity. He’d had no idea until now how dire Evelyn Buchanan’s situation had been when she’d found Ronan’s hut. ’Twas little wonder she was territorial over the small sod house.

“Well done, lass.” He smiled at her. “You just take your rest and I’ll return in a bit.” Conall kept the smile on his face even when Eve only frowned and rolled away to face the wall once more.

He had to hurry.

It seemed to Evelyn that no sooner had MacKerrick left her be at last, he was immediately returned to the hut, making a cacophony of racket. She dozed during this time, frowning to herself at the aching in her joints. Once, Alinor rudely shoved her cold, wet nose into the warm crook of Evelyn’s neck, but quickly retreated after MacKerrick chastised the wolf with a string of Gaelic spoken too quickly for Evelyn to decipher. She drifted away once more.

Then he was pulling at her shoulder again, coaxing her to roll over, his hand like a branding iron through her thin sleeve.

“Eve,” he called, his palm skimming down her arm to her hand. He molded her fingers around a warm, smooth object. “Take hold of it now, and drink.”

Evelyn opened her heavy eyelids to look first into Conall MacKerrick’s face and then at the object he’d placed in her hand. ’Twas an earthen mug, steam rising deliciously off the reddish liquid within and releasing a scent that was familiar to Eve, but one that she could not put name to.

“What is it?” she asked, drawing herself up on one elbow. She noted with a queer hitch in her stomach the way the highlander had snaked one long arm behind her shoulders expertly to bolster her—his muscled bicep felt like a stone against her back.

“Tea.”

Evelyn cast him a suspicious glance and sniffed the steam from the mug. “It smells…odd. What sort of tea?”

“’Tis good. You need it. Drink it.”

“Tell me what it is,” she demanded.

MacKerrick drew his head back. “You doona trust me?”

“Well, why will you not tell me—”

“It’s nae horsemeat,” he cut her off pointedly, and Evelyn felt properly chastised. She noticed that, up close, the highlander’s amber eyes were ringed with dark green, and his lips were full and oddly soft-looking for one of such savage appearance. His mouth fascinated her, and she wanted to study it while falling back asleep…

“Eve,” MacKerrick insisted.

She blinked, realized she had nearly dozed off while sitting up and frowned into MacKerrick’s wide, concerned face.

“What’s wrong with me?”

He brought the cup in her hand—his fingers guiding them—to her mouth. “Drink,” was his only answer.

Evelyn did as she was told and sipped. The liquid was warm and thin and…absolutely the most intoxicatingly delicious tea she’d ever drunk. The beverage was still quite warm but, after her first hesitant swallow, it was as if she could not help but gulp down the entire mug.

She lowered the mug with a gasp to catch her breath and looked at MacKerrick.

He was smiling. “I told you ’twas good. More?”

“There’s more?” Evelyn asked in disbelief. “More” was a concept she’d put completely from her mind since leaving England.

MacKerrick took the cup with a chuckle and refilled it from a tall clay urn, set near the fire pit. “A whole wood full of it, lass.” He returned to the side of the bed and handed her the mug.

Evelyn raised it to her lips and gulped and immediately regretted it as her mouth, tongue and throat were washed in the boiling hot liquid.

“Easy,” the highlander chastised. “It hasna had time to cool.”

Evelyn’s eyes watered from her scalded mouth but she only blew on the surface of the tea.

“Pine,” MacKerrick said.

Evelyn glanced at him, saw he was watching her mouth when she pursed her lips to blow. “Pardon?”

“The tea—pine needles. With a splash of mead for sweetness,” he added with a grin. “You’ve had nae greens—nae fruits—for weeks, lass.” He gestured to her arm. “Those bruises, the sleepiness…you’ve need of fortification.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And this simple tea will cure all that?”

Conall nodded. “Most of it. Along with what’s in yonder fine pot.”

Evelyn looked to the fire again, still blowing on the delicious brew, and saw the large pottery crock in which she’d buried the horsemeat. Its lid was barely tilted and the tiniest wisps of steam were only just escaping.

MacKerrick rose from the bed and drew a short blade from his belt. Crouching down on his haunches, he wrapped his hand in the hem of his long, tuniclike shirt and moved the lid of the crock away. Evelyn caught a glimpse of rich, brown liquid and mayhap—could it be?—a speck of green, as the highlander stirred the concoction with his dagger.

He replaced the lid and looked up at Evelyn, wiping his blade on a rag before sheathing it. “Stew,” he offered.

Evelyn’s throat tightened with a welling of emotion that stemmed from both relief and desire. She sipped at the tea and noticed the tremors in both hands and arms. Stew. My God. A wave of unexpected—and very unwelcome—nausea misted her face, chest, and back with perspiration.

“You’ll be fine in a day or so,” MacKerrick was saying to her now, approaching the box bed. The angles of his hawklike face were softer than she had seen them since meeting the highlander. He truly was a handsome man.

“Thank you,” Evelyn managed to croak in a low voice. She was grateful for the care this large stranger had shown her, but his generosity also laid a heavy burden on her. How could she continue to demand that MacKerrick depart the hut when he had quite possibly saved her life? But if ’twas she who must go, to where would she and Alinor hie? They would most certainly starve on their own. ’Twas worse than ironic.

There was a time when Evelyn would have been terrified of the dilemma she now faced. She was an only child reared by her father, a lord, and her every need had been met, often before she recognized she had a need. She had been surrounded by friends and rarely quarreled with anyone. Betrothed to her fondest childhood companion, she was slated for a life of endless privilege. But she had thrown it all away to join the hellish priory, where no one was her friend. Where she was condemned verbally and punished in terrible physical ways for simply being who and what she was. It was no religious haven to escape the frightening unknown of marriage and motherhood as she’d hoped—indeed, Evelyn’s fear was made worse by the young women the priory took in, unwed and with child. Evelyn herself was forced to assist countless births, and the outcomes of the majority of them were not good.

Life became a practice of fear for her, and her every thought was consumed with planning her escape. That bright dream was smashed to pieces, though, when her father had been killed and she was summoned to the home of the man she’d scorned. Her only chance had been to take up with the old witch she’d met there and run.

And she had survived it. Survived it all till now, on her own. And so she was not afraid to drag this impasse before the large highlander, now feeding Alinor bits of horsemeat from his fingertips. Mayhap regretful, but not afraid.

“Sir,” she began.

The highlander glanced up. “Aye, lass? Are you needing more tea?”

“Nay, thank you.” Evelyn noted with chagrin that the man seemed recovered of his manners since their initial meeting. “We cannot continue in this fashion. Surely you understand that.”

MacKerrick raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to say that I doona.”

“We…I mean to say—” Evelyn hesitated. “We cannot both keep residence in this cottage. Together,” she emphasized.

“And why is that, now?” he asked easily, wiping his hands on his shirt and moving to where a wooden bowl and dipper rested near the bubbling crock of stew.

“’Tis entirely improper, that’s why.” Evelyn watched him remove the lid from the crock once more. “Before traveling to Scotland with Min—my aunt, Minerva, I was dedicated to a priory. Before that, I was a lady in my father’s home. I cannot hope to maintain my dignity whilst living in such small quarters with a man I know naught of.”

“I see,” the highlander said thoughtfully. He ladled stew into the bowl, but said no more.

Evelyn sipped from her mug, cleared her throat. “Well…what do you propose we do?”

MacKerrick rose with the bowl and brought it to the bedside. He took the mug from Evelyn’s hands and replaced it with the bowl of steaming, fragrant stew.

“I propose we do naught,” he said.

“But—” Evelyn began.

MacKerrick held up a palm. “I am the MacKerrick, Eve—chief of my clan. My honor is as steadfast as any English laird. Especially to Buchanan kin,” he said. “I canna allow you to leave for…for fear of your safety. And I came to the hut to hunt—a thing I do well. My townsfolk are starving, Eve. I canna fail them.”

For some reason, his speech sent chills spiraling around Evelyn’s spine. But he was not done. The stew in her hand was untouched, forgotten, as his voice continued to mesmerize her.

“There is weather coming—a fierce storm, do I read the signs correctly. Neither of us would survive a journey of more than a half day.” He bent to pour more tea into the mug, sipped thoughtfully from it himself, then looked at her.

“It may be a long, long winter, Eve, and I canna tell you that there is chance we will soon part company. But on my word, you’ll be safe here with me.”

Evelyn did not know what to say. Her gaze fell onto the wooden bowl in her hands and so she raised it to her lips and sipped from its rim, her eyes catching the colorful bits of peas and carrots and flecks of barley caught in the rich gravy. God in Heaven, it was divine! She closed her eyes, held the soup in her mouth for a long moment, savoring it, before swallowing it.

“The stew is delicious,” she told him quietly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to it, Eve,” he said solemnly. “’Twas you who provided the meat, saving me from setting out on a hunt straight away. I’m in your debt.”

Evelyn could not believe she felt a flush creeping over her face at the simple compliment and so she attributed it to the wonderfully warm stew.

“What say you then, Eve?” MacKerrick asked, stoking the fire with Eve’s pointed stick and no longer looking at her. “Do we stand together?”

A thought occurred to Evelyn then, one that was oddly disturbing. “Are you married, sir?”

The highlander paused in his movements for only a blink of time. “I was,” he said mildly. “She’s dead.”

“Oh.” Evelyn sipped from the bowl again, sucking a chunk of carrot into her mouth and chewing to give her time to cover her out-of-place relief that the large man did not have a wife eagerly awaiting his return. “I’m sorry.”

The highlander only nodded curtly and did not meet her eyes.

’Tis still painful for him, Evelyn thought to herself and the realization of it swayed her just enough. A man in mourning, hunting to feed his villagers. Mayhap he was nobler than Evelyn had once thought him to be.

“Well, you most certainly cannot sleep in the bed with me again,” she said, a bit loudly for their heretofore quiet conversation.

The highlander nodded again, his attention still focused on the fire pit. “Agreed.”

“And no one can be aware of my presence,” Evelyn said suddenly, as earlier worries of a Buchanan happening along sprang into her mind once more. “I’ll…I’ll not have my reputation ruined.”

“’Tis unlikely we’ll be takin’ company, Eve,” he said with a wry lift of an eyebrow. “But I’ll nae tell anyone, if you so wish it.”

Evelyn pressed her lips together. “All right, then. Agreed.”

Then he did look up at her. “I have a condition of my own, if you would.”

Evelyn swallowed. “Yea?”

“That you call me Conall. Or MacKerrick, at the very least.” He grinned. “‘Sir this’ and ‘sir that’ has me lookin’ over my shoulder for an English bloke.”

Evelyn felt a small smile lift the corners of her mouth. “Very well. MacKerrick it is.”

MacKerrick grinned wider, winked cheekily, and then drank from the mug.

Evelyn’s heart pounded and she ate her stew.