Page 13 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

It seemed like a long journey to Grace, but then, she’d never traveled for more than a day or two in any direction from her home. And Ewan was better company than her uncle and his guards.

Ewan handed her some bread and dried meat. “’Tis nae a feast, but ‘tis filling, and like as nae I can get some porridge fer the morning meal.”

“I do not mind.” Grace took the bread and bit into it, then chewed gingerly on a piece of meat. It was tough and chewy, but edible, and after a moment, she identified it as venison.

Ewan handed her a mug. “Farmer’s ale. ‘Tis strong, but palatable.”

Grace sipped carefully. It was nowhere near as sharp as the whisky, but she coughed a little, even so, at the strong, earthy taste. “I confess, I am more used to wine.”

“I’ll try tae pick up a wineskin at the next tavern.” There was a strange note of humor in his voice, and a glint of laughter in his eyes.

He was teasing her. Grace found herself smiling in response to the unexpected warmth. “Only if you will be drinking it as well.”

“Wine isnae me preference. But I may try it.” Ewan shrugged and ate more of his meal. Grace followed suit, eating in companionable silence.

By the time they finished, the whisky and liniment had soothed her aches into a dull ache, and she was feeling well enough to apply the salve to her aching thighs. To her surprise, Ewan rose as soon as he was finished. “I’m goin’ outside tae check the nearby area and tak’ care o’ me business. If ye’re feeling up tae it, ye might apply the salve wherever else ye need it.”

Grace moved to do as he suggested, touched by his courtesy. Despite their poor first meeting and second impressions, she had to admit Ewan was better company than she had expected. Despite his surly Scottish demeanor, he was courteous enough, and he had done her no harm.

After a bit, Ewan returned and unbundled the wet clothing and blanket, before spreading them over the rails of a horse stall to let them dry. “’Tis quiet out there. Best we both get some sleep.” He gestured to the far side of the hay pile. “I’ll sleep over here, near the horses, so ye dinnae need tae fret.”

Grace nodded. “You are very courteous, for a Scotsman.”

Ewan’s jaw tightened, his previous courtesy and light-heartedness disappearing and leaving his green eyes cold. “Scotsmen arenae brutes and monsters.”

Grace flinched. “That is not what I…”

“Ye act as if ye expect me tae be nae better than a bandit.” Ewan scowled. “I ken ye’re English, but ye’ve nae reason tae act as if we’re all nae better than brigands.”

Anger ignited within her at the accusation in his voice. “I have my reasons to feel that way.”

“I’ve done naething…”

“Men of your clans were killed my family.” Grace snapped the words. “It is thanks to your people, to Scottish clan-folk on the warpath, that I was given to the care of my uncle - a man who cares nothing for me, for anything save the money he might get for my family’s estates, and the alliances he might make with my marriage.”

Her shoulders were tight with anger, and she turned her back on him so Ewan wouldn’t see her anger - or the age-old grief that still filled her when she thought of her loss. “You may not be so savage as I have long thought Scotsmen to be, but do not dare to tell me that I have no reason to dislike your folk every bit as vehemently as ye dislike mine.”

Ewan stared at Grace’s back as she curled into the hay. He hadn’t meant to upset her. He was tired of the implications that Scotsmen were somehow less civilized than the English, especially after he’d made the effort to be courteous to her, and defend her the night before.

Now, however, he felt like every bit the brute she’d subtly - and most likely unintentionally - implied he was. He’d faced English soldiers on the field, and felt justified in his dislike of them, but he’d never considered that she might have similar reasons to feel resentment of the Scottish clans.

He, Alistair, and their warriors had never crossed the border, nor gone raiding in English lands. Even so, he knew there were plenty of clans that were less honorable, or more bitter. The MacTavish clan came to mind. He certainly wouldn’t put it past the former laird to have sanctioned raiding and looting. And there were plenty of Lowland lairds who would have said they were only taking back the lands that belonged to the clans.

The English were enemies, and he’d never given real thought to how their women and children lost their menfolk, their lands and their safety during war.

Then again, he ought to have. After all, a year ago the MacTavish clan had been enemies of his. Now he was responsible for the clanfolk, and he’d dealt with more than one bitter widow and bereft orphan.

And then there were folk like Gael MacTavish, who would challenge his right to be caretaker or laird of the clan his brother had conquered.

He swallowed, feeling an unaccustomed tightness in his chest. Remorse. He’d been so wrapped in his own resentment, he’d forgotten to consider Grace’s circumstances.

What could he say? Nothing seemed adequate for the misstep. Finally, he sighed. “Me apologies, Miss Lancaster. I didnae ken.”

Grace made no response. Ewan couldn’t fault her. After all, he’d been quite rude, and in the past two days, they’d argued more than they’d done anything else.

After a moment, he sighed again, then made his way to the tack. He took one and laid it beside Grace as an offering of apology, then retired to the far side of the hay to make his own bed.

Grace Lancaster. He’d never expected to have anything in common with her, but the loss of family to enemies, who now might become allies or honorable compatriots - that was something he was all too familiar with.