Page 16 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ewan MacDuff was a frustrating individual, and yet, Grace had to admit as she bound his wounds that she found herself drawn to him. He could be gruff, rude, and more often than not, she wanted to hit him for his arrogant attitude and rough manner. And yet, at the same time, he could be kind and gentle. And twice now he’d protected her - at risk to both his safety and his reputation.

Since their discussion in the stable, he’d made an effort to be more courteous as well. That wasn’t to say that he was never rude or irritating, but he refrained from making too many comments on her ‘English ways’, and he made an effort to speak to her respectfully, rather than calling her ‘lass’ all the time.

Underneath his rough, stern exterior, she saw glimpses of a different sort of man - quiet but warm, loyal and generous. That version of Ewan MacDuff intrigued her, and she longed to know him better. Even if, at the moment, he was being an overprotective and slightly overbearing lout.

He could have been killed, and it would have left her stranded. But he didn’t seem to think anything of that, nor of how dangerous it would have been for her to seek help, as an English woman in the midst of the Highlands. Such utter foolishness was beyond her comprehension, though at least he’d unbent enough to allow her to treat his wounds as well as she could.

Grace finished dabbing salve onto the wound on his side, then hesitated. Wisdom suggested she ought to bandage it, to avoid any risk of disease, but to do so would require asking Ewan to undress further. And the idea of having a man, especially this man, partially unclothed before her…

Well, it was only fair, she supposed. He’d seen her partially unclothed at the farmhouse. Grace took a deep breath and summoned her courage. “You will need to remove your shirt, in order for me to bandage the wound on your side.”

She thought he might protest. Instead, he tugged his shirt free of his belt and removed it. Grace swallowed hard.

She’d known that Ewan MacDuff was a well-built and well-muscled man, but it was one thing to be aware of the fact, another thing entirely to see his body with her own eyes, unobscured by cloth.

The skin underneath Ewan’s shirt was smooth, marred here and there with the odd scar, likely from previous battles he’d fought in. Dark hair dusted across his chest, then in a thin trail down his belly, between the lines of the well-defined muscles of his chest and stomach, to disappear under his belt. His shoulders looked even broader than they did when wrapped in cloth, corded muscles moving easily under the bronze-toned skin as he lifted his arms so she could reach the jagged wound that cut across the skin between his waist and his lower ribs.

Mouth dry, Grace reached out to touch the skin around the edges of the wound. It was warm, slightly sticky from the salve and the alcohol she’d used to clean it. “It has stopped bleeding already.”

“Aye, but cannae swear ‘twill stay that way, with the exertion of riding.”

Of course. That was why he hadn’t protested. Riding would surely aggravate the wound. Grace flushed, but managed to retain enough composure to wind a strip of cloth she’d found in his saddle bags around his waist.

It was more difficult than she had expected. She’d never been so close to a man before, save for accidental encounters, and certainly never so close to an undressed man. Standing close enough to wind the bandages around his torso, Grace was acutely aware of the warmth of Ewan’s skin, the firm, steady strength of him, and the width of his shoulders, the trim lines of his waist. She was equally aware of the scent of him - the faint tang of iron from the blood, the astringent of the salve and the sharpness of the whisky, all mingling with the scent of horse, and something distinctly masculine that she had no name for.

It was a heady combination, and Grace couldn’t be certain whether she was more relieved or disappointed when she finished the task and was able to step back. “There. I trust that will do?”

“Aye. ‘Twill dae well. I said it afore and I’ll say it again - ye’ve a gift fer such things.” Ewan inspected the bandages. Grace looked away, and tried to find something that would take her mind off Ewan’s nearness - and his lack of clothing.

It was only then that she realized the hem of her skirt was stained with dirt, and there were small spots of blood on the fabric, where he’d bled while she was tending to him. She’d torn her sleeve as well, fumbling for rocks to throw at the bandits.

Tears and mud were troublesome, but nothing that could not be mended. Blood, on the other hand, was incredibly difficult to wash out of clothing, and likely to be even more difficult since it would surely dry before they reached any place where she might make the attempt. Grace dabbed at the dull crimson spots mournfully.

“Are ye wounded?” Ewan’s concern made her look up. He’d taken her moment of inattention to don a clean shirt from his saddle bags, and redress in a vest and sash. Grace eyed the clean clothing and wished she felt comfortable enough to do the same. “Grace?”

She shook the thoughts away. “No, I am not wounded. It is only that my dress…” She touched the stains again. “I fear it is ruined.”

Ewan eyed her skirts. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled. “Och, only an English lass would think that little bit o’ stain makes a dress ruined.”

Grace blinked at him in indignation. “I beg your pardon…”

Ewan shook his head. “Nay. Dinnae fret, Grace. ‘Twill wash out easily. Trust a warrior tae ken how tae get blood and dirt out o’ clothing.”

He offered her his crooked little grin, and Grace realized with a start that he was teasing her - but not in a manner that was meant to be unkind. Rather, he seemed to be making an effort to put her at ease. The realization snuffed the spark of anger that had ignited within her, and sent a quiet warmth of a different sort through her. The tightness in her gut and shoulders eased, and before she could quite understand why, she found herself smiling back.

“That’s better.” Ewan’s smile widened, and his touch was gentle as he took back his ointment and his whisky. He tipped his head toward the winding road before them. “If I recall, there should be a village within two or three candle-marks, and a place tae find a hot meal and tak’ some rest.”

“So soon?”

Ewan nodded, then gestured over her shoulder. Grace turned to see clouds, thick and heavy as drifts of new-sheared sheep’s wool, beginning to cover the sky. “Aye. We’ll need tae send a message tae the local laird regarding the bandits, but if the clouds are any sign, then we’ll need tae seek out shelter from the storm as well.”

They’d ridden more than once through a light rain that Ewan called a ‘Highland’s mist’, and Grace found that uncomfortable enough. The idea of facing a storm strong enough for Ewan to seek shelter was enough to deter her from asking any more questions.

Two minutes later they were back on the road and leaving the site of the battle behind them.

Ewan had hoped to reach shelter before the storm broke, but the weather was unpredictable in the Highlands during the spring season, and the storm he’d spotted was no exception. Within half a candle-mark, the sky was gray and leaden, and the air was filled with dull rumbles of thunder. Not long after that, he felt the first drop splatter against his cheek.