“Three, maybe four miles,” she answered, chin already quivering.
“I’d carry ye, if I had the strength,” he growled, sounding pathetic to his own ears.
“I ken ye would,” she replied, clinging to his arm. “’Tis yer strength will see me there safely.”
* * *
Eala was a town girl. Born and raised in the heart of Perth, she’d never had any desire to venture onto the moor. Tramping about the countryside was for farm lasses and tinkers’ wives. Uncertain if she was even leading Ambrose in the right direction, she hiked up hill and down dale, sloshed through muddy bogs and strode through clumps of heather, suddenly awed by the astoundingly beautiful wildness of the land of her birth. The occasional sheep eyed them curiously before resuming its browsing. Birds with enormous wingspans circled lazily overhead. The raw wind pricked her face like needles, her eyes watered, her nose must be as red as a beet, her toes frozen. Yet, an inner calm assured her she was where she was meant to be.
Ambrose kept her upright when she faltered, though she could tell from his deep frown that leaving Evan and Dr. Raincourt preyed on his mind.
They didn’t speak, stopping only now and again to catch their breath, even after they finally stumbled across the frost-rutted north road. He enfolded her in his cloak. At first, they stood apart, then, gradually, their bodies sought the comforting warmth the other could offer. They were one against the wind, and she knew without a doubt he was the right man.
She felt it in the unmistakable male arousal, the suggestive movement of his hips, and the insistent craving in her own loins. She saw it in his blue eyes when they broke apart to begin the trek again. The gentle strength of his hand at her elbow let her know how much he cared. She knew it for certain when the painted sign with the black swan came in sight and he bent his head to nibble her lower lip. “I canna help myself,” he rasped.
Evan had pecked kisses on her cheek but, suddenly, she understood what kissing was meant to be about. She melted into Ambrose’s warmth, opening her mouth to invite him in. Their tongues mated. She hadn’t eaten for hours, but her hunger was for him. The intensity of her emotions moved her to tears.
“Dinna cry,” he whispered. “Ye got us here safely.”
“They’re…tears of…happiness,” she stammered. “Ye’ll think I’m daft. I want to stay out on the moor where there’s just Ambrose and Eala and none of the cares of the world.”
* * *
Ambrose understood Eala’s emotions. He wanted nothing more than to carry her off to some idyllic place insulated against the cruelty of men’s ambitions, but no such Eden existed in the midst of a failed rebellion. “We must seek rooms at the Black Swan,” he said. “’Tis a good omen, given what ye told me about yer name.”
“Aye. Though my father claims ’tis a place of ill repute. And he would ken.”
“I’ll keep ye safe,” he replied. “We’ll say we are man and wife, so no one will think to molest ye.”
He expected a harsh rebuttal, but she smiled. “After all, we spent a night together in a shepherd’s bothy.”
“And I was the perfectgentlemon,” he quipped.
Not that I wanted to be.
He escorted her into the inn, surprised that an establishment located on a remote moor was already crammed with noisy men, all trying to outshout each other. Their voices echoed off the low ceiling.
A hush fell when the rowdy patrons noticed Eala.
Ambrose put a protective arm around her waist and guided her through the gaping throng, narrowed eyes challenging anyone who thought to even speak to her.
The Inn
Eala shrank into Ambrose’s cloak, trying to make herself invisible while he spoke with the publican. From what she’d seen so far, she was the only woman among scores of noisy men. If she stood on tiptoe and reached up, she’d be able to touch the dark, wooden ceiling beams. All kinds of paraphernalia was nailed to the plastered walls—horse brasses, riding crops, even shovels and pitchforks. What any of it had to do with swans wasn’t immediately obvious to her. The taproom reeked of too many sweaty men crammed into a small space.
“Yer wife looks frozen to the bone,” the innkeeper told Ambrose.
Teeth chattering, Eala nodded, relieved there would be no necessity to lie about their relationship. She wasn’t a good liar and the reed-thin fellow had assumed they were married.
“Aye,” Ambrose replied, “our berlin lost a wheel out on the moor when the horse slipped the traces and ran off. We’ve walked a considerable distance.”
“Nay from these parts, are ye?”
Clearly, Ambrose’s Lowland brogue had roused the man’s suspicions.
“Nay. Ayrshire. But a good friend mentioned this establishment.”
“Who would that be?”