Free The Bold Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) by Carmen Caine

still intact. And though rain had dribbled down from holes in the roof to form large mud puddles on the floor, the area near the hearth was relatively dry.  There was no furniture left, save for a small three-legged stool and a black kettle turned over on its side.
    “Perhaps ‘tis a plague house,” one of the men muttered.
    Ewan pointed to the opaque mounds of cobwebs in the rafters. “If ‘twas, then it was longer than your lifetime ago, Sean,” he said calmly.
    After a bit of grumbling, they set about butchering the meat.
    Kneeling before the hearth, Merry stacked some wood and found a bit of dry thatching to use as tinder. The fire caught, crackling and spitting sparks, and a short time later, a rosy tint bathed the room as the boar and the rabbits roasted on a spit over the flames.
    Several of the men began a game of dice, and one of the scouts produced a clay jug of wine as the smell of smoke mingled with the scent of roasted meat.
    Leaving Alec to tend to the cooking, Merry settled against the wall, shifting to get comfortable on the dirt-packed floor.  With all of the riding, the bandages binding her breasts were coming undone. She’d have to find a way to sneak out and tighten them soon.  But she’d have to wait until most of the men were asleep.  She couldn’t afford to get caught.
    From the corner of her eye, she watched Ewan as he sat near the fire, alert and restless. The firelight played on his face, giving him a dangerous air. His brow was drawn into a deep frown, and she wondered if he ever allowed himself a smile anymore.
    “They called him a beast in the battlefield.”
    Merry turned to see Alec crouching beside her with his lips lifted into the merest whisper of a smile.
    “Aye, no man can match his fierce reputation,” Alec continued, glancing over at Ewan himself. “A man renowned for his strong sword arm and steeled endurance, he is. Strong as an ox and even stronger willed. Some say he could wield a sword afore he could walk.”
    Merry bit back a sigh.
    ‘Twas obvious.
    While others saw only the hard warrior, unflinching, unmoving, she saw in his eyes the pain, the sorrow, and the burden of immeasurable guilt.  She wanted to ease his burden. To touch him. To sooth his cares away.
    Ewan glanced back at them, grim and quick. “And what do ye speak of?” he asked curtly.
    Alec leaned over and tousled Merry’s cropped curls. And after a swift, speculative search of her face, turned to Ewan and replied, “The lad admires ye, Ewan.”
    Merry choked.
    But Ewan scarcely noticed. “There’s naught that warrants admiration,” he replied tightly. And then rising to his feet, he strode to the door and disappeared out into the gathering darkness.
    “Are ye bereft of all sense?” Merry scowled up at Alec. “Can ye not see that he suffers?”
    Alec shook his head in mock dismay. “And you’re a boldly impertinent lad,” he said, stroking the stubble on his chin. “’Tis clear ye revere the man, and rightly so. I only sought to reward your curiosity. But aye, you’re right. We all know he suffers. He doesna sleep.”
    “Aye,” a voice chorused from the shadows. “The screams of the dying haunt his dreams.”
    “Tis the warrior’s curse,” Alec agreed, moving next to the fire.
    “Ewan had the heart of a poet, once,” someone else said solemnly.
    Silence fell then, for a time, and it was only broken by a sudden gust of wind rattling the shutters, followed by the sound of pattering rain.
    And then the meat was pronounced roasted.
    The men began to eat and spirits rose, and as a new dice game began in earnest, Ewan returned.
    Kicking the fire back to life, he shook the rain from his cloak and draped it over the three-legged stool, and then settling against the wall, he stretched his long legs out in front of him.
    Merry cast a furtive glance his way, but his blue eyes were hooded by thick lashes, and half of his face was covered by shadows as he gazed intently at the fire.
    For a