Page 50 of Hold Fast

CHAPTER19

In the hours just before dawn, Ewan sprawled naked on top of his bed. His skin was hot, and he was certain he was still feverish from his wound, but he’d been feverish like this before and was not afraid. He felt the cool air of the chamber against his overheated, overstimulated skin. He had slept like the dead, lulled deep by Una’s humming before she had left him sometime around midnight. He wondered if she was sleeping. He hoped she was. He pictured her on her side, the blanket pulled up past her nose, her black hair fanned out behind her on the pillow.

How many times had he imagined combing his fingers through those long, silken strands? How many times had he imagined holding her while she slept, her hair pressed between their bodies, as sleek and slick as a crow’s wing?

Wispy tendrils of hair had escaped her braid and framed her face yesterday as she’d worked to stitch him back together. One of them had tickled his chin when she’d kissed him.God’s bones, that kiss. It had been so tender, so tentative, and yet so pure. So earnestly and freely given.

He’d been desperate for another, but she’d left him to go about her work. Just like she would leave the keep soon to live in the cottage he’d promised her. He would have no excuse to see her every day, no chance meetings in the Hall or stairs. Once he released her from his sight, that would be it.

No more moments alone, certainly no more kisses. He scrubbed his hand over his beard and closed his eyes against that thought. He didn’t regularly keep a beard. He found them itchy, and until a year or so ago, his whiskers had grown in patches. Kenneth had teased him that he looked like a mangy dog.

This beard was entirely accidental, a result of not taking the time to shave during Connor’s illness and the days following. He pulled at the ends and imagined Una tugging on it, using it to tow him close for a kiss. A beard like his would make her lips pink, would rub at the delicate skin around her mouth and turn that pink too. What would it feel like against her delicate skin, he wondered. Against her throat, her breasts. He pictured Una on her back, his head between her thighs, the beard chafing at her delicate, private skin as he tasted her. He was hard in an instant.

“Fuck,” he groaned, taking his cock in hand.

He stroked his fist up and down his length once, twice, three times, imagining Una’s breathy cries as he worshipped her with his mouth, her petal pink center blooming brighter, abraded from his beard. He gripped his cock roughly, gritting his teeth as he increased his tempo. His wound pulled and ached, but his bollocks ached worse.

Would she cry out? Or would she bite her lip and fall apart in silence? Would she grip the sheets in tight fists or yank his hair at the roots, pulling him closer and closer until he could hardly breathe before pushing him away when it all became too much? He was painfully hard now, consumed by the need for release. How long had it been? Days, at the very least. Perhaps weeks?

He panted, grunting softly and blind to everything but the sensations in his body. At some point, he stopped thinking of Una, his focus narrowing on the way his bollocks tightened up against his body. He increased the pace of his hand and ground his teeth, ignoring the lancing pain in his side as his abdomen clenched. He felt his seed rising until it boiled out, splattering hot on his belly as he gasped for breath, squeezing his cock to ground himself.

“Goddamnit,” he muttered as he used a spare rag to wipe the sticky spend from his body and hands, glad that he had missed the wound dressing.

What a wretched conversation that would have been.“Aye, Una, I ken you just dressed the wound last evening, but I need you to change it again as I went and drained the moat all over myself.”

Ewan stood from the bed, wincing as his stitches pulled tightly, and crossed to the window. He saw the torches glowing brightly atop the wall, the men keeping guard. He bit back a smile as an idea came to him. He’d promised her a cottage outside of the keep. He’d never promised that it wouldn’t be in the shadow of the walls, where she could be guarded. Where she could be safe. Where he could visit to check on her and make sure she didn’t have needs that weren’t being met. Where she could still take her meals in the Great Hall and worry for nothing.

At least, those were the noble reasons, he told himself as he dressed quickly in a clean leine and plaid. Ewan left the chamber, closing the door silently behind him. The keep was quiet, save for the murmurings of servants as they shuffled in and out of the kitchens. He hurried along the corridor, eager to find the perfect spot for this cottage.

David lived in a cottage just next to the curtain wall of the keep. He’d built it there so that he could be close in case he was needed but also have the benefit of being in the village. There was a space behind his cottage, tucked close to the wall. If Una could not be under his protection day and night, David would look out for her.

David agreed readily, and they began planning. The morning passed quickly. Due to his wound, Ewan could not lift any timber, but he helped direct a small group of men in beginning to frame the cottage.

He came back to the keep at noontime to grab a bite to eat and check on Connor. On his way to the Great Hall, he bumped into Joan, who was carrying a basket of mending. Upon colliding, the basket flew out of her hands, thread and scraps of fabric scattering across the floor.

“Oh!” she squeaked. “Good afternoon, m’laird. Beg pardon!”

Joan was short and plump, with wild chestnut curls that never wanted to stay in their bun or braid and surrounded her head like a bramble. But what she lacked in height, she more than made up for in presence.

“’Twas my fault, Joan,” Ewan said as he knelt to help her collect the scattered sewing. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

She smiled, as she often did, revealing the small gap between her front teeth.

“How do you fare this day?” he asked.

“Och, it has been quite a busy morning!”

“What is happening?” Ewan asked, curious. They were expecting no guests, there was no feast, and the harvest was done.

“Well, one of the maids, Sarah, was asking Fenella for a few days’ leave so that she could clean out her late father’s cottage. Do you remember old Gavin down in the village? Anyway, Fenella said that she could do better than that and offered her two kitchen boys and a whole score of maids to help so that Una can take it.”

Ewan froze, his eyes widening. Words escaped him, which was just as well since Joan didn’t seem to require his response.

“We’ve been there all the morning. The old man was just like a squirrel, he was, hoarding everything. But between us all, we got it emptied and scoured and open to air out. Fiona and Cat are collecting linens for her, and Fenella sent a few of the lads around the village to ask if anyone has any goods to spare to make a home. Una is delighted.” Joan stopped to sigh wistfully. “I always wanted a home of my own, and now she has one! Can you imagine how—”

“Joan,” Ewan croaked, feeling as if he were coming back to the surface after hearing the conversation from deep underwater. Old Gavin’s cottage was at the far end of the village, farthest away from the keep within that immediate cluster of homes. Unprotected, the first to be reached from the road. His stomach turned.

“Aye, m’laird?” Joan asked, cocking her head to the side like an inquisitive dog.