Tristan stopped in his tracks. Glancing over his shoulder he scowled at Gareth.
“I see you have lost all you mirth, Tristan. But do na’ anger yourself. ‘Twas a simple jest. ‘Tis obviously na’ a favorable match."
“Why? Because, you fancy her for yourself?” Tristan replied.
“Me? I...” Gareth stared at Tristan for a long moment, his startled expression slowly turning into a grin. “She is an enchanting lass. Quite bonnie. Bold to boot. And ‘tis obvious you have a strange aversion towards her. Mayhap, I should pay her more notice. Why, I think..."
“Gareth!"
“Aye?"
Tristan turned and took a menacing step towards Gareth. “I do na’ have an aversion towards her."
“I know. You fancy her. ‘Tis why you be so cross with me, now."
“Listen to me carefully, Gareth. I do na’ fancy her any more, or any less, than any other lass."
“Oh? Well, I am na’ certain I like or sanction that notion, Tristan. After all you gave you word to honor her—."
“Notion! What notion?” Tristan glowered.
“To ravish her. I—"
“I don't have any such plan!” Tristan practically roared. “For all that's mighty. I vowed to protect her and her virtue with me life."
Gareth shrugged. “That does na’ mean the thought has never crossed your mind."
Tristan raked his hands through his hair, and sighed deeply. “She's comely, aye. And while I would na’ mind bedding any willing, young lass right about now, she is na’ me type. Or yours for that matter. So stay away from her. When we gain Gairloch, she'll be our laird's problem to deal with."
“Hmmm. You find her comely, yet claim she be na’ your type. And now, you order me to stay away from her?” Gareth smirked.
“She's like ripe, willing fruit ready to be plucked, and..."
“W-willing f-fruit?” Gareth snickered.
“You know exactly what I mean. She's an innocent! She's also a superstitious, emotional, muddle-headed lass who thinks she's a witch."
“Aye. But, willing fruit?” Gareth chuckled.. “And how, exactly, would you be knowing how willing she is or—"
“Gareth!"
“Fine, fine. I will na’ question you on the matter any further, for now. But you have yet to tell me why you brought her."
“She said the charm belongs to her mother, and if that be true, I have no right to it."
“Then you do believe her?
’”Nay! What I believe is that she possess the charm, and that our laird wants it. ‘Tis me duty to do his bidding.” He turned on his heel, dismissing Gareth.
As Tristan continued stomping through the woods after Seerah, Gareth followed. “A great sense of duty, indeed,” he muttered, hurrying after Tristan.
* * * *
Sir Nevil watched impatiently as Ansel and Helig picked their way through the debris of the crumbling inn. “Have you found anything, yet?” he demanded.
“Nothing.” Ansel replied. “This dwelling is quite old. The wood is rotten. I fear what's left of the roof will cave in at any moment. It is not likely that Tristan and his men found any shelter here."
“They were here. I'm certain! What about those tracks?” Nevil pointed to the ground near Ansel. “Where do they lead?"
“Uh, nowhere. They begin here, then disappear at the edge of the clearing along with the blood drops. It is spectral, indeed,” Ansel declared.
“I'll show you something spectral when my boot lands against your skull,” Nevil threatened, before turning his attention to Helig. “What does the oaf carry?"
Helig glanced from Nevil to Ansel and protectively clutched his prize to his chest.
“A tiny, wood box."
“Have him bring it to me."
“Come, Helig,” Ansel bid.
Helig bowed his head low and wagged it in silent protest, like a disobedient child.
“He simply wants to have a look, Helig. I vow, he'll not keep it,” Ansel coaxed.
Glancing suspiciously up at Nevil, Helig hesitated. Next, he took three giant paces forward. When he extended his arm, the prominent, oversized knuckles of his massive fist grazed Nevil's nose-plate.
Nevil flinched, pulling cautiously away. When Helig slowly uncurled his fingers, Nevil hesitantly leaned closer to study the little box lined with dark purple cloth. Then he reached for the box, but Helig quickly closed his fingers around it and scowled.
Nevil glared at Ansel. “Tell him to give me the box. I want to get a closer look at it."
“He'll give it back, Helig. Go on,” Ansel prodded with a friendly smile.
When Helig tentatively revealed the box again, Sir Nevil eagerly took it. As he inspected it, he noticed that the impression in the purple cloth was shaped like a crescent moon. “They have the charm!"
Just then, the bushes near Ansel began to shift and shake as if someone or something quite large was drawing near. Ansel froze with fear.
Helig abruptly snatched the box away from Nevil. He crossed the clearing with great haste and took up a protective stance before Ansel.
To Nevil, Helig's loyalty toward the insignificant archer was as maddening as the oaf's even temper and dim-witted nature. Unfortunately, Nevil's overlord had decided that those very character flaws, together with Helig's fantastic brawn, would prove invaluable to their mutual venture. “Come back here with that—” Nevil faltered as the unknown bush-dweller emerged.
The crooked, old man stood barely half as tall as Ansel. His white hair and whiskers hung past his waist. He wore tattered rags and his feet were bare, but he held his position, boldly before Helig. “'Tis me property you be stealing. Give me back me treasures and be away from here!” His craggy voice vibrated with emotion as he thumped his bent cane in the dirt.
Helig quickly held his hand out to the little man.
“No!” Nevil kicked his horse with punishing force. He swiftly gained Helig's side, but the little man had already disappeared back into the bushes. “You idiot!” Nevil raised his spear, but the threatening look in Helig's eyes caused him to lower it again. “You—why, did you give the box, to that ... that..."
“Goblin.” Ansel peeked out from behind Helig.
“What the devil?” Nevil bellowed, his body quaking with anger.
“He was a goblin, Sir Nevil.” Ansel moved to stand beside Helig. “This be his territory and he protects it with magic. If we had kept the box, he'd have cursed us all. We should also leave here quickly. Disturbing a goblin could also bring ill luck."
Nevil fixed Ansel with a hard, simmering stare. “Enough of this nonsense. I want that box. Now!"
“But, Sir—” Ansel swallowed hard.
“You obviously fear that puny, old man more than you fear me. Oh, never mind. I'll look for it myself. The filthy beggar is probably hiding beneath your very nose, laughing at you.” He dismounted and walked toward the bushes.
“I would not go after him if I were you. There likely be brownies about as well.” Ansel took a step forward, but Helig gripped his arm. When Ansel glanced up at Helig, the giant shook his head with disapproval. “Helig senses great danger, Sir,” Ansel informed.
“I'm Nevil The Wild. I'm not afraid of—” A bolt of lightening struck the ground near Nevil's feet, stopping him in his tracks. When Nevil turned abruptly, heading back towards his mount, a gale wind whipped up with such force that it nearly lifted him in the air.
Ansel and Helig were already mounted when Nevil finally gained his horse.
“Afraid, mayhap not, but you should be more respectful of the Shee Sir,” Ansel chided.
“Shee?” Nevil reined his horse about.
“Fairy folk of the elven race, Sir. They're renowned throughout Wales and Scotland, but their domain be Eire,” Ansel explained.
Nevil groaned. “There's no such thing!"
Thunder rumbled and lightening split the sky.
“Ride, you idiots!” Nevil cried, as his horse broke into a swift gallop.
The wind began to kick up and the air turned brisk. Although the trees concealed any hint of sky, Tristan knew instinctively that the sudden change in weather meant trouble. “A storm is brewing, Gareth. We must find Seerah, quickly."
“Seerah?” Gareth called, struggling to match Tristan's long stride.
Lightening cracked in the distance. “Seerah!” Tristan stopped suddenly, allowing his gaze to sweep the forest. “Where could she have gotten to?"
Gareth stopped also. “Mayhap she found Cosmo and headed back, escaping our notice."
“We would have seen or heard her."
“But the wind has increased greatly and the forest is quite dense."
“Aye.” Tristan nodded, frowning skeptically. “Go. I'll search the area up ahead and meet you back with the others.” As he headed deeper into the forest, Gareth turned in the opposite direction.
Thunder rumbled through the sky, and Tristan quickened his pace. “Seerah!” he called.
Lightning struck a near by tree stump. A puff of gray smoke billowed upwards and a white blur of movement caught Tristan's eye. He stopped and blinked hard. Then he shook his head with disbelief as he watched what appeared to be a short man with white hair and whiskers running through the forest.
Brilliant light exploded suddenly, and Tristan had to shield his eyes with his hand against the blinding flash. When the light faded and his eyes adjusted, he saw Seerah. She was crouched down low, looking in the same direction where Tristan had spied the man. “Seerah!” he roared, charging toward her.
Startled, Seerah looked up just as Cosmo scampered into her arms. After tucking him into her leather pouch, she rushed forward. “What's wrong, Tristan? What's happened?"
Tristan grabbed her by her upper arms. “Did you see where he went?"
“He?” Seerah glanced from right to left, her eyes wide with apparent fear. “He, who?"
“A little beggar-man with white whiskers. He was running toward where you were standing. When the lightning flashed I did na’ see where he went. I thought..."
“Lightning? I saw no lightning, Tristan. I saw no man either. Just Cosmo. Are you—is everything all right?"
Tristan glanced at the spot where Seerah had been standing. He knew he'd seen the man as clear as daylight. And the lightning had illuminated the entire area, blinding him. “No! Nothing is right. In case you haven't noticed there's a storm—"
“Please, calm yourself, Tristan,” Seerah interrupted. “There's no reason to shout at me. What's this talk of storms? I was just thinking how unusually pleasant the weather seemed."
It took Tristan a moment to realize that the wind had indeed calmed, and that the temperature had turned mild. Curious he peered at a small patch of blue sky through a break in the canopy of trees. “But ... I'm certain a storm was brewing just moments ago."
Seerah also glanced up. “I see no clouds. The sky is quite blue, indeed. Unusually so, I'd say. Are you certain—
“Did you na’ hear the thunder?” Tristan shouted. “And, the wind. Did you na’ feel the wind—or see the bright lightning?” Tristan shook her.
“Nay.” Seerah winced. “Tristan stop, please. You are hurting me."
He relaxed his grip, but didn't release her. When the bushes moved suddenly, he immediately forced Seerah behind him. Shielding her body with his own, he slipped his dagger from its sheath.
“Tristan, no!” Seerah skirted around him. “'Tis only a baby rabbit. What's wrong? What has happened?” Tiny tremors of fear seemed to lace her voice as she stood there wringing her hands.
Tristan studied her for a moment trying to gauge her reaction. Is she afraid of me?
“Tristan? Are you feeling fit? Mayhap you could do with a bite to eat."
Concern? The mere thought that she might be worried about him almost made Tristan smile. He didn't, though, because he suddenly remembered the way she'd looked at Gareth when she'd ministered his wounds. She's a healer—it's obviously her nature to worry over others. With a low grunt, he turned his attention to the rabbit. Tristan watched silently as it disappeared beneath the brush, then he finally sheathed his weapon.
“Tristan, please, say something. Tell me what has you so upset?” Seerah implored.
“Warriors do na’ get upset!” He grabbed Seerah by the arm and started walking. “In the future, do na’ run off like that."
“I did na’ run off. Let go of me!” Seerah tried to free herself from his punishing grip.
Tristan held fast and continued pulling her along.
“I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop hauling me about the woods like a naughty child.” When Tristan grunted at Seerah again, she dug her heels in the ground. “Stop! Or you will soon be dragging me through the forest on me face!"
“Cease your complaining!” Releasing Seerah's arm, Tristan turned in his tracks and stopped abruptly. Seerah plowed into him full force. The impact would have knocked her to the ground if Tristan hadn't caught her by the shoulders.
She shook her head as if to regain her senses. “I—You—"
When she swayed slightly, he wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her closer until they stood practically hip to hip, with her hands braced against his chest.
Seerah gasped and her lips quivered slightly.
Tristan's mouth went dry, as his body stirred with desire.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
When Seerah's hands made contact with Tristan's bare chest, she gasped as heat coursed through her body like a fiery blast. When she looked up at Tristan, however, she saw only blackness. Squeezing her eyes closed, she shook her head to regain her wits. Then an icy coldness suddenly swept through her.
“Let go, please.” Seerah's cry was but a whimper. She tried to defend herself against the onslaught of misery penetrating her soul, but the overwhelming sadness and anger engulfed her, making it nearly impossible to think. Though she could see only haunting darkness, Tristan's pain, grief, and lust for vengeance seemed to overwhelm her as if the emotions were her own.
When Tristan loosened his hold, Seerah's hands fell away from his chest. The intensity of his inner torment faded, yet the memories lingered.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I ... I had no idea. I...” She blinked, and the tears trickled down her cheeks.
“You are crying. I—” Tristan stepped back, increasing the distance between them. His confused expression transformed to a look of anger. Then he masked his emotions once more, before releasing her completely. “I never meant to harm you. I—” His hands balled in to fists at his sides. “Are you ... will you. Hell and the Devil, do you think anything is broken or damaged beyond repair?"
It took Seerah a moment to realize that Tristan thought he had harmed her physically. Poor Tristan. He suffers so, yet he has no idea. Seerah brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. “You did na’ harm me. Me eyes are simply watering because ... the wind was knocked from me—when I collided with you. You happen to be built like a stone ring fort.” If na’ for the images and emotions I drew from your spirit, I would have enjoyed being held in your arms a bit longer, indeed. She smiled at the thought, then felt herself blush. “I'm fine, now, truly."
“You are certain?” Without thinking, he reached out as if to stroke her cheek, but his hand stopped short, pausing in mid-air.
“Aye.” Seerah took hold of his hand and looked deep into his eyes. “Besides, I know you would never purposely cause me harm."
Tristan wasn't so sure. He knew that if he did na’ get his lustful feelings for her under control, he could hurt her far worse than she could ever imagine. Even worse, she could easily destroy him with her beguiling—no, with her bewitching—charms. If he let her. Jerking his hand free, he grunted. “Let's go."
Seerah arched her brow at him in confusion. “Where, now? And, where did you think you were taking me before? The others be right over there.” Turning, she pointed to where Gareth stood with the others, a short distance away.
* * * *
When Tristan saw his warriors standing there, gaping at him, his body stiffened.
He knew that something strange had definitely occurred and he wasn't about to stand around trying to figure it out. He swiftly surveyed the surrounding area, then addressed Gareth. “Mount up. We ride, now!"
Colin and Gareth led the way. Tristan and Seerah came next, follow by Zeth and Greum. They kept up a steady pace until they came to a tract of open, rolling wasteland near Dingle bay.
Large petrified trees, black with corrosion, lined the desolate area. Bogs of decaying moss and peat littered the stretch of swampy coastland. Purple blossoms of spring heather covered the wet, spongy ground, signifying the renewal of life. The mist, however, rose eerily from the earth in clouds of swirling vapor.
The men halted their mounts in a line, at the edge of the forest. “The fog in the moor be thick as haggis,” Tristan said
“Mutton stew, I'd say,” Seerah countered.
Gareth cleared his throat. “Either way, ‘twill serve well to conceal our presence."
“Aye.” Tristan said. “'Twill also conceal the presence of desperate knaves, and wild animals.” He pointed towards the horizon. “See the faint outline of hillocks? Head for the nock, there, near the center of the rise. There be a timberland of colossal oaks to the west of the glen. We'll gather by the northern-most oak. It bears a large, jagged, black mark that resembles a lightening bolt. Be watchful, and tread lightly as you cross the moor—there be many hidden dangers in the mist,” Tristan warned.
* * * *
As Gareth and Colin urged their mounts forward, the murky haze seemed to devour them. Seerah shivered. There be nothing to fear. Why, with Tristan by me side I need na’ even be concerned. But she was. She was also growing more physically uncomfortable by the moment. Though she sat side-saddle, across Tristan's lap now, she found the position only slightly less trying than riding astride. Her bottom felt sore, almost numb, and her aching legs were growing stiff. Worse of all, her gaze repeatedly fell to the fascinating sight of Tristan's bare, muscular chest.
When he casually drew his arm about Seerah, encompassing her in the security of his fur mantle, she knew she should object. His closeness felt too familiar—too intimate—and thoroughly inviting. But fatigue soon outweighed her protests. Sighing contentedly, she relaxed in the shelter and warmth of his comforting embrace. But she couldn't help thinking that Tristan was easily the most perplexing man she'd ever met. He was intolerant, opinionated, overbearing, and stubborn. His rude manner and commanding nature annoyed her beyond measure. It actually seemed as though he enjoyed making her miserable.
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