by Aileen Adams
She wished to prove herself to him, he sensed.
Let her believe she had, then. It was far better to do so than to go on bickering. If he were to spend his life in such pursuits, why not get married?
He had no desire to engage in behavior he had only just avoided being dragged into.
Moira Reid had done him a favor by escaping her escorts, no doubt, wherever she was. Would that he might repay her someday.
Within the hour after his bath, crouching before a fresh fire, he skinned a pair of hares he’d caught in a snare and prepared them for roasting. The woods were fairly overflowing with the creatures. While he had never been over fond of them as a meal, he did not take fresh meat for granted. Starvation was nothing to take lightly.
He thought again of Elspeth, who must have been somewhere nearby. She would not have left him alone so easily, the stubborn thing.
The memory of their exchange in the cave brought a rueful smile. For one so small, she had true spirit. He’d always admired a woman with spirit, one who spoke her mind in spite of her size and gender.
It did not hurt that she was rather comely in her way—not the sort of lass he would typically have looked over while riding through a village or enjoying a feast at Padraig’s or the Duncan manor house, but she had her charms. Would that her wild hair did not hold bits of pine needle and twigs, or her face not be so drawn and dirty, she might even have proven lovely.
She had lived in the wilderness a while, he suspected, and did not deign to understand why. Perhaps she’d never had a family or was ill-treated by her parents. Perhaps she had a husband who beat her, or one who had disappeared with the money and left her broken and alone.
Regardless of the reason why, the woman was wild. He knew she was nearby. Knew it.
And while she had set up camp downwind from him—a clever lass, to be sure—it did not conceal the smell of her fire, nor did it hide the scent of roasting duck.
Duck! His mouth watered at the thought. So, she had caught and killed a duck on the riverbank. He’d seen a flock of them during his bath, wandering the stony shore.
He had not heard a commotion, however. Was she that stealthy a hunter?
Regardless of how she’d come into possession of the bird, she was roasting it over her fire and causing no end of jealous hunger pangs at Fergus’s camp. Mere hare would no longer do, no matter how plump both of them were.
Was this the way the rest of his journey to meet with Murphy would proceed? Every night, a new and tantalizing aroma from Elspeth’s fire? How did she expect to avoid notice this way?
Unless she did not.
Unless she wished for him to know of her presence.
Unless she deliberately taunted him in an attempt to draw him out.
Was this so?
Leave her be. Ignore her. Do not engage in this childishness. Yet there was little else to do when one traveled alone.
He enjoyed his solitude, but what he enjoyed more was a game pitting two worthy adversaries against one another. While he did not consider her an adversary in the strictest sense, and while she was merely a woman and therefore not quite on the same footing as he, she was a strong hunter who had sustained herself up until then.
Even he could admit that and give credit where deserved.
If he stood upon a boulder close to where he’d set up camp, just at the base of a pine tree, he could make out the glow of her fire. She knelt on the ground, turning the duck using the branch running through it.
A slight thing like her, all alone. It made no sense to him.
He had made his early career in the army as a scout, skilled at slipping through enemy territory without capture. He’d learned to see through the darkness—it was the only way he’d ever been able to explain how his missions were successful even in darkest night.
In fact, he had preferred moving through darkness. The less light, the better, as it gave his enemies less chance of spotting him.
As for movement, he did not make a sound as he picked his careful way through the trees. He stepped over branches, pinecones, sidestepped low-hanging twigs which might have given him away by their rustling.
He even held his breath as he drew closer, Elspeth’s back now in plain view. She sat still, hunched over in that way of hers—he’d seen it in the cave, knees drawn close to her chest as though she protected herself. The easy rhythm of her breathing, the relaxed line of her shoulders told him she suspected nothing.
He would not harm her. He only wished to remind her of the danger the woods held. It would wound only her pride to know he had so easily overtaken her.
When he was near enough to catch the scent of her skin and hear her slow, measured breaths, he lifted his right arm and reached for her. He wished only to grab at her, nothing more.
When he was mere inches from her shoulder, she grasped his wrist in her right hand and twisted, bringing her left hand up to his throat.
Along with the dirk which she held in her fist.
He froze, eyes bulging, his heart ceasing to beat.
The tip of the blade touched his skin but went no further.
She was smiling. The most surprising bit of all.
When he found his breath, he whispered, “What the—”
“You thought you could frighten me,” she growled through her smile—the smile of a predator, he decided, or of a dangerous enemy. “Because I am merely a woman and silly and weak and unable to defend myself. Is that right?”
He was afraid to swallow. How had she gotten the better of him?
She did not move, did not tire even in such an awkward position, twisted as she was. “I asked you a question.”
“Aye, aye, ye know that’s what I was about,” he hissed.
“And now you know what a foolish idea it was. Do you not?”
That tip had not moved, still firmly pressed against his skin but not with enough force to draw blood. How had she learned to handle herself so well?
“I do,” he admitted, torn between embarrassment and fascination with this strange woman.
“Then all is well.” She was quick to tuck the dirk into her belt before standing, turning to him. “I hope you have learned a lesson. It is pure devilishness, what you had planned.”
What was it about her tone of voice that left him feeling like a child in the throes of punishment by an unhappy mother?
“Do ye have children?” he asked.
Her head jerked back. “Do I what?”
“Have children.” He realized what a silly question it was, as the lass could not hear his thoughts. “Ye seem skilled at putting a naughty lad in his place, is why I ask.”
She let out a breathy laugh, then turned her face away. “Perhaps I am.” Though she did not answer his question.
Who was she?
“Would ye like to share one of the hares I snared today?” he asked, gesturing with his thumb to the fire he’d left behind. “Tis true they are not so tasty as duck, but I feel it the least I can do after trying to frighten ye.”
“You have already done quite enough for me today, thank you.” She went about turning the duck, the dripping fat sizzling as it hit the burning wood.
Saliva flooded his mouth.
“Please,” he insisted, now speaking more out of self-interest. “I must repay ye in some way, or my shameful actions will weigh heavy on my mind. I might not be able to sleep, which will make tomorrow’s ride all the more arduous.” He added a smile in hopes it would sway her.
She rolled her eyes. “As I asked before, why does a man believe his charm is enough to earn what he wants?”
At the same time, she agreed to share her supper with him.
He put out his fire and untied the gelding, leading with one hand while carrying the hares with the other. She placed them over her fire and waited while he secured the horse once again.
“A beautiful creature,” she observed with a genuine smile.
“One which has served me well.” It spoke well of the lass that she
appreciated such beauty. She was not as coarse at heart as she was in appearance.
She’d changed into a clean kirtle, and a quick look about the camp revealed the garment she’d worn in the cave, now hanging over a branch to dry. So she had bathed and washed her clothing as well.
Would that he had not missed the event.
The thought flashed through his mind before he could put a stop to it. What a thing to think about a lass such as she, who wielded a dirk with more skill than some men he knew.
His eyes fell on something else as he inspected the camp, something he had not noticed in the cave. “An archer, too?” Her bow and quiver sat propped against a tree, and he understood how she had so quickly and quietly killed the duck.
She raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised. Have you not learned by now not to underestimate me?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at her from across the fire. “Who are ye? How do ye know these skills? I’ve never met a lass who could hunt, shoot, all but slice a man’s throat as quickly and quietly as an assassin. How did ye come to possess these abilities?”
She swallowed, her eyes finding the fire. “There was little choice. I was… quite young when my mother died while bearing my twin brothers.”
“Ah.” He felt ashamed for having asked, though there had been no way of knowing.
“My father was—is—a cruel man. Lazy, to boot. In his cups more often than not. Someone had to do the hunting, the cleaning of the animals, the cooking.” She let out a long sigh. “The housework. The raising of the children.”
“I truly am sorry,” he murmured, wishing he might crawl out of his skin. He’d never known it was possible to answer so many questions with a single answer.
How many times had she wished to do to her father what she’d nearly done to him?
She did not speak for the rest of the evening, the two of them eating in silence that was not exactly smothering, but not easy.
If she did not wish to speak, he would not force her to.
He would not wear out his welcome, either. Once the business of eating had ended, he stood.
The lass merely nodded in reply to his thanking her for her company.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
11
It took a long time for Moira to fall asleep that night, and when she’d been so certain of sleep falling upon her, too.
Like a landslide.
Had she revealed too much of herself to him? The question rattled in her brain like stones in an empty jar. Colliding with one another, with the sides of her head, loud enough to hold her eyes open no matter the exhaustion in her body.
Would Fergus MacDougal know of her mother’s death and her father’s absence? Perhaps Luthais had told her would-be husband some of the finer points of her life while they had discussed the marriage?
He had not shown recognition. And she doubted Luthais would have questioned any of the finer points of her life when arranging the match. She was merely a woman, a member of a clan with which he wished to forge a bond. A womb in which a member of his bloodline might place his heir.
A shudder of revulsion ran through her at the thought.
Fergus was not a threat. She had already proven her adeptness at defending herself, had she not? If he so much as hinted at handing her over to the Campbells, she would spill his guts at his feet without a moment’s hesitation.
Oh, she had gotten the better of him. The smug bastard.
It surprised her that he did not remember her—she had not changed much since their first and only meeting, years earlier. Perhaps she had grown taller, a bit fuller as a woman did, but the untamable brown hair and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose had not changed.
Her spirit had not changed.
She had kicked his shins as a reward for becoming saucy with her, and he had howled like a man with his leg stuck in a bear trap. The memory still brought a smile to her face.
That saucy young lad had like as not earned many more kicks from plenty other lasses over the years, so it was only fitting that he had forgotten hers. So she supposed.
Her smile faded when she remembered the other reason that journey to Ben Macdui was memorable. When they’d returned to Banff, it was to find out that the bairns had come.
And her mother had died.
Moira rolled onto her side with a shuddering sigh, curling up on the blanket she’d stretched out over a thick pile of pine needles. As comfortable as any bed she’d ever slept in, to be sure, if only she could fall asleep.
Thinking about her mother would not help matters.
Nor would wondering how different her life might have been had she not come home to find everything she’d left behind was no more. Kin had been kinder to her in those days, going so far as to bring her along to the meeting so as to give her mother quiet in which to rest.
He’d only become brutal after their return, where prior to it he’d been little worse than disinterested. She might have borne his disinterest for the rest of her life without batting an eye.
It was not to be.
She had met Fergus while the men had argued and drank inside the house. A few winters older than she and thus far more mature and interesting in her ten-year-old eyes. She’d become enthralled by his cocksure manner, his charm, his skill in the saddle as he'd pranced around to show off his talents in front of the other lads.
She’d been the only lass, yet that had not stopped her from climbing onto the wooden fence which marked the pen outside the stable, where the horses had been let out to stretch their legs. Anything to have a clear view of him, separated from the lads who merely wished to elbow her out of the way.
Fergus had ridden in circles around the inside of the pen, sitting tall while astride the bare back of a monstrous gray stallion who’d done his best to buck the lad off. There was no bucking the daring Fergus, who’d held on for all his might and made it look so effortless.
In her little-girl way, she had fallen in love with him that day in the pen, surrounded by lads and young men from both the Reid and Campbell clans. She had gazed upon him with a different sort of admiration, free of the jealousy the others held as they’d watched him ride.
And then he’d asked for a kiss after landing at her feet.
Which was when she’d declared him the most impertinent, rudest lad she’d ever known. To think! Being brash enough to do such a thing, and in front of the rest of the lads! To embarrass her in such a manner!
All eyes were on them, snickers and outright laughter coming from all sides. Whether they’d laughed at Fergus or at her was of little difference.
There had been nothing for her ten-year-old self to do but draw back one leg and slam her foot into his shin. Then, the other shin. She’d kicked as hard as she could, leaving the toes of both feet numb for days. It had been worth it to make him howl as he had.
Now a grown woman, Moira could look back and see the event for what it truly was. He had wished to impress the others even more and had seen the opportunity to do so by using her.
He had shattered her fragile image of him as something godlike and worthy of adoration.
There was nothing so cruel as having one’s dreams shattered like glass, especially at a tender age.
Even so, she might have forgiven him and treasured the memory of her hero on horseback upon returning home. Might have dreamed of him. Might have carried him in her heart and wished for the day when they might meet again.
Were it not for what she had come home to.
There had been little time to dream of brash young men on horseback while tending to a pair of squalling twins and mourning the mother she’d not been given the chance to kiss goodbye forever.
She closed her eyes, as though this would shut out the memories of the numb horror which had soaked into her bones in those early days.
The blessed emptiness of sleep overtook her then.
When she woke, it was with a renewed determination to travel as far as sh
e could from Campbell lands and into something new.
Her life was hers to live. No one could declare themselves her owner any longer. And while she would never stop loving the twins as her own, there was no longer the call to live her life in their service.
It was with surprise that she found herself whistling a tuneless melody as she walked the mare to the river’s edge for a long, refreshing drink. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt free.
For she had already escaped the Reid escorts. The difficult part of her journey was over, and she had succeeded beyond all reckoning.
She needed only to continue.
A splash in the water downstream shook her from the images of freedom which teased at the corners of her mind. She turned, both curious and on the alert for danger.
The animal able to splash so loudly was large, indeed.
She pulled the mare along with her, taking refuge behind a copse of saplings just far enough from the bank to take root without being washed away.
Her breath caught.
Her eyes bulged, unable to dart away though modesty urged her to avert her gaze.
He was swimming. Fergus. He had stripped down to nothing but a pair of thin, knee-length breeches which tied at his waist with a drawstring and left nothing to the imagination when soaked through.
The river’s current had eased considerably after the previous day’s deluge, allowing him to float on his back as he drifted slowly away from her. He then turned and swam back to where he’d started, his thick arms cutting through the water with ease in long, sure strokes.
It was a moment before she realized the sharp pain in her bottom lip was the result of her teeth biting down. Hard.
Yes, he had worked without his tunic while digging her from the cave, but the mud had caked him so, and she had been so relieved and furious at all once that he was the one to save her, she had not noticed his impressive build.
Now, there was nothing to do but notice.
Look away, look away, no good will come of this.
She could not. Her eyes feasted on him, marveling at the broadness of his shoulders and chest. When he rolled onto his back, floating with arms extended at his sides, the carved muscle of his abdomen made her mouth go as dry and hot as sunbaked sand.
