A Highlander's Need (Highland Heartbeats Book 10)

by Aileen Adams

  “Uncomfortable?”

  She could not see him, her eyes watering as they were, but she heard the knowing sneer in his voice.

  “No more than I would expect to be. Remember it well, lad, I did not have a comfortable life when we met. This is like a happy dream compared to caring for two bairns whose guts seem determined to release anything that touches them—from one end or the other, sometimes both at once.”

  He grimaced. “That does not sound pleasant.”

  “I would not suffer it again, for mind you, I was of the same condition as they. Exhausted, unable to eat without it coming right back up, unable to drink more than a sip of water at a time. Dizzy, weak. And yet there were two eight-year-old lads who needed caring for. Someone had to do it.”

  His face softened. “I suppose this does not seem like much after that.”

  “A hot day? No, I’ve been through them before. And cold days, and days with no food. Days spent hunting for any little thing I might catch, with the trees coated in ice and my fingers feeling as though they may freeze and fall off. Cold enough to make them bleed when I used the bow.”

  “Can ye do something for me? It may sound strange.”

  “No stranger than anything else you’ve asked of me, I would wager.”

  He snorted. “I hoped you would share a happy memory. Something pleasant, at least.”

  “Am I bringing you sadness with my memories? Am I speaking too much of those times?”

  “Not at all. Do not mistake me, lass. I had only hoped ye might speak of something pleasant. Do ye have any such memories?”

  “Do you?”

  “I asked ye first.”

  She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “The day Kin—my father—presented the twins with their bows and quivers. Their last birthday. That was very nice. They were so pleased.”

  It made her smile to remember their shining faces, their eagerness to get out-of-doors to practice. “They were none too happy with me when I told them it would not be as easy as going straight out to practice. They had to first learn how to use them, and I would be the one to instruct. Otherwise, they might just as well have impaled each other.”

  Fergus chuckled, his misery—real or imagined—seemed forgotten for the moment. “I know Brice and I would have done the same. But I was speaking of ye, lass. What of yourself?”

  “I do not understand.”

  He sighed. “I thought as much. I wondered if ye had any pleasant memories of your own. Just yours. Not of the twins.”

  She bristled, then wondered what bothered her so. It was an innocent question, was it not? Perfectly ordinary.

  “Why do you wish to know?” she asked nonetheless, her jaw set in a firm line.

  “Not to bring about your anger, lass. I was merely wondering.”

  He sounded sincere. He did not wish to make a mockery of her, or to make her think twice of having accompanied him on the ride.

  “I can tell you of the last pleasant memory I have before my mother died,” she offered.

  “I would like to hear it.”

  She bit the corner of her mouth; he thought he would, but she knew he would likely feel differently when she began to speak.

  “I remember watching an older lad ride a stallion. Bareback.”

  He growled softly, out of her line of sight, and she bit her mouth again to hold back her laughter.

  “I remember how the lads all around me both admired and hated him,” she continued.

  “Hated him?” He sounded surprised by this.

  “Oh, yes. Because he was so good, and he knew it, and they knew he knew it. Nothing is worse than a person who knows how good they are at something and does not bother to feign ignorance.”

  “Perhaps he was too young to understand,” he mused.

  “I suppose. He was too young to know a good many things, if I remember correctly.”

  “Such as?”

  She shifted in the saddle, and not only because of the chafing caused by so many days of riding. “Such as how embarrassing it is for a young girl when a lad asks for a kiss as though it were a dare. Especially when it does it in front of so many others he wishes to impress.”

  “I thought you said this was to be a pleasant memory.”

  She snickered, catching him out of the corner of her eye. “It is pleasant. I remember kicking the lad in the shins hard enough to make him howl like a skinned cat.”

  “I dinna know that he howled quite so loudly,” he muttered.

  “Oh? You know the lad?” She laughed when she turned to him and found him scowling, his eyes narrowed and trained on her.

  “Ye know I remember it well, lass.”

  “I thought you would. A person does not forget such a shin kicking, no matter how many years have passed.”

  She sighed, returning her attention to the road. “I found you quite dashing before you made that mistake.”

  “Ye did, now?”

  “What young girl would not? You looked so impressive on the horse, keeping your seat no matter how he tried to buck you from him. You could not have been much older than the twins are now, and I cannot imagine either of them managing such a feat.”

  She could all but feel his chest puff with pride. “I’d been practicing for quite a while, whenever I could get away from my father’s watchful eye long enough to do so.”

  “It showed.”

  They fell single file to make room for a wagon coming from the opposite direction. A peddler, slow-moving, household goods and other wares all but overflowing from the wooden box which creaked along on four uneven wheels.

  She was glad for the distraction, as she did not wish to explain her reason for kicking him. He would more than likely ask, knowing him and his devilish ways, and she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing just how closely she’d watched him in the horse pen.

  Once they were again abreast and alone, Fergus cleared his throat. “Ye know, my pride smarted much worse than my legs that day, lass.”

  “I expect it would, but you were the one who embarrassed me, after all. I would not have pursued you and kicked you, had you, certainly, in fact…”

  She looked away, off into the woods, wishing she had stopped.

  “Please. Go on.”

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “I only meant to say, I might have… allowed you to kiss me, were it not for several dozen pairs of eyes on us. If I had not known you merely wished to show off further in front of them, as though riding the way you were was not enough of a display.”

  He made a thoughtful noise, as if to consider this. “Aye, but I would not have wished to kiss ye were it not for their presence.”

  She thought she ought to be insulted by this, but knew he wished only to pull a reaction from her. To make her lash out. Instead, she chuckled. “I know.”

  “And that was the last pleasant memory ye have? Truly?” There was no mocking laughter in his voice. No attempt at jesting.

  “Yes. I believe so. Watching you ride and wishing I could ride that way. Perhaps along with you, behind you, holding on. I imagined how free it would feel. Free and exciting.” Her smile faded. “But then, you disappointed me. And when I reached home… everything had changed.”

  Neither of them spoke again until the distant village came into view, just as the sun was sinking in the west.

  22

  “Murphy will not be back until morning,” Fergus announced upon joining Moira outside the inn. He’d wanted her to join him inside, frustrated as ever when she’d refused.

  Why would she wish to step inside when there was so much of interest going on all around her?

  For she’d never seen so many in one place, not even in Banff on market days. There seemed to be an ever-present hum in the air, the hum of voices and neighing horses and lowing cattle as those bringing them in for sale drove them down the street in pairs.

  Laughter rang out, especially from the inn and the tavern two doors down. Her nose wrinkled at the sight of two unsteady
men swaying their way from the latter, arms hooked around the other’s shoulders.

  They reminded her entirely too much of her father, though he was not a pleasant man while drinking. The two swaying away from the tavern at least appeared to enjoy themselves.

  Until one of them leaned into the road and emptied the contents of his stomach.

  That, she recognized.

  “What shall we do?” she asked Fergus. The Anderson house was less than a half-day’s ride, she remembered him telling her once.

  Would he take her there?

  She doubted it greatly, even though he expected a niece or nephew.

  If anything, he would wish to keep her a secret from his brother and friends. He would hope to discourage her from wanting to ride with them. Otherwise, they might find it amusing that a woman had gotten the better of him.

  He could not have that.

  In quiet moments, she asked herself how it was possible to know him so well. She had not yet found an answer.

  He leaned his arms over his saddle, then shrugged. “I suppose it means spending a night at the inn. I can afford a room for both of us.”

  So long as he did not wish to share one, though the notion did not seem a terrible one in the deepest, darkest corners of her heart.

  “What of riding out to Anderson land?” she asked, all innocence.

  He barely concealed a grimace. “Nay. I dinna think that would be a wise decision.”

  “Why not? You can have the hot bath you’ve spoken of for nearly two days.”

  “I can offer a few extra pence for the bath here, as well.”

  The stubborn devil.

  Fergus was correct about one thing, which Moira reflected upon while lowering herself into a washtub; it was a luxury she had desperately needed.

  Her garments were even being attended to downstairs, both washed with real soap and mended where need be.

  Was this what it was like to be well-off? To have one’s needs taken care of, whatever they happened to be? For no one had ever filled a washtub for her since she’d lost her mother. No one had done her mending, washed her garments, prepared her meals.

  She sank low in the tub, her hair floating around her while her knees stuck up in the air. It was nearly sinful to be so idle, and she had never been one to believe in sin—at least, not in the notion of a body being punished for sin after they’d died.

  From what she’d seen, most sinners received their punishment while they were still alive.

  Would that her father might.

  Her mood darkened. Why did she think of him when she ought to be feeling happy? She had nothing to do for the rest of the evening other than bathe, comb through her hair, and have a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed.

  Her eye fell upon the straw tick with its rather flat pillow.

  If not comfortable, at least clean. Which was still a sight better than sleeping on the ground for days on end.

  Rather than dwell on misery, she began to ponder over what was on the other side of the wall. Just beyond the bed.

  Fergus’s room for the night.

  Was he bathing, as she was? Washing away the dirt and sweat?

  Perhaps wishing he had not agreed to bring her along?

  What of it? She scrubbed her arms a bit harder when she imagined his disappointment. That would be his problem to deal with, not hers.

  She would have her adventure.

  What would he do after his bath?

  Her scrubbing slowed, then stopped.

  He was familiar with the village, was he not?

  That meant he was likely to be familiar with the establishments at the edges of the place. She’d noticed one of them on the way in, a shabby building into which men disappeared like flies into a jar of honey.

  When she’d asked Fergus the nature of the place, he’d made a choking noise and flushed deep red.

  She had not needed further explanation.

  The water suddenly felt cold, and she sat up, drawing her legs to her chest to wrap her arms about them. Would Fergus visit one of those places? He’d been without a woman for as long as they had ridden together, and it had been many days since they’d first met in the cave.

  Something about the idea brought tears to her eyes. They only made her angry with herself for being weak enough to care.

  What difference did it make how the man chose to spend his time or his money? He’d seen to her comfort that night, had he not? He had only complained slightly over the sum—which she’d reminded him in a sweet tone he needn’t have spent if only they could have ridden on to the Anderson house.

  That had shut his mouth.

  Would he visit those women?

  The question hung heavy in her heart as she finished her bath—no longer nearly as pleasant as it had been at first—and dried on a linen sheet. She was in the act of combing out her snarled hair when a knock sounded at the door.

  Though she wore her chemise, she pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around herself before opening the door just enough to see out.

  Fergus averted his eyes when he took in her wet hair and the blanket about her shoulders. “I, ah, wanted to check on ye. To be certain of your comfort.”

  “I am quite comfortable, thank you.” For some reason, rather than warming her heart—as it had begun to do as of late—the sight of him made her furious. For she’d already imagined him spending his hard-earned pence on the women who made their living pleasing men.

  He caught her sharp tone, raising an eyebrow. “Ye dinna sound like you’re pleased.”

  “I’m quite pleased, indeed, and I thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I enjoyed the bath very much.”

  “Aye, as did I.” Yes, and he smelled wonderful, and was freshly shaven. His already dark brown hair looked darker than ever, still wet.

  Her mouth went dry at the thought of the rest of him in the tub, memories of that day at the river mixing with her wounded pride and leaving her all a fright.

  She had to know. “How do you plan to spend the evening?”

  He frowned. “I look forward to sleeping, to tell ye the truth. It’s been a long ride, and I’ve looked forward to a bed through all of it.”

  Yes. She would just wager he’d be sleeping.

  “I will not keep you from it, then. Good night. I shall see you first thing in the morning.”

  He made a sound, as though he wished to speak again, but the closed door cut him off. She listened, her ear pressed to the wood, until he muttered an oath under his breath.

  Then, his door opened. And closed.

  When she went to the wall separating the rooms, she heard the bed creak as he sat down.

  Perhaps he told the truth. Perhaps she ought not to have been so unpleasant.

  “I ought not to have been unpleasant at all,” she whispered, closing her eyes, touching her forehead to the wall. For she had no hold on him, no claim. No matter what he intended to do, it was none of her affair.

  He had been kind to her. He had protected her, though she still refused to believe she needed it. He had even agreed to have her join him after knowing who she truly was.

  He’d held her when she wept over her scars and the beating which caused them.

  Oh, what a fool she was.

  23

  The morning dawned bright and clear, and Fergus could hardly wait to start out again.

  The sooner Moira understood the difficulty of life on the road for a woman, the sooner she would forget the entire daft notion.

  It seemed she harbored a great many daft notions. What was on her mind the previous evening? He had only wished to inquire as to her comfort, and she’d all but slammed the door in his face.

  Not that he had expected much better.

  But he’d talked himself into believing there was a new warmth between them. Tenderness which had not existed before then.

  Ever since she’d shown him her scars.

  He was not a man for much deep thinking; he spent his life riding
and hunting and sometimes struggling to keep body and soul together when it seemed nature worked against him. Yet he’d spent more time than he cared to sum up thinking about her.

  How difficult it must have been to bare her back to him.

  How shameful the memory of the beating.

  How she must have hated her father for it, for Fergus hated him as he’d never hated another. A total stranger, and he would gladly see the man dead were it not for the sons who depended upon what little he could offer them.

  Somewhere along the journey, Moira had captured his attention. His admiration. His curiosity.

  But then she behaved as she had last night, and he wished he’d never set eyes upon her.

  She rapped at the door not long after he’d finished washing his face in the bedside basin. He knew it was her. Only she would rap with such precision and so loudly at such an early hour.

  Sure enough, she stood outside his door, looking somewhat more pleasant than she had when last he saw her.

  “Good morning,” he muttered, turning away.

  “Good morning to you. How did you sleep?”

  “Wonderfully well,” he scowled.

  “You do not sound as though you did.”

  “I had quite a lot on my mind, thank ye.”

  “What was the matter?”

  What truly amused him was how sincere she appeared. How earnest. She knew nothing of the way he’d tossed about on the lumpy tick, wishing he might get her out of his head.

  “Nothing worth discussing now.” He slung his packs onto his back before holding his hand out to take hers. “Come now, let us go downstairs. I’m certain Murphy knows I’ve brought a lass to the inn and is all but dying to meet ye.”

  Sure enough, the old man waited at his customary corner table, already deep into a mug of wine at just past sunrise.

  The moment old Murphy’s shrewd eye fell upon Moira and her fresh, clean kirtle, her shining hair, Fergus knew he was in for quite a time.

  “My, my.” The old man leaned back in his seat, taking the lass in from head to toe. “What have we here?”