by Aileen Adams
Every beat of the hooves on the ground, every beat of her heart, all of it carried his name. Fergus, Fergus.
He would need food and healing herbs. Something to keep the pain at bay. Something to keep him alive for her, that she might ask him if he meant it when he said he loved her.
That she might profess her love in return.
Why had she not told him before she left? Because it would have meant admitting the chance of his death while she was gone, and she would not have it.
In the haze of panic, she did not notice a rider approaching the road from the woods.
The frenzied mare, however, did.
The horse came to a sudden stop, nearly pitching Moira over its head, then reared back with a startled cry.
Moira struggled to maintain her hold but lost control, tumbling to the ground.
“Whoa! Whoa!” The rider dismounted his horse to calm and control the mare, taking hold of the bridle once the front hooves touched ground again. “I mean ye no harm, beauty. Calm yourself, now.”
He looked at Moira, still dazed on the ground. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She ached in a dozen places but fought to regain her feet. “Yes. I need to be on my way. Please.” She took the reins, barely glancing at the man who’d slowed her down.
“Where were ye riding in such a rush? Is there an emergency somewhere?” the man asked.
She nodded, mounting quickly in spite of her bruised backside. “Indeed. Please. I must get to the village.”
Yet he would not release the bridle.
Frustration and fury and panic and desperation exploded from her all at once. She withdrew her dirk in one swift, smooth movement and held it to his face. “Release my horse or live the rest of your life without a nose, lad.”
Only then did she look at his face. Into his wide, stunned eyes.
He looked just like Fergus.
Her hand trembled as she lowered it. “Are you… Are you Brice MacDougal, by any chance?”
His mouth moved without sound at first. Once he cleared his throat, he replied, “Aye. And I would most like it if you’d leave my nose where it is, lass.”
She nearly fell from the saddle. “Your brother! Your brother is gravely injured!”
“Fergus?”
She pointed back to where she’d come from. “I was going to the village for a healer’s help!”
He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Two more men emerged from the wood on horseback.
“Fergus is injured,” he explained. “The lass was on her way for supplies.”
“A terrible cut to his leg,” she added. “I burned it closed, but he lost a great deal of blood, and now I’m afraid the burn will infect—”
“Breathe, lass.” Brice patted her leg. “Ye did well.”
“We can ride for ye,” one of the men offered.
“Aye, and ye can show me where ye left him,” Brice suggested. “We’ll go back together.”
“Take this.” The second man turned in the saddle and pulled out a small, canvas pack. “There is a tincture for the pain here. I doubt any of the herbs are fresh enough to use now, but the tincture ought to be good. Anything to help him.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, pressing the pack to her breast. “He will need herbs for the burn, as I said, and I suspect it will need opening if it is to be properly cleaned and sewn—a needle and thread, then, and food if you can manage. He only had a bit of dried meat left.”
“I’ve brought some from the village,” Brice assured her, “but they can bring more.”
“I tied a strip of my kirtle to the branch of a tree—that is where you’ll know to turn in and ride straight ahead.”
“A resourceful lass,” one of the men grinned. Before she could thank him, the pair rode off toward the village, kicking up dust as they did.
“Now, let us find Fergus.” Brice turned the horse about, bringing it up beside Moira as they trotted ahead.
Waves of relief washed over her, as cool and soothing as any river’s current. “How is it I came across you?” she thought to ask.
“We went to the village to check whether Fergus had arrived,” he explained. “Murphy told us of the task he’d set for him. We also heard word at the inn of cutthroats in the woods, and a pair of merchants they murdered less than a week ago.”
“Would that we’d gotten word of them ourselves,” Moira groaned.
“They did that to ye?” He touched the side of his face, then pointed to her.
She laughed in sheer surprise. “I had forgotten about it. Is it terribly ugly?”
His smile was warm. Kind. “Nay, lass. Ye could never be ugly. I suppose it’s Moira Reid I’m riding with, who I can thank for saving my brother’s life.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Yes. I suppose your friend Murphy told you I was riding with Fergus.”
“Aye, and a great laugh I had at my brother’s expense,” Brice admitted, chuckling still. “I remember a certain freckle-nosed lass who gave him a rather embarrassing time once, years ago.”
“He deserved it.”
“Aye. He did that. I would say ye made it up to him now.”
They reached her signal and turned right, into the woods. “Fergus?” Moira called out, leading the way.
“Aye!” He sounded weak, but his voice was clear.
“Lad, you’ve gone and nearly gotten yourself killed, I hear!” Brice’s laughter rang out, sending birds fleeing from the trees and squirrels scurrying to safety.
At first, it seemed odd to laugh at such a time, then Moira realized Brice strove to lighten Fergus’s spirits, and she liked him very much for it.
They reached the tree, Fergus’s feet the only thing visible beneath the low-hanging branches. Brice dismounted. “Ye dragged him beneath the tree?”
“Yes, there was a storm coming up. I had to shelter him.”
“A wee thing such as yourself?” He crouched down, parting the branches to reveal his brother. “Well, now. There ye are. I heard ye made the acquaintance of a band of cutthroats.”
“Aye,” Fergus grinned. “And they left me something to remember them by.”
“Rodric and Quinn are on their way to fetch supplies from the village, and I’ve brought food and a tincture for the pain. I shall build a fire and heat the roast, and we’ll fix a drink for ye that ye might escape the pain for a spell.”
Fergus sighed in relief. “I’m not ashamed to tell ye, the pain is something fierce.”
“I’m sure it is,” his brother murmured, patting his shoulder.
Moira watched this in silent awe, all but unable to believe the good fortune which had brought them together. If she had set out only minutes sooner, she would have missed Brice entirely. His brother and friends would have ridden on, unaware of Fergus’s grave condition.
She fell to her knees beside him, and he turned to her with a smile.
“You’ve met my brave lass, I see,” he grinned, touching her cheek.
His lass. Did he mean it, or was it pain and loss of blood speaking for him?
No matter. It sounded lovely, even if she’d never heard it again. She closed her hand over his, held tight.
“I have, and she’s a sight better than ye deserve.” Brice grinned.
28
Their camp was silent, the rest of the men sleeping in a circle around the dying fire.
Fergus knew he ought to be sleeping as well, but he’d already slept more than enough over the five days they’d spent together while he recovered.
Not that his healing was complete by any means, but he was able to bear weight on his wounded leg after Rodric’s ministrations.
Och, the agony of having the burn opened, the wound cleaned and sewn. He’d already drunk heartily of a strong tincture Moira had prepared and yet he’d still nearly lost consciousness.
But there had been no infection, and the wound already looked to be healing.
Quinn had ridden out to Padraig’s that morning, once it was clear Ferg
us was well enough to be moved. The hope was for him to return with a wagon in which Fergus could ride back to the house. Traveling on horseback was out of the question, but so was spending another week or more in the woods.
Moira slept beside him, her head near his hip. She rarely left his side. He lifted his hand and stroked her hair.
How had it happened? How had he come to love her?
It wasn’t that she’d saved his life—no, earlier than that. When he’d feared she was gone forever, at the mercy of those cutthroats.
Such a situation tended to make things clear. Anything which did not matter fell away, revealing the truth at the heart of a matter.
The truth was, he’d loved her for quite a while. Perhaps it had started that first night, when she’d nearly attacked him.
A wry smile tugged at his mouth. Just the sort of tale one told their grandchildren around a fire. How grandfather fell in love with grandmother when she touched the point of a blade to his throat.
She stirred, lifting her head to look up at him. “Are you well?” she whispered, keen to let the others sleep.
“Aye,” he mouthed, smiling at her sleepy eyes. “Rest, now.”
Instead of doing as he advised, she worked her way up to a sitting position. Naturally. Why would she start listening to him?
He realized it was the first time they had been anything close to alone since she’d brought Brice to him. Ever since, at least one of the men had been with them.
Strange, that, as he’d become accustomed to having her to himself.
She glanced around with a smile. “Do you think I’ve earned their trust?”
He grinned at the memory of his protestations when she’d suggested joining them. “I believe so.” She’d done better than that, having hunted, skinned and roasted the meat for the lot of them.
It was her nature to care for others. Perhaps the sudden loss of her mother had made it necessary for her to take on the role of caregiver, but she’d borne it well thanks to her possession of strength and grit.
And a warm heart which she’d tried so valiantly to hide.
She could not hide it from him. Not any longer.
It occurred to him that they had not discussed what she wished to do once the wagon arrived from Padraig’s. He had assumed she’d be coming with them, but to assume anything of Moira Reid was pure folly.
He cast an eye over the others to assure himself they slept. “Will ye come with us when Quinn returns?”
She pressed her lips together in a firm line. “Do you think I ought to?”
Damn the woman for never offering a simple answer. “If ye wish to. I’m certain Padraig would be glad to have ye. You are a heroine, after all.”
She did not blush. Did not even smile. “Do you think I ought to?” she asked again, her eyes hard, unblinking as they stared into his.
Another glanced around the fire. “Must ye make everything difficult, woman?” he whispered.
“What is so difficult? All you have to do is answer yes, or no. Simple words.”
He rolled his eyes. Very simple. “I want ye to,” he admitted. “There. I’ve said it. I want ye to come along.”
She grimaced. “Are you quite well? Do you need a tincture for the pain after admitting you want me to come along?”
“Lass, I swear—”
She smiled. “All right, then. I will. Because you wish it so.”
“But…” He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. So small, especially when compared to his. So easily hurt. Yet so strong, capable.
Much like the rest of her.
“But?” she asked.
“I want ye to want to. Och, this is all wrong.” He closed his eyes, wishing he might start over. Perhaps alone, to begin with.
“It isn’t.” She touched his face, then placed her hand over his heart. “Go on.”
“I want ye to come with me because…” He opened his eyes to find her inches from him, holding her breath. He could fairly feel her anticipation, the way she waited for what she wished to hear. It gave him the courage to say, “…because I love ye most terribly, Moira.”
She sighed, the tension leaving her all at once, her eyes softening as tears filled them. “Did it hurt so badly to say it?”
He smiled, taking her by the back of the neck to draw her closer. “It pained me terribly, in fact.”
She curled her fingers in his hair. “And if I were to confess my love for you? Would it pain you further?”
“I suppose we could find out.” His mouth closed over hers, sealing their love.
“At last!” Quinn’s voice rang out in the stillness. “We might be able to sleep now.”
“Aye,” Rodric muttered. “I thought ye would never get up the courage, lad.”
“All of ye, be quiet,” Brice grumbled. “’Twas bad enough I had to listen to that, but now that it’s over…”
“Enough,” Moira laughed, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I would wager none of you knew the words to say when it was your time. And none of you had to say it while in the presence of the others.”
“The lass speaks truth,” Brice admitted, getting up to move his things further from the pair of them. Rodric and Quinn followed suit pleasantly enough, only casting a few knowing glances over their shoulders as they offered what privacy they might.
The moment he was able, he took Moira in his arms. “Where were we?”
She melted against him, warm and tender, so unlike the fierce, argumentative thing he’d first known her to be.
“Right here,” she whispered before kissing him with a sweetness that belied the passion he knew was just beneath.
29
It was grand.
That was the first impression Moira had of the Anderson house. It was a grand thing, spreading out over a vast stretch of land, with smaller buildings all around.
She had only vague memories of Luthais Campbell’s house but could not remember being as impressed with it as she was as she rode up the wide trail beside Fergus’s wagon. And she’d been a child then, far more impressionable.
Now, she was painfully aware of the rags she wore, torn at the hem and ragged from days of wear. The only kirtle she had left after tearing the other into strips.
What would they think of her, the men and women who lived there?
Fergus beamed. “I never thought I would be so glad to see a place. The thought of resting my head upon a proper pillow tonight…”
“And a good, hot meal I do not have to catch for us,” Moira snorted.
“I had come to enjoy your cooking.” He winked.
“You ought to see what I can do in a proper kitchen, then.”
“For now, ye need not worry on such matters. Ye need only rest, enjoy being taken care of for once. Ye deserve it.”
Being taken care of? It had been twelve years since anyone had taken care of her. Even the few times illness had fallen upon her, she’d taken care of herself while maintaining the house.
And now, he expected her to rest.
What was a person to do with their time while resting?
As a child, she had enjoyed playing, but she was far too old for any such thing. Hiding in the woods from the twins had been something different. A way to keep them out of mischief.
This would not go well.
He must have seen her look of apprehension, for Fergus asked, “What is it, lass?”
She shrugged, feeling silly. “I do not know how to rest.”
He was kind enough not to laugh. “I suspect it will take time, though there is always something to do about the household, if ye truly wish to keep yourself busy.”
By the time they reached the wide courtyard which spanned the length of the house, the door was open, and several women had already poured out to watch their progress. Once again, the condition of her garment and the yellowed bruise which spanned the side of her face gave her discomfort when compared to their fresh-scrubbed loveliness.
Rodric dismounted and went straigh
t to a woman who held a laughing, clapping bairn on one hip. This had to be Caitlin and their daughter, Gavina.
Quinn hurried to gather up his wife in his arms, and Ysmaine laughed and squirmed away—anyone could see she clearly loved her husband’s show of ardor, for all she tried to pretend otherwise. “Hardly three days have passed since you saw me!” She laughed, but this did not seem to matter.
The older woman whose long braid was streaked with gray had to be Sorcha, Moira supposed. She went to the wagon straightaway and shook her head. “My, my, Fergus MacDougal. Have ye not the sense God gave a sparrow? When a man comes at ye with a dirk, ye move out of the way!”
Moira gaped in surprise at this, but Fergus only laughed, and was soon joined by Sorcha, who patted his knee. She looked up at the still-confused Moira and offered an apologetic wince. “I am sorry, lass, if that sounded harsh to your ears. The lads know I only jest. It is greatly relieved I am to find him alive and well. And thanks to you, from what I’ve heard.”
“Aye,” Fergus replied, grinning with pride. “This is Moira Reid. She is the reason I’m still breathing.”
“Though he would not have been injured if it had not been for trying to rescue me,” Moira reminded him.
“Nonsense, lass.” Sorcha pushed back a bit of hair which had fallen in front of her face, then placed her hands on her hips. “Never blame yourself for the folly of foolish men, Moira. Those cutthroats got what was coming to them, and they were just wicked enough to harm the two of ye.”
She’d never heard it put quite that plainly before, and something in the woman’s words soothed her. Until that moment, she had not understood how much she blamed herself for Fergus’s brush with death.
It was not her fault those terrible men had captured her. Not her fault at all.
A young lad no older than Jamie or Iain offered to take care of the mare, so Moira dismounted. “Who are the lads who work in the stables?” she asked, curious, watching the boy lead her horse inside. “What brings them here?”
