Читать книгу Highland Fire - Hannah Howell - Страница 10

“I dinnae suppose ye will believe me if I say I found this growing wild in the field.”

Moira looked at the bread Tavig held, then at him. “Nay, I dinnae think I would.”

After two days of trudging north over the rougher, emptier parts of Scotland, Moira had begun to believe she had convinced the man not to steal anything. The bread he tempted her with was solid proof that she had been naïve. What she hated most about it was how it forced her to face conflicting emotions within herself. She knew Tavig MacAlpin was a good man yet he could obviously steal with ease and success. The idea of stealing anything was repugnant to her, yet she knew she wanted and would heartily enjoy, some of that bread. Hunger was rapidly blurring her morals.

Tavig sighed, sitting down beside her, taking out his knife and cutting off a piece of bread. “Ye wouldnae believe it was a miracle either, would ye? That it just appeared in my hands because God understood our need?”

“Ye blaspheme. I had hoped we could make this journey without stealing anything.”

“Weel, dearling, I regret dashing your hopes, but they were unreasonable ones. Even if we continue to each eat just two small bowls of porridge a day, we will be without food by the week’s end.” He smiled faintly when she crossly snatched up the piece of bread he held out to her. “Neither of us is accustomed to such a long, arduous march, either.”

The bread was delicious, which irritated Moira. “And that makes a difference, does it?”

“Oh, aye. ’Twill be a struggle requiring all of our strength. One must needs eat weel when enduring such a trial.”

“Ye make some verra pretty excuses.”

“Not excuses—facts.”

“Mayhap, but whilst we fill our bellies, the owner of this bread goes hungry.”

“Nay. I couldnae and wouldnae take food from those who might starve without it.”

“And how can ye be so sure that they didnae need it?”

“Because I took it from the kitchens of a verra fine house a few miles to the west of us. ’Twas one of five loaves, and the meal being prepared showed me that there was no lack of food in the place.”

Moira frowned when he put his arm around her, but she was too curious to waste time scolding him over his familiarity. “Are ye saying that ye just ambled into some wealthy laird’s kitchens, helped yourself to a loaf of his bread and sauntered away?” She absently accepted a second piece of bread.

“It wasnae that easy. I didnae have to do much creeping about or lying, though.” He shook his head. “When my troubles are at an end, I shall have to tell that laird how weak his guard is. He must be a good mon, for his people are a happy, trusting lot. Too trusting. I could easily have been some enemy surveying the mon’s strengths and weaknesses. I shall repay him for this bread by letting him ken how easily he could be taken. Sad to say, a mon cannae allow himself or his people to be too welcoming. Aye, hospitality is the mark of a good knight, but this mon’s keep was as open and vulnerable as a monastery.”

“Ye are right. ’Tis sad that he could be hurt because he lives so openly and trustingly.”

“Aye, and ’twill come, for ’tis clear to anyone who takes a moment to look that he also lives weel.”

“And eventually someone will come along who wishes to take that away.” She frowned up at the sky. “’Tis growing late, only a few hours of light remaining.”

“True. We will travel on in a moment.”

He tucked the remaining bread into his sack, then, smiling faintly, pulled her into his arms. Moira tried to look stern, but it grew more difficult to resist him with each hour she spent in his company. She placed her hands against his chest, intending to push him away. That intention was swiftly banished by the touch of his lips on hers. His mouth was gentle and warm. Good sense and morality told her to resist the temptation they represented, but, as with the bread, she found she was too weak to refuse something she wanted so badly.

She curled her arms around his neck as he teased her lips with small, nibbling kisses. After a moment she pressed closer, silently requesting the fuller kiss he held back. A soft groan escaped her when he readily answered her plea. The heat that both frightened and enthralled her raced through her body, its strength centering low in her abdomen. On occasion Moira had heard one of the maids speak of how she burned for a particular man. Now Moira knew what that maid had been talking about. She knew that she burned for Tavig MacAlpin, ached for him. It was the worst and the best thing that had ever happened to her.

“Ah, lass, ye have the sweetest mouth I have e’er tasted,” he murmured against her throat, tracing her frantic pulse with little kisses.

“Yours isnae so bad, either.” She grimaced when he laughed softly.

“Such flattery.”

His long fingers brushed over the curve of her breast, and Moira shuddered from the force of the desire ripping through her body. Gritting her teeth, she squirmed out of his hold. She hastily stood up, silently praying he could not see how unsteady she was. Somehow she was going to have to find the strength to fight his allure, much more strength than she was showing now.

“We had better be on our way,” she said, inwardly cursing the huskiness infecting her voice.

“Ye cannae keep running away.” Tavig picked up their supplies and began to walk.

“I dinnae ken what ye are talking about,” Moira protested, hurrying after him.

“Aye, ye do. We are fated, Moira. Ye feel that each time I touch you. Ye feel it in your blood, in how it heats with desire.”

“What arrogance.”

Tavig ignored her muttered interruption. “Ye have been so sheltered ye dinnae understand what your body and your heart are telling you, so ye fight it, pushing me away. I am a patient mon, though. I can wait until ye do see the truth.”

Moira glared at his back, wondering how she could ache to tumble about in the heather with him one minute and desperately want to kick him in his too attractive backside the next. She knew what irritated her the most was his knowledge of how she felt. As she grudgingly accepted his help over some moss-covered rocks, she briefly feared he could read her mind. She easily shrugged away that fear. If Tavig could read minds, right now he would either be laughing at her or getting out of the reach of her foot.

He just knows me too well or has a knack for reading the expressions on my face, she mused. If she was to retain any emotional secrets from the man, she was going to have to learn a few new tricks. She had learned to hide her fear and anger from Sir Bearnard. Now she would learn how to hide her feelings, thoughts, and emotional turmoil from Tavig.

“I suppose it had to rain at some time during our journey,” Moira grumbled, trying to huddle farther back beneath the crude branch-and-blanket shelter Tavig had made for them.

“Aye. ’Tis a shame it does so during our resting time, though. We willnae have a comfortable sleep.” He cut her a slice of bread from the dwindling loaf he had stolen that afternoon. “This is all we shall have for food tonight as I cannae light a fire without dry wood and kindling.”

“Do ye think that will make me less concerned that ye stole this?” She wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself as she nibbled on the bread.

“Nay. I ken that ye have the strength to cling tightly to your disapproval.”

“But not so tightly that I refuse to eat this ill-gotten bounty. Ye need not keep that thought to yourself. I swear I can hear ye thinking the words.” She sighed, rubbing her aching feet.

“Why dinnae ye unwrap the rags from your feet and stick them out in the rain for a wee while?”

“But they will get wet. Most likely cold as weel.”

“’Twill soothe that aching ye are trying so hard to hide.” He met her disbelieving look with a smile. “Trust me, dearling. There was a time or two when I had to walk long miles in ill-made boots or bare feet. I ken weel that hot aching that can afflict one’s feet. I found naught that was as soothing as bathing them in cool water. There isnae a stream or pool about, only what falls from the sky. Try it. It cannae hurt.”

“Nay, mayhap not.”

With his help she unwrapped her feet. Cautiously she edged closer to the opening of their shelter until her feet protruded beyond its somewhat weak protection. Moira hated to admit it, but the cool spray did feel good. Just exposing her tender feet to the cooler night air had felt good. The rain washing over her feet made her sigh with relief. She scowled at a grinning Tavig. The man did not have to look so smug.

“Aye, it helps some,” she muttered.

Tavig laughed and shook his head. “Ye are a stubborn lass, Moira Robertson.”

Moira knew her sudden, instinctive flash of fear had been seen by him, for his laughter abruptly faded, and he scowled at her. In her years with Bearnard Robertson, being called a stubborn lass had always been followed by a beating or one of Sir Bearnard’s many other cruel punishments. Although she had been with Tavig only a short while, she knew he would never treat her as her guardian had. Her fears could not yet make that distinction, however.

“I wish I kenned what I must do to get ye to cease fearing me,” Tavig said, cutting her another slice of bread.

“I dinnae fear you, Tavig,” she said quietly.

“Nay? ’Twas stark fear I just saw in your face, loving.”

“Aye, ye probably did see that. Howbeit, it wasnae a fear of you. ’Twas fear of a memory.”

“A memory?”

“Aye, a memory. Ye called me a stubborn lass, and the words stirred a harsh, frightening memory. That was what my fear was born of, not ye or anything ye have done.”

“Must I weigh every word I utter then?”

She shook her head. “That wouldnae be fair to you, nor would it help me. I must learn that just because someone says the same thing Sir Bearnard once said, it doesnae mean he will now act as my guardian did. Ye meant the words as a tease, not a scold or a threat. I must learn to hear more than the words. I must listen to the way they are spoken. There was no anger or warning in your voice. That is what I must teach myself to heed.”

“Aye, for I begin to think Sir Bearnard said little that wasnae followed by some act of brutality.”

“Sometimes he said nothing at all. He was at his most dangerous then.” She shivered, trying to shake away bad memories. “The rain grows more chilling than soothing,” she murmured, pulling her feet back inside their shelter.

As he helped her rub her feet dry and rewrap them, Tavig studied her. She never talked long about Sir Bearnard and her life with the man. There would be one or two faint allusions to what she had endured, then she would grow silent and withdraw, just as she had now. It left him feeling as if she had retreated from him, yet he knew that was not truly the case. He could not help but wonder, however, how long the shadow of Sir Bearnard would hang over them.

“Not every mon is like your guardian,” he said, huddling back in the shelter and gently tugging her to his side.

“I ken it. Tavig, I am sorry if the way I act sometimes offends you.”

He lightly kissed her mouth, stopping her words. “No need to apologize. As ye must learn to heed how the words are spoken, and not just the words themselves, so I must learn to cease thinking that every flash of fear or instinctive cringe is directed at me. Sir Bearnard taught ye those harsh lessons. Ye just need time to learn when and with whom they are needed. Although I intend to insure that ye never have to live that way again.”

“Oh, and how do ye plan to do that?”

“By convincing ye to stay with me.”

“Aye? Your fate isnae too certain, my fine knight. I cannae see that sharing a gallows with you is better than living with Sir Bearnard.”

“And I dinnae intend to swing from Iver’s gallows.”

“I cannae say I wish that to happen either, but I dinnae understand how ye can be so verra sure that it willnae.”

“Once I reach my cousin Mungan I will have the aid I need to fight it out with Iver.”

“That willnae prove your innocence.” She yawned, leaning more heavily against him.

“True, but no one believes I killed those men. Every one of my people at Drumdearg kens exactly who is the murderer. Howbeit, I shall try to get some proof of my innocence, mayhap some confession, so that others will believe it, too.” He shook his head. “I have thought of little else besides getting back what has been stolen from me and of making Iver pay for his crimes. Ye are right, though. That willnae prove my innocence, and since Iver has spread his baseless accusations far and wide, I must look to the matter of clearing that black mark from my name.”

“Ye may never be able to fully clear it.”

“Ye are a veritable well of cheer, arenae ye?” he grumbled, then smiled when she giggled sleepily. “And ye are right about that as weel, although I curse the unfairness of it. Nevertheless, the people that matter will ken the truth. Most of them do already.”

“And ye are verra sure that your cousin Mungan will believe your tale and not hand ye over to Iver?”

“Verra sure. Mungan has always loathed and mistrusted Iver.” He touched a kiss to the top of her head. “Dinnae worry, lass. We will be safe at Mungan’s, and I will find out what game he plays by snatching your cousin.”

“Ye dinnae suppose he saw her from afar, fell in love with her, and had to try to make her his?”

Tavig thought about that for a moment then replied with confidence, “Nay, not Mungan. He isnae given to such feelings. He is a good mon, and I am certain your cousin is safe and unharmed, but Mungan isnae a romantic sort of fellow. When he decides to take a wife he will be good to her, care for her, and be unswervingly faithful, but she will have to accept that she willnae hear much flattery, sweet words, or declarations of heartfelt sentiment. Then, too, if by some miracle Mungan has been seized by a romantic urge, why has he asked a ransom for her?”

“He could have lost his romantic urge when he discovered that my cousin Una didnae and wouldnae feel the same.”

“Mayhap, but I truly doubt it. Mungan just isnae that type of mon. He once hanged a minstrel up by his feet, dangled the poor fellow over the head table because the mon wouldnae sing anything but songs of love. Ye see, Mungan wished to hear a few rousing tunes about battles won and lost. Mostly won, though, and won by the Scots.”

Although her eyelids were weighted by her need to sleep, Moira managed one last long look at Tavig. “And ye think we shall find safety with such a madmon?”

He laughed as he leaned more comfortably against the tree trunk he had used to help support their meager shelter. “He didnae kill the minstrel, did he? Nay, nor did he dangle the mon long enough for the poor terrified fool to be injured. Mungan is, weel, odd, but harmless. At least toward those he counts as his friends. I swear to ye, ye will be safe with the mon. Mungan has ne’er hurt a woman or a child.”

Moira could not fully suppress a wide yawn. “Ye have a verra odd family, Tavig MacAlpin.”

“Ye dinnae ken the half of it, dearling. Go to sleep. Ye need your rest. We still have a long way to go.”

A moment later he felt her grow lax and heavy in his arms. He glanced at her feet, sighing over the discomfort she had to be suffering. Tavig wished he could carry her all the way to Mungan’s keep. As he gently brushed a few damp strands of hair from her face, he also wished he knew how to make her trust him, to love him and want to stay with him. There were ten, perhaps twelve, days left before they reached Mungan’s keep. Despite the fact that they would have to walk every mile, it suddenly looked to be far too short a time.

Moira groaned softly, curling her arms around Tavig’s neck as his lips warmed hers. His kiss stole the cold invading her body as well as all her aches and pains. Her discomfort was quickly replaced by passion. She pressed her body closer to his, soaking up his heat and savoring the feel of his long, sinewy body.

He traced her shape with his skilled hands. Moira shuddered with delight when he curved his hands over her backside, pressing her loins against his. She could feel the hard proof of his desire. It enthralled her. She gasped with pleasure when he slid his hand up her side to cup her breast. For a full minute she blindly arched into his touch, then a tiny shaft of reason broke through the haze of passion clouding her mind. With a soft curse, she scrambled out of his hold and got up on her knees, her head brushing the top of their shelter. She glared at Tavig.

“I dinnae suppose ye could just say ‘good morn, lass,’” she snapped and, seeing dawn’s light brightening the sky, crawled out from beneath the tiny shelter.

“I thought that was what I was doing,” Tavig said, crawling out and standing up for a leisurely stretch.

“What ye were doing was trying to catch me unawares so that ye could have your way with me.”

“My way? It felt like it might be your way as weel, lass.”

“I dinnae think so, Sir Tavig.”

She decided to ignore his impudent grin, striding off to the shelter of the trees to relieve herself. As she readjusted her clothes she realized that, although the cool rain had helped, her feet still ached. Moira thought it extremely unfair that she could not use her healing hands to cure her own pain. Even if she tried, she risked Tavig discovering her strange gift. From past experience she knew she would leave herself so completely drained, so utterly weakened, that, even if Tavig did not guess that she could heal with a touch, he would certainly be dangerously curious over how her feet were so much better but she could not walk a step.

Moira shook her head as she returned to camp, finding that Tavig had already taken down their shelter and started their meal. She dearly wished she understood her strange skill better. Mayhap then she would not be so afraid of others finding out about it. Sadly she admitted her gift was enough of a mystery to herself, almost frightening at times, and she could easily see how deeply it would frighten others. Even though Tavig suffered with a gift that could rouse superstitions, she could easily envision him being afraid of hers. Moira realized that one reason she did not confide her secret to Tavig was that she dreaded seeing that wariness enter his eyes, dreaded the thought that he would pull away from her and shun her.

“Now, dearling, ye arenae still sulking o’er my giving ye a wee morning kiss, are ye?” he asked her as she sat down across the fire from him.

“Nay, and I dinnae ken how ye can call what ye did no more than a wee morning kiss. Aye, and look so sweetly innocent as ye do so.”

“Ye think I am sweetly innocent, do ye?”

“Jester. Ye ken verra weel I dinnae think that. I just said ye looked so.” She accepted the bowl of porridge he gave her, muttering, “Thank ye, rogue.”

“Your opinion of me rises and falls with startling rapidity.”

“And ye are vain if ye think I trouble myself to form any opinion of ye at all.”

He chuckled, and Moira smiled faintly. She was startled at how easily and quickly she had returned to her old ways, to that sharp tongue her guardian had found so infuriating. What her father had always lovingly referred to as her spirit had never fully died, simply retreated, softened, and grown quiet. Although she was not really surprised that Bearnard had not beaten it out of her, despite how she had feared that at times, she was amazed at how swiftly it had reasserted itself.

As she cleaned out their dishes and put them away, she decided she liked how it felt. There was danger and definitely discomfort in the situation she found herself in now, yet she had never felt so free, almost lighthearted. It was going to be hard to return to life with Sir Bearnard, a life filled with fear and wariness. She shivered with apprehension at the mere thought of it.

She glanced at Tavig, who was making certain the fire had completely gone out. There was a danger in thinking too much about her life with Sir Bearnard. It would make her increasingly susceptible to Tavig’s talk of staying with him, of marriage, fate, and destiny. Life with the Robertsons was so miserable that she could easily forget all the good reasons for staying away from Tavig and not grabbing what he offered her. Now that she knew how much better she could feel when out from beneath the shadow of Bearnard’s heavy fists, it would be even easier to cast aside common sense and stay with Tavig. With far more regularity, she was going to have to remind herself why a match between them would be dangerous.

For the short while she was with him, however, she intended to enjoy her newfound freedom. She knew all too well that she might never taste it again. Tavig probably had no idea of the gift he had given her, but she was deeply grateful.

“Are ye ready to go yet, lass?” he asked as he picked up their supplies.

“Aye.” She sighed a little dramatically as she followed him. “’Tis a shame we cannae find a shorter way or learn how to fly. I dinnae suppose ye have a cousin who lives nearer.”

“Nay.” He glanced up at the sky then flashed her a smile. “’Twould be nice to fly. Easier on the feet.”

“Much easier. Tavig, since ye live near here and Mungan lives to the north, what were ye doing so far south?”

“I had the foolish idea of going to speak to the king. Although I didnae meet with the king himself I did talk with one of his men, a mon close enough to the king to ken what I would be told. He said I should go home, gain what aid I can from my other kinsmen and take care of the matter myself.”

“Ye would think the king would be interested in seeing that such feuds and battles ne’er got started.”

“He has too much to deal with already. All of his attention is fixed upon the border lairds and the English. ’Tis a contentious area. As I was headed back, planning to go to Mungan, I was nearly caught by Iver’s men and then discovered your ship. I felt I would be safe out at sea as long as I remained disguised.”

“And then Sir Bearnard and I came along to ruin your escape.”

“Nay, ye didnae ruin it. Mayhap added a few days, but no more. I told ye—we are fated. I just wish fate had thought of a gentler way for us to meet.”

Moira frowned when he briefly looked her way. “I fear I dinnae hold as strong a belief in fate as ye do.”

The look of amused disbelief he cast her way irritated her. He was right to feel she was making an empty boast, but he did not have to be so openly cocky about it. In this case, however, fate had made a very large mistake in throwing her and Tavig together. Fate did not always arrange a happy ending for the people whose lives it directed, either. Since she had not told Tavig about her own special “gift,” he could blissfully accept the workings of fate. Somehow she was going to have to maintain the strength to fight what Tavig kept saying was their destiny.