Читать книгу Highland Fire - Hannah Howell - Страница 7

A hoarse groan grated upon Moira’s ears. It took her a moment to realize that the wretched sound was coming from her own mouth. She felt terrible. Her cheek pressed against something both damp and gritty, and she realized she was sprawled facedown on a beach. Her body ached so much that she wanted to weep. She was drenched both inside and out. Suddenly her stomach clenched. Struggling to lift up her head, she became painfully, helplessly ill. A low male voice murmuring some nonsense about how the agony she was enduring was for the best, that she would soon feel better, penetrated her misery. Moira prayed that she would stop being ill just long enough to tell the fool to go to hell and stay there, but she was not sure she could accomplish that goal. Her body was determined to rid itself of whatever ailed it, and that agony held all of her attention.

Tavig smiled wearily when he heard her cursing him. She would be all right. He continued to rub her back as she retched, hating to view her misery, but knowing that it was necessary. The moment she was done, he tugged her away from the place where she had been ill before allowing her to collapse on the sand.

“Here, rinse out your mouth,” he urged.

Moira opened her eyes to see him holding out a roughly carved cup. She propped herself up on one elbow, took the cup, and discovered that it held wine. As she rinsed out her mouth then sipped some of the mildly bitter brew, she glanced around. Slowly she began to remember what had happened and understood why she was sitting on a beach tinted a soft rose by a rising sun. She frowned as she looked at Tavig.

“Where did ye get the wine and the cup? They didnae wash up with us, did they?”

“Nay, there is a fishermon’s hut just beyond the shore.”

“So there is someone who may help us?”

“I dinnae think so. The hut looks as if no one has used it for a while. Since there are still supplies within and there is no sign of a boat of any kind, I can only think that the poor soul went out fishing and didnae return.”

Even as she handed him back the cup, Moira crossed herself. She then collapsed back onto the sand. Tavig’s clothes were dirty and ragged, and she wondered why he even bothered to wear what was left of a once fine linen shirt. The tatters that remained of the garment did very little to cover the broad expanse of his smooth, dark chest.

The sad state of his attire started her wondering about her own. A cool morning breeze flowed across the shore. It was touching far more of her skin than it should be if her nightgown and cloak were still whole. Moira knew she ought to at least peek down at herself to be sure that she was decently covered but she was not inclined to move. Every inch of her body felt battered and drained of all strength.

“What happened to your beard?” she asked, thinking that his lean features were too attractive for her peace of mind.

“I scraped it off. Couldnae abide the thing,” he replied, sitting more comfortably at her side.

“And your wife who died of a fever?”

“A lie, I fear. Do ye feel any better?”

“Nay, not verra much. I believe I shall just lie here and finish dying. I am nearly as cold as a corpse already. Ye had best dig me a grave and prepare my winding sheet.”

“I dinnae think that, even between us, we have enough cloth left for a winding sheet.”

“So I, too, am clothed in rags and mayhap indecently covered.”

“Weel—nay. At least, the parts I wouldnae mind having a wee look at are still hidden.”

Moira wondered why she did not blush, did not even feel outraged, then decided she was simply too weary to be bothered by his impudence. “Ye are verra impertinent for a mon condemned to hang.”

“Condemned—aye—but free.”

“No condemned mon can e’er be free. Ye are but alive. And so am I. For that I thank ye. I recall enough to ken that ye leapt in after me. A verra strange thing to do, but I am grateful for that moment of madness.”

“Ye tried to stop your guardian from cleaving me in twain. That distraction may weel have saved my life. I could do no less in return. And how could I just stand by and let the lass I mean to wed be swept away?”

Tavig waited patiently for his statement to be understood. He could read her face so easily. First there was confusion, then slow understanding, which caused her rich blue eyes to grow very wide. He doubted she would believe him. She would probably think he was mad. Tavig wondered about that himself. Nevertheless, as he had tended to her, he had begun to understand why their lives were suddenly so completely intertwined. They were mates. He was almost certain of it.

It took Moira a little while to be sure she had heard what she thought she had heard. Even as she began to believe it, she did not understand. The man had to be mad. Or, she mused, he was testing her, trying to see if she still had the wit to recognize the absurdity of what he just said.

“I think ye swallowed so much water it has rotted your brain, Sir MacAlpin,” she said.

“A most unusual response to a proposal,” he murmured.

“Proposal? ’Twas nonsense. I thought ye but tested me to see if I was aware enough to recognize it as such.”

“Madness and nonsense? I am wounded to the heart.”

“Cease your teasing and help me sit up.” She held her hand out to him. “Do ye think that the ship itself sank?” she asked as he pulled her up then kept a firm grasp on her hand.

“Nay, I think not. I saw no wreckage upon the beach.” He ignored her attempts to extract her hand delicately from his. “I walked a fair distance in both directions whilst I waited for ye to rouse yourself.”

With her free hand, Moira tugged her damp, torn cloak over her legs. She was pleased to see that little else was exposed to his obsidian gaze. Their situation was awkward enough without having to concern herself about her modesty as well. She set her mind back on the intricate matter of what she must do next.

“If the ship survived the storm, my kinsmen will look for us,” she said. “I think I should just stay here.”

“Do ye now?” he drawled.

“I realize that ye have no wish to see them again so I will understand if ye take this chance to flee.”

“How kind.”

She scowled at him as she ceased trying to be subtle about freeing her hand from his, forcefully yanking it from his firm grasp. “Sir MacAlpin, I begin to think that ye consider my plan a verra poor one.”

“I kenned from the start that ye were a clever lass.” Tavig could see by her narrowing eyes that he was starting to anger her, and so rushed to explain himself. “If your kinsmen dinnae believe that ye are dead already and actually think that ye might have survived being washed away, there are miles and miles of shoreline they will have to search. ’Twould take them days to find ye, and they dinnae have days, do they?”

Moira cursed softly. He was irritatingly correct. Her kinsmen did not have the time to search for her even if they thought she might still be alive. They had to ransom her cousin Una by the end of the month. That was only three weeks away. They had wasted too much time trying to bargain with Una’s kidnapper and had none to spare now. She was sure whatever ransom was being offered for Sir Tavig MacAlpin would tempt them, but not enough to risk losing Una. Sir Bearnard had some grand plans for his daughter. He intended to enhance his own prestige and fatten his purse through a skillfully arranged marriage for her.

She had to help herself, she decided, glancing at Tavig who sat calmly watching her. She probably could not depend upon him for any more assistance than he had already given. He had his own neck to save. If he stayed with her he could well meet up with her kinsmen again. She was sure the man had no wish to see Sir Bearnard again. Then, too, she decided, how much faith could she put in a man accused of two murders even if that man had risked his life to save her?

“Weel, then I had best go in search of a sheriff or the like,” she finally said.

“And do ye really think ye will find much aid here? Ye are now ragged and with no means of proving ye are who ye say ye are. I mean no insult, lass, but right now ye look no more than a poor beggar girl. And, since your tattered clothes are of such a rich material, ye could easily be taken for a thief as weel.”

“Do ye have a better plan, then?” she snapped, annoyed at the way he destroyed her schemes with unarguable logic.

“Aye, my ill-tempered bride.”

“I am not your bride.”

Tavig ignored that sulky interruption. “Ye can stay with me, and I shall take ye to a safe place.”

“With ye? I heard what my cousin Bearnard said when your disguise wilted away. Ye are headed straight for the gallows. I dinnae think that is a verra safe place.”

“The noose isnae around my neck yet, dearling.” He stood up, brushed himself off, and held his hand out to her. “Come along. We had best be on our way. ’Tis a long, hard journey that lies ahead of us.”

A little warily she allowed him to help her to her feet. “Where do we journey to?”

He started to walk inland, smiling faintly when he heard her hurry to follow him. Tavig was not really hurt by her wary attitude toward him, nor did he blame her for having it. Even though he had saved her life, he was a condemned murderer. Since she did not really know him, she could make no judgment upon the truth of those charges. And she had to think he was just a little mad with his abrupt talk of marriage, he mused, chuckling to himself. In truth, he would have thought she was lacking in wits if she had not shown some hesitancy and mistrust.

“Sir Tavig,” Moira said, struggling to follow him as he scrambled up a rocky incline to the moorlands bordering the beach. “Where do ye plan to take us?”

“To my cousin’s keep.” After helping her up the last few inches of the stony rise, he headed toward a tiny thatch-roofed cottage a few yards away. “He will not only aid us, but also find us a priest so that we can be wed.”

Moira decided the best thing to do concerning his daft talk of marriage was to ignore it. “Do I have any knowledge of this cousin of yours? I am certain that ye must have several cousins since ye surely cannae mean Sir Iver who hunts ye down. A name would be most helpful.”

“Mungan Coll.” Tavig heard her stumble to a halt, and turned to look at her.

“The Mungan Coll we were traveling to meet when I was swept into the sea? The Mungan Coll who holds my cousin Una for ransom?”

“The verra same.”

“Ye would have me believe that I could find safety with such a mon?”

“Aye, but I can see that ye arenae inclined to do so. Consider this, then—ye will be in a place where your kinsmen are certain to find ye.” He took her by the hand, ignoring her slight resistance, and tugged her toward the fisherman’s hut.

“Oh, aye—to find me captive right alongside Una. No doubt a wee ransom would be asked for me as weel.” That deeply worried her for Moira could not feel sure that her kinsmen would pay anything to free her.

“Nay. Mungan would ne’er ransom my wife.”

As he nudged her inside the hut, Moira muttered a curse. She stood just inside the low door while he lit a fire and a few tallow candles. His plan was a terrible one as far as she could see, but much to her annoyance she could not think of a better one.

When there was some light in the nearly windowless house, she sat down on a rough bench next to an equally crudely made wooden table. A little sullenly she watched as Tavig found some food and began to make them porridge. His self-sufficiency irritated her. It all too clearly illustrated the one very good reason why she was stuck with him. She had never, in all of her eighteen years upon the earth, been on her own. Not only did the thought of trying to fend for herself terrify her, but also she greatly doubted that she could survive any long period of enforced hardship.

Her lack of skills was not wholly her fault, she consoled herself. Her parents, nurses, and even her maids had allowed her to do very little. She had not been allowed to continue that pampered life when she had gone to live with Sir Bearnard Robertson and his family, however. She had quickly been put to work weaving and sewing. But neither skill would do her much good now. Crooked Annie, who had taken her under her aging wing two years ago, had begun to teach her a few more useful things. There had not been enough time, however, to learn very much except for a reasonably good skill with a knife.

So, I can protect myself a wee bit, she mused. It was some comfort. She knew it was far from enough. It would not keep her fed or clothed or protected from the harshness of the weather. She needed Tavig MacAlpin, and that galled her. Moira glared at the bowl of porridge he set before her.

“Ah, now, lassie—why so dreary?” Tavig sat down opposite her and began to eat.

“Ye mean aside from the fact that I spent several hours being tossed about in the cold seawater and was nearly drowned?” She had to acknowledge that he could stir up a fine meal of porridge, which did nothing to improve her mood.

“But ye survived. Ye were slapped about some, but ye were still alive when the water spat ye up onto the shore.”

“Then what about the fact that I have naught to wear but this tattered nightgown and bedraggled cloak?”

“I was thinking that your clothes survived your ordeal rather weel.”

“Were ye, indeed? How about the fact that I have no idea of where we are? I am stuck upon some desolate moorlands with no idea of where to go or how to get there.”

“Dinnae worry o’er that, dearling. I will lead ye to safety.”

“Aye, and there is another thing,” she muttered, scraping the last of the porridge from her bowl with short, clipped movements.

“And what is that other thing?” he asked when she did not continue and simply glared into her now-empty bowl.

“I cannae take care of myself. I cannae do whatever needs to be done to survive this ordeal. I have to depend upon ye to help me to get somewhere safe.”

“’Tisnae such a bad thing for a wife to depend upon her husband.”

Moira slammed her crude wooden spoon down onto the table. “If we must be together, ye can just cease that foolish talk right now. I dinnae find it at all amusing.”

“I am glad to hear it. Marriage isnae something to chuckle at. ’Tis a verra serious matter.” He almost laughed at the thoroughly disgusted look she gave him.

“Why do ye persist?”

It had to be a jest, and she found that a little painful. She had more or less resigned herself to spinsterhood, perhaps spending her days as nursemaid to Una’s children. Since no marriage had been arranged for her or even been discussed, she assumed that she had no dowry. That lack combined with her red hair, something many considered an unacceptable color if not a mark of the devil himself, made marriage an unattainable goal. And there was her “gift,” her healing touch, which she kept a close secret for it also stirred people’s fears. She doubted she could keep it a secret forever from her own husband. That fact made her believe that it was probably for the best if she remained a maid, to forgo marriage forever. Now this man continually teased her about it. It seemed somewhat cruel of him.

“Ye dinnae even ken who I am,” she continued. “Our acquaintance is too short a one for ye to be talking about making it a permanent partnership. Not that your life looks to be a verra long one anyway.”

“I should remind ye that I am not dead yet, lassie. I dinnae suppose ye would believe me if I told you that I was completely innocent, that I ne’er killed those men,” he said, pouring them each some of the wine.

“If ye are innocent then why are ye condemned to hang? Aye, and by your verra own kinsmon? I heard what Cousin Bearnard said, and ye didnae deny a word of it.”

“Just because I am condemned to hang doesnae mean I committed the crime. The carcasses of many an innocent mon have dangled from the gallows. I am certain of it. And as for being tried and convicted by my own kinsmon—what better way is there to be rid of the rightful heir to all that ye covet?”

He sounded very sincere. There was a wealth of bitterness in his rich voice which only added veracity to his words. Moira wanted to believe him, but fought to cling tightly to her doubts and wariness. It was a very bad time for her to be too trusting.

“Where were the rest of your kinsmen?” she asked. “Did they all believe this lie? Did none stand up in your defense?” She could see a pained look in his dark eyes, but refused to let sympathy temper or halt her questions. “Did no other stand as your advocate? Did none protest the sentence handed down or argue against the accusation?”

“The answers to all of those questions must be aye, but a tempered aye. The mon who did this to me, my cousin Iver, has many a strong ally. I have some allies, too, but if they had openly come to my aid they would have harmed themselves more than they could e’er have helped me. They have neither the power nor the wealth to stand against Iver and his friends. I couldnae and cannae allow them to risk their verra lives for me. They did what little they could for me, which is why I was able to escape.”

“Ye didnae stay free for verra long or ye would have reached Mungan Coll by now.” Moira heartily wished that his tale did not sound so very plausible, for it strongly tempted her to believe him.

“True. I fell victim to a bonnie face that hid a black heart.”

“A verra pretty way of saying that ye were caught because ye dallied instead of ran.”

Tavig grinned. “Aye. A mon can be verra easily diverted by the glint of welcome in a lass’s eyes.” He reached across the table, gently clasping her hand. “Howbeit, ye willnae have to fear my wandering from the marriage bed. I am a mon who takes a vow verra seriously.”

She snatched her hand out of his. “Ye are a mon whose wits are sadly addled.”

“Such harsh words.”

He looked so ridiculously mournful that Moira almost laughed, then caught herself. It was far from funny. If he was not taunting her because she was so clearly doomed to spinsterhood, then he was mad. There was no cause for laughter in either case. She told herself that she had to try harder to ignore his ridiculous talk of marriage. Since she now faced the enormous task of staying alive until she was back with her kinsmen, Moira told herse If that she must concentrate on that task and only that task.

“Why did ye get onto our ship?”

“As I was fleeing my cousin’s faithful lackeys, I heard that your ship was sailing to my cousin Mungan’s lands. ’Twas risky, but not as risky as staying where I was.” He gave her a small smile. “Ye dinnae believe me.”

“I must think about it first.” She clasped her hands together, trying to effect a stern look. “Now, I think our time would be much better served if we discussed what we must do next.”

“I told ye—we are going to my cousin Mungan’s keep.” He picked up her dishes as well as his own and moved toward a pan of water.

As he started to wash the dishes, Moira briefly contemplated taking over that chore since he had prepared the meal. She knew it was not completely fair to allow him to do all the work, but she did blame him somewhat for the dire circumstances she found herself in. It would serve as a penance of sorts if he had to wait upon her a little bit.

She watched him, idly wondering how he could look so good when he was in such a disreputable state. His clothing was ragged and stained. His thick black hair was tousled and stiffened from the salt water they had floundered in for so long. She could also see bruises and swelling upon his face as well as on the patches of skin peeking through his ragged clothes. Some of those marks could have been caused by the rough treatment of the stormy waves, but she suspected most of his wounds were suffered in his battle with Sir Bearnard. When she began to think rather tenderly of nursing his many injuries, she was startled and a little appalled. The man had not only plunged her life into chaos, but also he was starting to have an alarming effect upon her good sense. Moira forced her errant musings back to the matter of what they needed to do next. That was far more important than how smooth his dark skin was or how well shaped his long legs were.

“Sir Tavig, I hadnae forgotten that ye planned to take us to Mungan Coll’s,” she hurried to say, hoping that by talking she could clear her mind of all thoughts save how to get to safety.

“Then what else do ye need to be told?”

“How do we get there? We are ragged, without horses and without supplies.”

“Verra true.” He wiped his hands on a dingy rag and sat back down at the table. “I think we can find enough here to start us on our way.”

“That would be stealing.”

“Lass, the mon who used to abide here is dead, I am fair certain of that. And if by some odd miracle he isnae, then he has fled this place without a thought to what is here. Cease fretting o’er the right and wrong of it all. Whatever happened to the mon, he left everything here to rot or to be taken, and we have a sore need for what little he may have left behind.”

“I can understand the reasoning ye are using, and ’tis sound, yet it troubles me to take someone else’s things.”

“If I had any coin I would leave it in payment, but ’twould only be stolen. To ease your acute conscience, I will swear to either return or have someone else come back here later. If the mon is still alive, he will be paid.”

“’Tis verra kind of ye, but ye may not be able to return.”

“Then ye can.”

“I would, but I fear I have no coin.” She felt a mild blush tingle in her cheeks and wondered why she should be embarrassed to confess her poverty to such a man.

“None at all?” Tavig found her discomfort somewhat endearing for it was self-inflicted by her own honesty.

“Nay. My cousin Bearnard says that my father didnae have the skill to hold on to a farthing.”

“Ah, weel, I dinnne mind. An heiress would have been a fine thing to have, but I dinnae need the coin so I can be happy taking a poor lass as a wife.” He grinned when she glared at him.

Moira told herself that he was not saying such things to be intentionally hurtful. He could not have known about her lack of a dowry before she told him. Neither could he have known how it was one of the many things that doomed her to a spinsterhood she did not really wish to endure, but had been struggling to accept. Even though she could convince herself that he was not intentionally trying to cause her pain, that did not make his cheerful talk of wedding her any less irritating, however.

“’Tis time that ye found yourself a new jest,” she muttered.

Tavig shook his head, pulling a mournful face. “Weel, my wee bride, ’tis a good thing we shall be bound together for a fortnight or so because of our circumstances. I can see that ye will take a great deal of wooing.”

She ignored the latter part of what he said. “A fortnight or so? Why so long?”

“As ye said—we have no horse.”

“Oh. Aye. And we cannae get one?”

“Weel, I have no coin and ye have no coin, and ’tis verra clear that ye arenae amenable to the necessity of stealing. So, nay, we cannae get a horse.”

“So how do we get to your cousin’s?”

“We walk.”

“Walk?”

“Aye, dearling—use those pretty wee feet of yours.”

“But your cousin is miles and miles away, isnae he?”

“He is. ’Twill take us a fortnight or more.”

Moira stared at him and decided that she should worry less about his being a condemned murderer and more about the fact that he was quite certainly mad.