Читать книгу Highland Fire - Hannah Howell - Страница 8

“I look even more like a beggar than I did before.”

Tavig looked Moira over, struggling not to grin in response to her complaint. He could not think of a good way to deny her accusation, for it was true. They had found a needle and thread and, as they had taken turns cleaning themselves up, they had patched her clothes as well as they could. The mending could easily be seen since the thread was dark and her nightgown was white. The faded blue plaid tied about her waist served as a skirt, but was thin and crudely mended in places. An old, dull brown linsey-woolsey shirt, too large on her slender frame and marred by a few coarse patches, served as her bodice. Only her delicate features and soft white skin hinted at the fact that she was something more than the poorest of beggars.

Glancing down at himself, he almost laughed. With all of the neat dark stitching holding it together, his fine white shirt looked as if it were striped. The rough dark homespun jerkin he wore was old, stained, and smelled faintly of fish. So did the ill-fitting hose he wore. The man whose clothes they had confiscated had clearly not made a very good living at fishing.

“We do make a sad pair,” he murmured.

“Are ye certain we should take these things at all? Mayhap the mon isnae dead, just left home for a wee while.” Moira still felt she was stealing and did not like it at all.

“Lass, if ye had seen the condition of the farm animals, few that they were, ye would be as certain as I am that some ill has befallen the mon. No one has tended to those poor beasts for days. I nearly killed them for I thought ’twould be best to simply end their misery. Howbeit, instead I did what little I could for them and then set them loose. They will either feed the wolves, fend for themselves, or be collected up by some poor farmer who can make better use of them. And if by some twist of fate the mon is alive, he deserves to lose his stock for treating it so badly.”

“’Tis probably true,” she agreed, her reluctance to admit it heavily weighting her voice. “Howbeit, despite all ye have said, I cannae fully shake the feeling that I am stealing.”

“And, as I have also said, I would be willing to leave his ghost some recompense, but I am a wee bit short of coin. And I doubt ye had the foresight to fetch your purse ere ye were hurled into the sea.” He was not sure he completely believed in her professed poverty although he suspected that she did.

“Such a finely honed wit. There is no need to be so impertinent.”

“Lass, your sensibility is to be honored, but I fear ’tis verra misplaced just now. We landed on this harsh shore in naught but rags with no money and no supplies. Since I am nearly certain that the mon who lived here is dead, I consider it fortuitous that the place wasnae already picked clean of all that could be of use to us.”

She grimaced. He was right—again. Moira decided that it was a particularly irritating quality of his. She would try harder to overcome her “sensibilities” as he called them. Such fine sentiments were a luxury she could not afford to indulge in at the moment.

“I shallnae speak out again on the way we are forced to survive,” she finally said. “I am sure that ye have far more important things to attend to than constantly assuring me we are doing only what is necessary.”

Tavig briefly put his arm about her shoulders, giving her a little hug and ignoring the way she tensed and pulled away. “As I promised, I will do my best to recall where and what we have appropriated for our own use and see that the ones we borrowed from are paid in full.”

Moira silently vowed to herself to do the same no matter how difficult it would be for her to get some coin. Although she was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to think of it, there was no ignoring the fact that Tavig was a condemned man. His intention to repay everyone they had to steal from could well be a sincere one, but she could not ignore the possibility that he would be unable to keep his promise. Somehow, some way, she would have to fulfill that promise herself.

“Now why do ye look so sour? Shake away your ill mood, my wee bride, and let us begin our journey.” He picked up the bundle of supplies he had gathered and started out of the tiny hut.

“Ye expect me to be gay as I begin what could be a verra long and dangerous walk?” she asked as she followed him. “Only a witless fool could be pleased at the thought of marching o’er Scotland for a fortnight or so with naught but rags and tattered hose to protect his feet.”

Tavig glanced back at her woolen-swathed feet then looked at his own boots. He felt a twinge of guilt he knew was unwarranted. There had been nothing to fit her dainty feet within the fisherman’s hut. His own battered, salt-stiffened boots were far too large for her. The thick woolen rags wrapped around her feet would have to suffice until he could either steal or beg something else for her to wear.

“I will concede that your poor wee feet arenae too weel protected,” he said, helping her hop over a shallow ditch. “I will do my best to correct that lack as soon as I can.”

“Ye mean ye will steal me some shoes.” She winced as she trod on a small thistle plant.

“A bride shouldnae demean her mon’s method of caring for her needs.”

“Will ye cease calling me your bride? Why do ye persist with that madness?”

“’Tisnae madness.”

“Nay? I cannae think of what else ye might call it.” She stumbled over a rock and, when he took her by the hand, she did not pull free for she appreciated that light, steadying touch. “Ye dinnae ken who I am, who my family is, or anything else about me. I am no heiress to be coveted, and our kinsmen havenae made some truce or bargain we are forced to seal with our marriage. I just dinnae understand what has put the idea into your head and why ye hold to it. ’Tisnae as if we are fated or the like.”

“Ah, but we are fated.”

Moira muttered a curse, scowling at his broad back. “I willnae say that I have no belief in fate or destiny. ’Tis hard not to have a wee bit. Howbeit, in this matter any talk of fate or destiny is foolishness.”

“I fear that—in this matter—fate and destiny are a verra large part of it all. When that railing broke and ye were dangling over those churning waters, I kenned that our lives were fated to be bound together. I understood why I had been watching ye so closely e’en though ye are such a wee, thin lass.”

“Thank ye,” she grumbled, nettled by his constant reference to her small stature.

“Dinnae ye think that Fate was working her mischief when suddenly ye paid heed to me and spared a wee moment to talk with me?”

“’Twasnae fate. Ye spoke to me first. I simply answered ye.”

“Was it not fate that caused ye to suddenly plunge into the sea?”

“’Twas the storm and rotting railings. That captain should be flogged for keeping such a poor ship.”

“It was fate that prompted me to leap into the water after ye, to try and save ye.”

“’Twas lunacy, moon madness, ’twas unthinking gallantry of the sort that has buried many a mon.”

He stopped, turning toward her and grinning. “Gallantry? Weel, thank ye.”

“Ye thank me for calling ye a lunatic?”

“Ye also called me gallant.”

“I consider the two quite equal in witlessness.” She shook her head when he just winked at her and started walking again, gently tugging her along with him.

“I kenned that our lives were bound together whilst I waited for ye to recover from your wee swim. I looked at ye sprawled upon the sand and, as I tended to ye, ’twas suddenly all verra clear to me.”

“Clear? I was spewing up water, covered in sand and sodden rags and cursing. ’Twas no sight to inspire a mon to thoughts of marriage. I was a dripping, wretched mess. ’Tis all ye saw.”

“Nay, I saw a great deal more. ’Tis my curse,” he murmured.

She frowned at him. “Are ye trying to tell me that ye are gifted with the sight or the like?”

“Nay, not the sight. I dinnae really have visions.” He kept his gaze fixed upon the ground, not eager to see her face as he confessed his strange gift. “I just ken things, have a deep certainty about what is to occur next in my life and the lives of others. When I first saw ye coming up on deck I was certain it meant naught but trouble. I was sure that ye shouldnae rest against that railing, that it would break.”

“That could be naught but simple chance, a guess, a suspicion.”

“’Tis much stronger than that. I can see things in my head, but they arenae truly visions. They are more the images born of the certainty that grips me so tightly. The day of the murders I have been accused of committing, I kenned that my two friends were doomed. Even as I hurried to warn them I was certain I would be too late. I could see them dead. In my mind’s eye, I could see them murdered. I ne’er have the time to change what is fated, but, that time, the forewarning allowed me to save myself from falling into my cousin’s trap.”

Moira was not sure what to think about his confession. A part of her scorned the idea of forewarnings, but an equal part of her believed in them. Since she had a strange gift, why could he not have one as well? She was certain, however, that she did not like his particular gift, whether it was fact or just some delusion of his.

“If ye are right and if ye arenae jesting with your foolish talk of marriage, ye have just given me another good reason to refuse to be your bride. Besides the fact that ye are condemned to hang, of course,” she added.

Tavig stopped and looked at her, hurt that she, like so many others, could not accept his strange talent. “Ye are afraid, just like all the others.”

“Fear, and whether I believe ye or not, has little to do with it. Look at me.” She pointed to her hair. “Did ye not happen to see what color my hair is? ’Tis red.”

“Aye—a glorious red. Bright yet not too bright.” He stepped closer, running his hand down her long, thick braid. “A silken curtain of fire. Warm, soft, and of a hue that greatly compliments ye.”

She was touched by his flattery and pleasantly unsettled by his nearness, but struggled to keep her mind on what they were discussing. “Dinnae ye ken what is said about red hair? ’Tis the sign of a hot-tempered and choleric disposition. They say ’twas the color of Judas’s hair, ’tis the color of a dissembler. A red beard is a token of a vile and cruel disposition. Red is a witch’s color. Many believe redheads are witches, fit only for burning. If ye and I were to wed, we probably wouldnae live out the year. Someone would surely cry us witches and set us alight.”

“Burned as witches?” He almost laughed, relieved that her horror had not been aimed at him, but caused by the thought of all the difficulties such an odd gift could bring them. “I have had this foresight for my whole life, as no one has yet piled kindling about my feet.”

“Weel, mayhaps those whom ye abide with can either accept or avoid ye. They treat me the same way. Howbeit, to put the two of us together could easily be more than anyone could endure.” Especially when it is seen that I, too, have an odd talent.

“Nay, ye worry o’er naught.”

“I do, eh? Are ye saying ye ne’er had anyone who learned of your skill cross themselves or make the sign to ward off evil? Would ye have me believe no one has decided to have as little to do with ye as they can?”

He grimaced as some painful memories of just such reactions passed swiftly though his mind. “There have been a few.”

“A few? Ye try to hide the truth, but it cannae be ignored. Ye ken that truth as weel as I do. I have suffered the looks that silently cry me a witch or touched by the hand of the devil. I have had folk avoid me because they feared such superstitions were fact. I have e’en had an old woman cluck o’er how thin I was, o’er how little fat there would be for the taking when I died.”

“Fat? What is so important about your fat or lack of it?”

“I would have thought a mon with your gift would be weel aware of each and every superstition held by those around him. The fat of a dead redhead is verra useful in potions.”

“That is utter nonsense.”

“Of course it is, but the fact that what they believe is utter nonsense has ne’er stopped people from believing it. A part of me says that your claim of foreseeing is utter nonsense, but another part of me believes it and is frightened by it, and I consider myself a verra reasonable person.”

“It frightens ye?” He frowned as he studied her, regretting his confession. The very last thing he wished her to feel for him was fear. “There is no need for ye to be frightened.”

“Nay? I would wager that it frightens even ye at times.” She nodded when a light color flooded his dark, high-boned cheeks. She knew better than most how the fear of one’s own gift could grip one from time to time. “No one likes the idea that someone can see what will be. There is a great debate o’er whether such a thing is a gift from God or the work of the devil. It could be considered a curse, and that must mean ’tis the devil’s unholy work. Howbeit, ye claim it has saved your life and it certainly helped ye save mine, so that must mean ’tis a blessing that makes your foresight a gift from God. Sadly, we both ken that many folk will see anything that they cannae understand as the devil’s work.”

Tavig cursed softly, running his hand through his hair. “I dinnae wish ye to fear me because of it.”

“Weel, I dinnae verra much. It but makes me uneasy. If I was to fear ye, it wouldnae be for that, but because ye are a condemned murderer.” Even as she said it Moira knew that she no longer believed he was some vicious killer.

“I didnae kill those men,” he snapped and started to walk again, tugging her after him with a touch of force. “I could hear their screams,” he said softly, his rapid pace easing as his annoyance died beneath the numbing weight of painful memory.

“Ye were that near to them when they were murdered?”

“Nay. I could hear the screams in my head. ’Twas part of my foretelling of their death—those pain-filled, horrible screams. I was a day’s ride or more away, too far away to stop their slaughter. They were hung from a tree by their bound wrists and gutted like newly killed deer. God alone kens how long they must have suffered ere they died.”

Moira felt slightly ill over the thought of such a cruel, savage death. Tavig’s “gift” was far worse than her own. She could at least comfort herself with the knowledge that she had helped people, had eased their pain.

“And ye found them like that?” she asked.

“Nay. I was halted not far from them by a friend. He warned me of the trap that had been laid for me. My cousin Iver was trying to use my gift against me, to use it to snare me. He was sure that I would, weel, see the deaths of my dear friends and ride to them. He was waiting there with a few men-at-arms to grab me.”

“Ah, and claim that ye were caught with bloodied dagger in hand.”

“Just so. Avoiding the trap didnae save me, though, neither from seeing my friends hung up like rotting game nor from being accused of their foul murder.” He grasped her by the waist, easily lifting her to the top of a stony rise then hopping up after her. “I was caught, dragged before the corpses of my friends to see what I was being accused of, then tossed into the pits of Drumdearg.” He clasped her by the hand again and led her along a slowly rising sheep trail.

“Drumdearg?”

“My keep.”

“The one your cousin Iver now lays claim to.”

“Aye. If I judge where we are correctly, Drumdearg lies a good week’s ride north-northwest of here.”

“A little closer than ye might like, I suspect.”

“Aye—for now. Soon I shall sit in the great hall again—as a free mon.”

“Tell me, how is it that your gift of foretelling didnae warn ye of the trap ye were riding into?”

“It did, but I wasnae inclined to heed that part of the vision. I belittled it. Two men were being murdered. I told myself that that was the danger, that it was simply dangerous to go where there was killing being done.”

“True, although men do seem to be verra fond of doing just that. ’Tis easily seen in how they flock to a battle.”

“’Tis honor that draws them, lass.”

“Humph. Honor has put many a mon in his grave. I doubt that it makes his shroud any warmer.”

“In part, I am tempted to agree. Howbeit, a mon must hold himself to some code and one of honor is as good as any other.”

Moira considered that for a moment as she struggled over the rutted path. Honor was a fine thing. Unfortunately too many men used the preservation of honor as an excuse for killing other men. Whenever she was told that a man had “died with honor,” she always wondered how the dead man felt about it. Did he wake in heaven, realize that his life was now over, and say, “Oh, weel, I still have my honor”? She heard Tavig chuckle and realized that she had muttered her speculation aloud.

“Ye dinnae have a high regard for a mon’s ways, do ye, dearling?” Tavig asked, amused and intrigued by her opinions for they revealed a keen wit.

“I wouldnae say that I have none, but, aye, I do wonder on it all at times. And, at times, I think it is all verra absurd. There are occasions, howsomever, when there can be a great nobility revealed in a mon’s acts. Mayhap ’tis just my woman’s mind, my womanly heart. I simply dinnae understand. I wasnae trained as a mon is, wasnae taught the knightly ways or rules.”

“Nay. Women are trained to give life, to nurture it. Men are trained to take life away.” He stopped, facing her and holding out the rough waterskin he had taken from the fisherman’s cottage. “Women arenae made to take any life.”

After quenching her thirst and handing the waterskin back to him, Moira smiled faintly. “I wouldnae say that. Women may not be trained in the ways of war and deeds, but some still have the stomach for killing. Aye, and I suspect that the ones who do kill can do so with some skill. Women just dinnae do it for such things as honor.” She watched him drink, intrigued by the gentle motion in his strong throat as he swallowed.

“Nay?” Tavig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What would make a woman kill?”

“Tis a verra strange conversation we are having.”

“True, but now ye have stirred my curiosity. What would make a woman kill someone? Hate?” He dampened a scrap of cloth and gently wiped the dust from her small face.

Although Moira found it a little difficult to keep her mind on what they were discussing, she struggled to reply. “A woman can hate. Mayhaps e’en more adamantly than a mon.” Still unsettled by his soft bathing of her face, she watched as he briskly wiped the dust from his own. “Jealousy might prompt a woman, too,” she continued, hoping that talk would stop him from noticing how she kept staring at him.

“And greed.” He slung the waterskin over his shoulder, took her by the hand, and started walking again.

“Weel—aye—I suppose. And most women would do their utmost to kill anyone who threatened the life of a bairn.”

“Aye, a woman can grow most fierce when ye endanger her child.”

“In truth, I think a woman can be prompted to kill for most of the same reasons a mon can. We just arenae driven to it as often, and some of the things a mon feels are worth dying for or killing for seem verra odd to us.”

“They can sometimes seem verra odd to men, too,” Tavig murmured, glancing at her. “Another difference is that women can be verra treacherous in the manner of their killing.”

“Weel, we cannae always face our enemy eye to eye and sword to sword. We would then become the slain instead of the slayer. Only a fool doesnae recognize his own weaknesses.”

“Aye, so ye slip a dirk in their backs in the dark of night whilst they lie asleep in their beds.”

There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. Moira puzzled over it, but lacked the courage to ask the reason for it. She then thought of her guardian, of his brutality both subtle and direct. Many a time, as she nursed the bruises he gave her, she thought of the many ways she might kill him. Often she had imagined long, slow deaths that would finally repay him for all of the pain he had caused her. Occasionally she had simply considered cutting his fat throat as he slept, quietly ending his long reign of cruelty and fear.

“And some men deserve no better than a stealthy death,” she said in a very quiet voice.

A deep anger shaded her words, and Tavig sensed it was directed at Sir Bearnard. He ached to question her about her life with her guardian, about her feelings, but knew it was not a good time for such an inquisition. She had to grow more accustomed to him, to get to know him much better. The wait would be frustrating, for he was certain that Sir Bearnard’s treatment of Moira would cause him some trouble, could even be a wall between them that he would find hard to breach, and yet he could not just charge ahead, demanding the information he wanted. After silently and heartily cursing Sir Bearnard Robertson, Tavig strove for a tighter tone in their conversation.

“Ye are an impertinent wee thing,” he teased, frowning when he felt her tense.

Moira shivered as a thrill of fear went through her, lodging in her stomach and knotting it. Impertinent wee thing, Tavig had called her. When she had first gone to live with her guardian, he had often called her that. She had quickly learned the wisdom of controlling her tongue. Any hint of impertinence on her part had always brought about the worst of his beatings.

She covertly studied Tavig, who frowned at her for a moment then shrugged and turned his attention to the rough path they traveled. Tavig did not look ready to strike her. He did not look as if he even considered such an act. Nevertheless, she decided to take his words as a warning. She had learned the thin limits of Sir Bearnard’s tolerance and patience and she would learn Tavig’s limits. Until now she had not really feared Tavig. She had spoken with an unaccustomed freedom. Too much freedom, she mused. She had let herself forget the unkind ways of men, but she would not do so again. She would remember to weigh her every word and to make sure that she uttered as few words as possible. Silence had proven to be the safest route to follow.

When Moira continued to say nothing, Tavig concentrated on picking out the smoothest path to follow. The brief frightened look she had cast his way had stung him. The almost tangible way she had withdrawn from him, although her hand still rested in his, hurt him. Tavig knew he had a lot of work ahead of him if he was to accomplish what he felt was their destiny—marriage, full and lasting. He did not want a wife who cowered at every turn. He knew there was wit and strength within Moira. Sir Bearnard had beaten down the spirit within her. Tavig vowed that he would free it.