Читать книгу Highland Fire - Hannah Howell - Страница 9

“Let me have a look at those feet, dearling,” Tavig said as he knelt before Moira.

Moira gave a soft cry of surprise. She glanced around, stunned to see that a fire was already built, their meager bedding of thin blankets laid out, and Tavig had already begun preparing the porridge. The last thing she recalled was that they had halted in the clearing, and she had sat down on the rock intending to rest for just a moment before helping him set up their camp. She had unwrapped her aching feet and simply lost any sense of time passing.

“Nay, they are fine,” she protested pulling her feet away when he reached for one.

Tavig studied her for a moment, frowning when he saw the hint of nervous fear in her eyes. “Those are the first words ye have said in several hours. I wonder why. Ye werenae so quiet earlier in the day.”

“I said all I needed to. I didnae wish to be too impertinent.”

“Impertinent? What made ye think ye were being impertinent?”

“Ye said I was. Ye said I was an impertinent wee lass.”

“And that made ye grow so quiet and wan? I was but teasing ye.” He could see by the wary look on her face that she was not sure she ought to believe him. “Truly. ’Tis no crime to be a wee bit impertinent.”

“My guardian thought it was.” Moira leaned away from Tavig when his face hardened in an expression of anger.

“I am not your twice-cursed guardian. I willnae knock ye down just because ye say something I may not like.” He grasped her by the ankle, pulled her small foot toward him. “’Twill take more than a few impertinent or ill-tempered words ere I would even think of striking a lass. I have no liking for such a thing.” He looked at her foot and cursed. “No wonder ye began to limp. Ye have sore abused these pretty wee feet.”

“I have abused them?”

“Aye. Ye should have watched where ye were stepping instead of sulking just because I called ye impertinent.”

Moira clenched her hands into tight fists, fighting the urge to pummel the top of his head. She was not sure if she should believe him when he claimed to have no liking or inclination to strike a woman. A man could spout such fine sentiments in one breath and knock a woman down in the next. Fury had dispelled her fears for the moment, however. She was tired and ached all over. Both conditions added to her anger.

“I wasnae sulking,” she snapped. “And I did watch where I stepped. Ye have some gall to scold me when ’tis all your fault I am sitting here too weary to move and my poor feet fair throbbing with pain.”

“My fault? Ye are fond of flinging out rash, unfounded accusations.”

“’Tis your fault. Ye were the one who tried to flirt with me. Ye are the one with the covetous cousin. If not for him, ye wouldnae have been condemned and ye wouldnae have been hiding on board that ship. None of us would have been aboard that ship if not for yet another of your cousins—that hulking kidnapper Mungan Coll. Aye, and if your thrice-cursed kinsmen hadnae placed us all on that thrice-cursed ship with their machinations, Annie wouldnae have met that disreputable little sailor, and I wouldnae have had to go out in the storm to try to find her. That was when we were flung into the sea, tossed up on that barren shore, and left with naught. And ’twas ye who decided we must take this hell-begotten journey. If ye hadnae devised this grand plan to walk to your mad cousin Coll’s, I wouldnae be sitting here with aching feet.”

“It does appear as if neither of us are blessed in our relations,” Tavig murmured. He stared at her for a moment before asking, “Do ye feel better for having said all that?”

“Aye. I do.”

Moira realized that was the truth. She did feel better. It had all been nonsense, a litany of blame for things he had not really done and could not change. She would not apologize for that, however. He slowly grinned, and she gave him a weak smile.

“I had meant to help ye set out our camp,” she said.

“’Tis your first day of hard travel, lass. Ye are weary. Ye will harden to it soon enough.”

“Weel, ’tisnae as if I have been pampered.” She gave a sigh of pleasure as he dampened a rag with water from the waterskin and tenderly bathed her feet.

“Nay, ye havenae, have ye?”

Tavig spoke softly as he frowned at her feet. He could not see very well in the dim light of a nearly set sun and the small fire, but he did not need to. Beneath his hands he could feel the calluses. They were not something he should find upon Moira’s tiny feet, for she was a wellborn lass.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, unsettled by the dark look upon his face.

“Did your kinsmen ne’er buy ye any shoes, or do ye have a liking for running about barefoot?”

“They fed and clothed me. I had no right to expect too much.”

“A pair of shoes isnae too much for your kinsmen to provide.”

“They did give me some.”

“Ye couldnae have worn them verra often, then.”

“Weel, I was only given them last month.” She eased the foot he still held out of his grasp. She was deeply embarrassed that he found her feet hard and rough. His gentle massage was also beginning to feel uncommonly pleasant. “Crooked Annie had even begun to rub my feet with an oil to soften them.”

“It took them so long to realize that ye were roughening your feet?”

Moira shrugged. “They had more important matters to concern themselves with.”

“Aye—themselves,” Tavig muttered as he rose and walked back to the fire

He sat down and started to cook their porridge. The matter of Moira’s shoes was a puzzle. Why would Sir Bearnard deny her shoes for so long then abruptly discard his cruel parsimony and give her some? Why had the man ignored the condition of her feet until just a month or so ago? It made no sense. Neither did Sir Bearnard appear the sort of man who was given to whims of kindness. There had to be a reason why the man suddenly cared about his ward’s feet becoming as callused as some common beggar’s.

There was another puzzle he had to solve, Tavig thought, briefly glancing at Moira as she sat down across the fire from him. Why had she been on that ship? There was no need for her presence. She could do nothing to help in ransoming Una Robertson. From what little he had been able to learn of Moira’s life with the Robertsons, Tavig did not think she was considered a part of that family, but was seen as an annoying burden of familial responsibility. There was, quite simply, no reason for Moira’s place in the Robertson entourage.

As he handed Moira a serving of porridge in a battered wooden bowl, Tavig studied her. He doubted she would know why she had been included. Somehow he had to think of the right questions to ask, ones whose answers would add up to a solution of the puzzle.

“Moira?” he asked as they ate their plain but filling meal. “Why were ye on that ship?”

“We were going to ransom Una. I thought ye kenned that.”

“Aye, I did. I do. I just wondered why ye were going along with the others. Did ye ask to go?”

For a moment Moira used the act of eating her meal to avoid answering him. She was not really sure what to say. Several times she had asked herself the very same question. There really was no good answer. That was not something she wanted to confess to Tavig. It would be admitting that she had no place in the Robertson family. She dreaded such an admission. Silently acknowledging it to herself was painful enough.

“’Twas Robertson business,” she finally replied. “Why shouldnae I be there?”

“If naught else but because the journey is a long, arduous, and dangerous one.”

“It wasnae verra dangerous until I made the mistake of feeling charitable toward a certain George Fraser.”

Tavig ignored that. “Ye could serve no purpose. Settling a ransom demand is men’s work.”

“Mayhap they thought Una would be in need of a female, one of her own ilk to turn to for comfort after her ordeal.”

“Ye and this Una are close friends?”

It was yet another question she did not really want to answer. The man had a particular skill for asking such awkward questions, Moira thought as she rubbed out her empty bowl with dirt. This time her hesitation did not work to hide the truth. When he took her bowl from her to rinse it with a little water, she realized she would have to tell the full unpleasant truth.

“Nay, Una and I arenae friends,” she muttered. “We arenae enemies, either. She was ne’er unkind to me. I was ne’er part of her life in truth. She was verra busy being trained and readied for a good marriage.”

“And ye were set to work with the maids.”

“Aye. ’Tis but fair that I earn my keep.”

Although he suspected she was worked very hard, Tavig said nothing as he wiped out their bowls and stuck them back into their sack of supplies. “So why would anyone think that ye could be a comfort to her?”

“We are of an age and both maids. There is a great deal we have in common. Why do ye ask? In truth, what does it matter? I can see no reason for your curiosity.” That was not the whole truth, for Moira did see the puzzle, but she did not understand why it should stir Tavig’s interest.

“Everything that concerns ye is of interest to me. A mon likes to learn all he can about the lass he will marry.”

The warmth she felt over his first statement faded abruptly with his second. “Ye are mad. Just as I begin to think ye are a reasonable mon, ye talk like a fool again. Weel, I have had my fill of your nonsense for the day. I need some rest.” She scowled toward the bedding he had spread out. “Ye prepared only one place to sleep?”

“Aye, my sweet Moira. Only one. The fishermon lived alone, I think.”

“How sad,” she murmured as she stood up, carefully brushing herself off.

“True. It must have been a lonely life for him.”

“Oh. Aye. My thought was that if he truly is dead, there is no one to grieve for him. A person ought to have a few tears shed for him when his life is ended. Someone should miss ye when ye are gone, or ’tis as if ye werenae here at all. ’Tis a verra sad thought.”

“And do ye have folk who would miss ye?” Tavig was curious about what other kinsmon she had, perhaps some a little less swinish and brutal than Sir Bearnard.

Moira inwardly winced, for she knew there would be few, if any, and their sense of loss would be fleeting. She struggled to shrug with an air of nonchalance. “There are a few.”

“Ah, poor wee Moira,” he said in a soft voice, easily seeing through her lie. “I will weep for ye.”

The thought that he might actually do so touched Moira in a way that made her nervous and she frowned at him. “Ye are a verra silly mon. Ye dinnae e’en ken who I am, have barely kenned me for a full day. For all ye can tell, I could be one of those people most folk would wish an early death on. And as far as ye being able to weep for me, I would have to succumb to the Grim Reaper’s touch verra quickly, indeed, to be sure that ye are still alive to do so. The hangmon waits for ye, Tavig MacAlpin.”

“A fact I am not apt to forget. If I meet my fate ere ye do, will ye shed a tear for me as I sway from the gallows tree?”

“This is a verra foolish conversation,” she grumbled, walking to their bed of blankets.

Tavig smiled faintly as he watched her settle down on their meager bed. He was beginning to understand Moira. She had not answered his question. That meant that she could not give him a firm nay. Moira would be upset if he was taken by the hangman, although she might not fully understand why.

He banked the fire, leaving a smaller and safer flame to flicker during the night. It would not give them much warmth, but it would serve to ward off any curious or dangerous animals. He moved to the bedding they would have to share, sat down, and tugged off his boots. After slipping beneath the blanket, he placed the ill-made sword he had acquired in the fisherman’s hut close by his side. He tucked his knife just under the edge of the blanket beneath him. Tavig turned on his side, smiling at Moira, who pointedly kept her back toward him. He slipped his arm around her tiny waist.

Moira pushed his arm away, alarmed at how nice it felt as Tavig eased it around her. “There will be none of that. Ye can stay to your own side.”

“A mon ought to be able to cuddle with his bride.”

A warm, subtly intoxicating feeling caused by his closeness had been seeping over Moira, but it abruptly fled at his words. It occurred to her that his constant talk of marriage could have some cunning purpose. After all, she mused, if he made her believe they were to be wed, she might grow lax in protecting her chastity. She turned onto her side and glared at him, silently cursing the shadows that disguised his expression.

“Is that your game, then?” she demanded.

“My game?” Tavig could hear the anger in her husky voice and wondered how he had stepped wrong this time.

“Aye—your game. Ye try to deceive me into acting like some tavern wench. Ye want me to believe all your babble about being wed, about being your bride, so that I will think ’tis no great sin to allow ye to bed me.”

“Ah, now I see what twisted path your thoughts are taking. Ye had me a wee bit confused for a moment. Lass, if all I sought was a good rutting I would ne’er speak the words ‘marriage’ or ‘bride.’ I would be verra careful not to give ye any claim to me.” He tugged her into his arms, holding her just tight enough to mute her struggles. “I would just seduce you.”

“Such arrogance.” Moira gave up struggling, but remained tense, silently protesting his hold and fighting how right, how good, it felt to be so close to him. “Not every lass can be seduced.”

“Aye, I ken it. I wouldnae try to seduce ye, lass.” He inwardly asked forgiveness for that lie for he had every intention of trying to coax her into being his lover. “I have no need to. We are mates, a fated match. Destiny has paired us.”

“Ye talk such complete nonsense.”

“Do I? Can ye not feel it, fair Moira?”

“Feel what?”

“The bond between us.”

Moira could feel something, but she was not sure she should call it a bond. He was warming the curve of her neck from her shoulder to her earlobe with soft kisses, and that warmth rippled through her body. That gentle yet pervasive heat also curled through her mind, melting away all her suspicions and anger. She considered a bond to be something steadfast, built over the years by familiarity and trust which made a person feel calm, confident, and safe. What Tavig was stirring inside of her was hot, fierce, new, and frightening. He was seducing her. He spoke of bonds and matrimony yet what he was pulling from her, what Moira was certain he was intending to stir within her, was the basest of hungers. Moira was afraid of the strength of that hunger and of her own weakness.

“’Tis unfair of ye to play your lecher’s games with me,” she protested, a little surprised at how soft and husky her voice was. “I am a weelborn maid, not some light-moraled wench.”

“Now, lassie, whilst I will admit that ye make me feel verra lecherous, I play no game here.” He began to brush light, teasing kisses over her small face, stirred by the signs of passion he could sense in her. “How can ye not feel the bond destiny has set between us? Do ye think I speak of marriage to every sodden lass I find sprawled upon the shore?”

“How should I ken what ye tell the lasses? I only started to speak to ye but yesterday.”

“True, but I have forgiven ye for behaving so coldly toward me.”

“Ye are a jester. Ye should wear the belled cap so that all may ken your wit.”

“Now, Moira, what have I done to make ye mistrust me so?”

“Other than being condemned to hang for the murder of two men?”

Tavig looked at her for a moment then smiled. “Ye ken that I didnae do that.”

Moira decided that the way he could just look at her and know how she felt was not only intimidating but annoying. “I havenae decided if I believe your tale of innocence or not.”

“Aye, ye have.” He kissed the hollow by her ear.

She trembled. “Ye are a verra arrogant fellow.” She clung to the front of his shirt, struggling vainly to regain her wits enough to push him away. “Ye should have more respect for a woman’s innocence and her desire to keep it.”

“Lass, I begin to think that ye could merrily rut with every mon the length and breadth of Scotland and still be innocent. A wee bit of loving from a mon who wishes to wed ye cannae steal it away.”

“I have decided to ignore all your mad talk of wedding me.”

“Have ye now?” He feathered soft kisses over her cheeks, edging ever closer to her full, tempting mouth.

“Aye, and now I demand that ye release me.”

“Free yourself,” he murmured, lightly brushing his lips over hers.

Moira really did not want to. A sharp flicker of resentment cut through the heat flowing through her. He should accept her refusal to play his game no matter how halfhearted it was. Her irritation was short-lived, however. The desire rushing through her body was too strong. She had never been kissed before and she desperately wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by the darkly handsome man holding her. She promised herself that she would allow only one kiss.

Tavig sensed her acquiescence, and covered her soft mouth with his. She curled her slender arms around his neck. He held her close, heartily savoring the sweet innocence of her mouth. The promise of a fiery passion was there, and he ached to uncover it, but he knew he could not rush her. Life with Sir Bearnard had left her wounded. Tavig knew he would need a very gentle hand to smooth away those scars.

He moved his hands down her sides, lightly tracing her slender shape. When she pressed against him, her body trembling beneath his touch, he knew it would be difficult to proceed as carefully as he needed to. Only the thought of how easily he could destroy the very passion he ached to taste held him to his vow to move slowly.

When he lifted his head and looked at her, his breath caught in his throat. Even in the dim moonlight he could see the flush of passion in her cheeks. Her beautiful eyes were heavy-lidded. Her full lips glistened from the moisture of his kiss. He could feel her small, taut breasts moving against his chest in a quickened rhythm.

“Part those bonnie lips,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“Do it and ye will soon ken why.”

Moira hesitated only a moment. He had done nothing frightening yet. When she parted her lips and he uttered a low moan, she began to have doubts. He allowed her no time to consider them. He pressed his warm mouth against hers, easing his tongue between her lips. She clutched at him as he stroked the inside of her mouth, each movement of his tongue sending fire through her veins. Moira lost all sense of time and place, her mind rapidly filling with nothing but the thought of how good Tavig MacAlpin was making her feel.

When he silently urged her down onto their rough bed, covering her body with his, his touch growing bolder, she began to regain her senses. She fought a stern battle with her own desire. It felt so wonderful she wanted to continue, but, innocent though she was, she knew things had gone too far. In her head she could hear Crooked Annie’s raspy voice saying, “Dinnae let a mon cover ye, lass.” She had let Tavig do so and must put a stop to it.

Just as she was about to try to say something to push him away when every part of her wanted to hold him close, he stopped. He pressed his forehead against hers for a moment as he took several long, unsteady breaths. A minute later, he rolled onto his side, but kept her tucked up against him.

“I believe that is enough of that, lass,” he said, his voice soft and husky.

“Aye, it certainly is.” Moira realized even the sound of his voice, roughened by desire, was making it difficult to rein in her passion.

“I shouldnae have let ye tempt me so. Ye shall have to behave yourself better, loving, if ye mean to hold fast to your chastity.”

It took Moira a minute to understand what he was saying and then to believe that she was hearing him correctly. She muttered one of the many curse words Crooked Annie was so fond of. When he laughed, she grew even more agitated and swatted him. Her hand had barely brushed against his arm when she realized what she was doing. Moira gasped, a tremor of fear banishing the last of her desire, and she hastily pulled away from him.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, tensing with the certainty that he would reciprocate with far more force than she had used.

“For what, lass? I deserved a wee slap.” He frowned. “Do ye now expect me to knock ye on your arse?”

There was a hint of anger in his voice that confused her. It was clearly aimed at what she expected him to do and not at what she had done. “Nay, of course not. And ye cannae do it anyway, for I am already on my arse.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, astounded and a little shocked at her own words. “Oh! Listen to me. Ye are a poor influence, Tavig MacAlpin.”

Tavig laughed, gently kissing her on the forehead. “Nay. What harm in a wee bit of wit even if it is faintly coarse? Aye, and it shows that ye can be at ease with me. There is no harm in that.”

“Nay? I would think that growing at ease with a mon accused of two murders isnae verra clever at all.”

“How ye wound me.”

“I doubt that much can pierce your thick hide.” She yawned, not resisting when he tucked her up close to his side. “I believe I really must go to sleep, Sir Tavig,” she murmured even as she closed her eyes

Tavig waited for her to wish him a good sleep, but after a moment of silence, he looked at her. It was evident she had gone to sleep within a heartbeat of speaking. He smiled, nestling her slim form more comfortably against him. His smile widened when she murmured, cuddling up to him as if it were already a habit.

“Ah, lass, ye will soon see that we are destined. Aye, I just have to soothe those hurts that bastard Sir Bearnard inflicted upon ye.” He sighed, kissing the top of her head. “I just pray that I have the patience and skill to do it.”