“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.
Chapter Four
“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