“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.”