“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.”