As he nudged her inside the hut, Moira muttered a curse. She stood just inside the low door while he lit a fire and a few tallow candles. His plan was a terrible one as far as she could see, but much to her annoyance she could not think of a better one.
When there was some light in the nearly windowless house, she sat down on a rough bench next to an equally crudely made wooden table. A little sullenly she watched as Tavig found some food and began to make them porridge. His self-sufficiency irritated her. It all too clearly illustrated the one very good reason why she was stuck with him. She had never, in all of her eighteen years upon the earth, been on her own. Not only did the thought of trying to fend for herself terrify her, but also she greatly doubted that she could survive any long period of enforced hardship.
Her lack of skills was not wholly her fault, she consoled herself. Her parents, nurses, and even her maids had allowed her to do very little. She had not been allowed to continue that pampered life when she had gone to live with Sir Bearnard Robertson and his family, however. She had quickly been put to work weaving and sewing. But neither skill would do her much good now. Crooked Annie, who had taken her under her aging wing two years ago, had begun to teach her a few more useful things. There had not been enough time, however, to learn very much except for a reasonably good skill with a knife.
So, I can protect myself a wee bit, she mused. It was some comfort. She knew it was far from enough. It would not keep her fed or clothed or protected from the harshness of the weather. She needed Tavig MacAlpin, and that galled her. Moira glared at the bowl of porridge he set before her.
“Ah, now, lassie—why so dreary?” Tavig sat down opposite her and began to eat.
“Ye mean aside from the fact that I spent several hours being tossed about in the cold seawater and was nearly drowned?” She had to acknowledge that he could stir up a fine meal of porridge, which did nothing to improve her mood.
“But ye survived. Ye were slapped about some, but ye were still alive when the water spat ye up onto the shore.”
“Then what about the fact that I have naught to wear but this tattered nightgown and bedraggled cloak?”
“I was thinking that your clothes survived your ordeal rather weel.”
“Were ye, indeed? How about the fact that I have no idea of where we are? I am stuck upon some desolate moorlands with no idea of where to go or how to get there.”
“Dinnae worry o’er that, dearling. I will lead ye to safety.”
“Aye, and there is another thing,” she muttered, scraping the last of the porridge from her bowl with short, clipped movements.
“And what is that other thing?” he asked when she did not continue and simply glared into her now-empty bowl.
“I cannae take care of myself. I cannae do whatever needs to be done to survive this ordeal. I have to depend upon ye to help me to get somewhere safe.”
“’Tisnae such a bad thing for a wife to depend upon her husband.”
Moira slammed her crude wooden spoon down onto the table. “If we must be together, ye can just cease that foolish talk right now. I dinnae find it at all amusing.”
“I am glad to hear it. Marriage isnae something to chuckle at. ’Tis a verra serious matter.” He almost laughed at the thoroughly disgusted look she gave him.
“Why do ye persist?”
It had to be a jest, and she found that a little painful. She had more or less resigned herself to spinsterhood, perhaps spending her days as nursemaid to Una’s children. Since no marriage had been arranged for her or even been discussed, she assumed that she had no dowry. That lack combined with her red hair, something many considered an unacceptable color if not a mark of the devil himself, made marriage an unattainable goal. And there was her “gift,” her healing touch, which she kept a close secret for it also stirred people’s fears. She doubted she could keep it a secret forever from her own husband. That fact made her believe that it was probably for the best if she remained a maid, to forgo marriage forever. Now this man continually teased her about it. It seemed somewhat cruel of him.
“Ye dinnae even ken who I am,” she continued. “Our acquaintance is too short a one for ye to be talking about making it a permanent partnership. Not that your life looks to be a verra long one anyway.”
“I should remind ye that I am not dead yet, lassie. I dinnae suppose ye would believe me if I told you that I was completely innocent, that I ne’er killed those men,” he said, pouring them each some of the wine.
“If ye are innocent then why are ye condemned to hang? Aye, and by your verra own kinsmon? I heard what Cousin Bearnard said, and ye didnae deny a word of it.”
“Just because I am condemned to hang doesnae mean I committed the crime. The carcasses of many an innocent mon have dangled from the gallows. I am certain of it. And as for being tried and convicted by my own kinsmon—what better way is there to be rid of the rightful heir to all that ye covet?”
He sounded very sincere. There was a wealth of bitterness in his rich voice which only added veracity to his words. Moira wanted to believe him, but fought to cling tightly to her doubts and wariness. It was a very bad time for her to be too trusting.
“Where were the rest of your kinsmen?” she asked. “Did they all believe this lie? Did none stand up in your defense?” She could see a pained look in his dark eyes, but refused to let sympathy temper or halt her questions. “Did no other stand as your advocate? Did none protest the sentence handed down or argue against the accusation?”
“The answers to all of those questions must be aye, but a tempered aye. The mon who did this to me, my cousin Iver, has many a strong ally. I have some allies, too, but if they had openly come to my aid they would have harmed themselves more than they could e’er have helped me. They have neither the power nor the wealth to stand against Iver and his friends. I couldnae and cannae allow them to risk their verra lives for me. They did what little they could for me, which is why I was able to escape.”
“Ye didnae stay free for verra long or ye would have reached Mungan Coll by now.” Moira heartily wished that his tale did not sound so very plausible, for it strongly tempted her to believe him.
“True. I fell victim to a bonnie face that hid a black heart.”
“A verra pretty way of saying that ye were caught because ye dallied instead of ran.”
Tavig grinned. “Aye. A mon can be verra easily diverted by the glint of welcome in a lass’s eyes.” He reached across the table, gently clasping her hand. “Howbeit, ye willnae have to fear my wandering from the marriage bed. I am a mon who takes a vow verra seriously.”
She snatched her hand out of his. “Ye are a mon whose wits are sadly addled.”
“Such harsh words.”
He looked so ridiculously mournful that Moira almost laughed, then caught herself. It was far from funny. If he was not taunting her because she was so clearly doomed to spinsterhood, then he was mad. There was no cause for laughter in either case. She told herself that she had to try harder to ignore his ridiculous talk of marriage. Since she now faced the enormous task of staying alive until she was back with her kinsmen, Moira told herse If that she must concentrate on that task and only that task.
“Why did ye get onto our ship?”
“As I was fleeing my cousin’s faithful lackeys, I heard that your ship was sailing to my cousin Mungan’s lands. ’Twas risky, but not as risky as staying where I was.” He gave her a small smile. “Ye dinnae believe me.”
“I must think about it first.” She clasped her hands together, trying to effect a stern look. “Now, I think our time would be much better served if we discussed what we must do next.”
“I told ye—we are going to my cousin Mungan’s keep.” He picked up her dishes as well as his own and moved toward a pan of