Moira silently vowed to herself to do the same no matter how difficult it would be for her to get some coin. Although she was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to think of it, there was no ignoring the fact that Tavig was a condemned man. His intention to repay everyone they had to steal from could well be a sincere one, but she could not ignore the possibility that he would be unable to keep his promise. Somehow, some way, she would have to fulfill that promise herself.
“Now why do ye look so sour? Shake away your ill mood, my wee bride, and let us begin our journey.” He picked up the bundle of supplies he had gathered and started out of the tiny hut.
“Ye expect me to be gay as I begin what could be a verra long and dangerous walk?” she asked as she followed him. “Only a witless fool could be pleased at the thought of marching o’er Scotland for a fortnight or so with naught but rags and tattered hose to protect his feet.”
Tavig glanced back at her woolen-swathed feet then looked at his own boots. He felt a twinge of guilt he knew was unwarranted. There had been nothing to fit her dainty feet within the fisherman’s hut. His own battered, salt-stiffened boots were far too large for her. The thick woolen rags wrapped around her feet would have to suffice until he could either steal or beg something else for her to wear.
“I will concede that your poor wee feet arenae too weel protected,” he said, helping her hop over a shallow ditch. “I will do my best to correct that lack as soon as I can.”
“Ye mean ye will steal me some shoes.” She winced as she trod on a small thistle plant.
“A bride shouldnae demean her mon’s method of caring for her needs.”
“Will ye cease calling me your bride? Why do ye persist with that madness?”
“’Tisnae madness.”
“Nay? I cannae think of what else ye might call it.” She stumbled over a rock and, when he took her by the hand, she did not pull free for she appreciated that light, steadying touch. “Ye dinnae ken who I am, who my family is, or anything else about me. I am no heiress to be coveted, and our kinsmen havenae made some truce or bargain we are forced to seal with our marriage. I just dinnae understand what has put the idea into your head and why ye hold to it. ’Tisnae as if we are fated or the like.”
“Ah, but we are fated.”
Moira muttered a curse, scowling at his broad back. “I willnae say that I have no belief in fate or destiny. ’Tis hard not to have a wee bit. Howbeit, in this matter any talk of fate or destiny is foolishness.”
“I fear that—in this matter—fate and destiny are a verra large part of it all. When that railing broke and ye were dangling over those churning waters, I kenned that our lives were fated to be bound together. I understood why I had been watching ye so closely e’en though ye are such a wee, thin lass.”
“Thank ye,” she grumbled, nettled by his constant reference to her small stature.
“Dinnae ye think that Fate was working her mischief when suddenly ye paid heed to me and spared a wee moment to talk with me?”
“’Twasnae fate. Ye spoke to me first. I simply answered ye.”
“Was it not fate that caused ye to suddenly plunge into the sea?”
“’Twas the storm and rotting railings. That captain should be flogged for keeping such a poor ship.”
“It was fate that prompted me to leap into the water after ye, to try and save ye.”
“’Twas lunacy, moon madness, ’twas unthinking gallantry of the sort that has buried many a mon.”
He stopped, turning toward her and grinning. “Gallantry? Weel, thank ye.”
“Ye thank me for calling ye a lunatic?”
“Ye also called me gallant.”
“I consider the two quite equal in witlessness.” She shook her head when he just winked at her and started walking again, gently tugging her along with him.
“I kenned that our lives were bound together whilst I waited for ye to recover from your wee swim. I looked at ye sprawled upon the sand and, as I tended to ye, ’twas suddenly all verra clear to me.”
“Clear? I was spewing up water, covered in sand and sodden rags and cursing. ’Twas no sight to inspire a mon to thoughts of marriage. I was a dripping, wretched mess. ’Tis all ye saw.”
“Nay, I saw a great deal more. ’Tis my curse,” he murmured.
She frowned at him. “Are ye trying to tell me that ye are gifted with the sight or the like?”
“Nay, not the sight. I dinnae really have visions.” He kept his gaze fixed upon the ground, not eager to see her face as he confessed his strange gift. “I just ken things, have a deep certainty about what is to occur next in my life and the lives of others. When I first saw ye coming up on deck I was certain it meant naught but trouble. I was sure that ye shouldnae rest against that railing, that it would break.”
“That could be naught but simple chance, a guess, a suspicion.”
“’Tis much stronger than that. I can see things in my head, but they arenae truly visions. They are more the images born of the certainty that grips me so tightly. The day of the murders I have been accused of committing, I kenned that my two friends were doomed. Even as I hurried to warn them I was certain I would be too late. I could see them dead. In my mind’s eye, I could see them murdered. I ne’er have the time to change what is fated, but, that time, the forewarning allowed me to save myself from falling into my cousin’s trap.”
Moira was not sure what to think about his confession. A part of her scorned the idea of forewarnings, but an equal part of her believed in them. Since she had a strange gift, why could he not have one as well? She was certain, however, that she did not like his particular gift, whether it was fact or just some delusion of his.
“If ye are right and if ye arenae jesting with your foolish talk of marriage, ye have just given me another good reason to refuse to be your bride. Besides the fact that ye are condemned to hang, of course,” she added.
Tavig stopped and looked at her, hurt that she, like so many others, could not accept his strange talent. “Ye are afraid, just like all the others.”
“Fear, and whether I believe ye or not, has little to do with it. Look at me.” She pointed to her hair. “Did ye not happen to see what color my hair is? ’Tis red.”
“Aye—a glorious red. Bright yet not too bright.” He stepped closer, running his hand down her long, thick braid. “A silken curtain of fire. Warm, soft, and of a hue that greatly compliments ye.”
She was touched by his flattery and pleasantly unsettled by his nearness, but struggled to keep her mind on what they were discussing. “Dinnae ye ken what is said about red hair? ’Tis the sign of a hot-tempered and choleric disposition. They say ’twas the color of Judas’s hair, ’tis the color of a dissembler. A red beard is a token of a vile and cruel disposition. Red is a witch’s color. Many believe redheads are witches, fit only for burning. If ye and I were to wed, we probably wouldnae live out the year. Someone would surely cry us witches and set us alight.”
“Burned as witches?” He almost laughed, relieved that her horror had not been aimed at him, but caused by the thought of all the difficulties such an odd gift could bring them. “I have had this foresight for my whole life, as no one has yet piled kindling about my feet.”
“Weel, mayhaps those whom ye abide with can either accept or avoid ye. They treat me the same way. Howbeit, to put the two of us together could easily be more than anyone could endure.” Especially when it is seen that I, too, have an odd talent.
“Nay, ye worry o’er naught.”