Highland Honor. Hannah Howell

for hours?” Gisele grabbed a share of the food and struggled against the urge to strike him.

      “I felt it best that we put as many miles as we could between us and them.”

      As she chewed on the stale bread, she fought to control her anger. He was right. It was wise to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the people who were so eager to kill her. She was achingly tired, and she dearly wanted to blame someone for that. Nigel was not the one, however. The one who deserved her fury was far beyond her reach. She was going to have to try to accept her lot with more grace and patience.

      “I ask your pardon, Sir Murray,” she said quietly as she accepted the wineskin he held out to her and took a small drink, a little dismayed at how nearly empty it was. “I am tired, and am in an ill temper.”

      “That is easy to understand, lass.”

      “It may be, but you do not deserve the sharp edge of my tongue. It is not your fault that I ache and am enduring a miserable ride across France. I but search for someone to pay for this unjust discomfort I am suffering, and there is no one. The man who set me on this much cursed path is dead, and beyond the reach of my curses.”

      He patted her shoulder in a brief gesture of sympathy. “If justice has been served, lass, your husband is suffering dearly, enduring far more torment and torture than ye could e’er mete out.”

      “Do not be so certain. I can mete out a great deal.” She weakly returned his grin.

      “’Twill soon be over.”

      “Will it, or will I simply be further away than I have been before now?” She sighed and held up her hand when he started to speak. “Do not trouble yourself to try to soothe my ill humor. That is all it is, an ill humor brought on because I am tired and cannot have what I want.”

      “And what do ye want, Gisele?” Nigel asked softly.

      “I want to go home.” She grimaced. “Merde, I sound like a small child, but there is the truth of it. I want to go home. I want to sleep in my own warm, soft bed, bathe whenever the mood overcomes me, and eat whatever and whenever I want. I want to have no more reason to feel sorry for myself. And, for all of my complaining, I do recall that you suffer the same as I. I want that to stop, too. You deserve this no more than I do.”

      “But I am hardened to these discomforts, and ye arenae. I should try harder to remember that.”

      “Non, do not change what you are doing and must continue to do to keep us alive,” she said firmly. “For it is us now, not just me. The DeVeaux are hunting me, but they would kill you without hesitation, either because you stood in their way or because you have helped me. I cannot swear that I will not again whimper over my pains or feel sorry for myself, but you must pay it no heed. Running for one’s life is much exhausting, and I do not often behave well or with any wit when I am so tired.”

      “Few of us do, lass. Ye can rest this night, for we have lost that pack of dogs.”

      “How can you be so certain? They found us, and I would never have believed they would.”

      Nigel shrugged. “I dinnae have a good answer for how they found us. They were lucky, and we were unlucky. It may be no more than that. I didnae hide our trail weel. I sought distance o’er secrecy. Now I will pay more heed to secrecy.” He smiled gently when she hastily raised a hand to cover a wide yawn. “Rest, wee Gisele. It has been a long day.”

      She sprawled on her bedding and weakly wrapped herself up in her thin blanket. “And there are many more long days ahead, are there not, Sir Murray?”

      “Some, aye,” he replied as he settled down on his bed. “’Tis getting into and out of a port that will prove the hardest.”

      Gisele cursed softly. “Of course. The DeVeaux will have them all watched much closely.”

      “Verra closely.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Not much closely, verra closely.”

      “This English is not an easy language.”

      “Ye speak it verra weel, far better than I can speak your language. Who taught it to you?”

      “My grandmére. She was from Wales.” Gisele lightly touched the amulet she wore.

      “That explains the odd lilt to your words. Ye have the hint of the French to your words, but I did puzzle o’er that other note I could hear.” He looked at the ornate medallion she idly stroked. “She gave you that?”

      “Oui. She said the entwined circles of silver were formed by her father’s father, or even the father before that. She was not completely sure. The seven garnets mark the seven sons he was blessed with. Grandmére said it would bring me good fortune.”

      “I think it has. Ye have survived a year despite being hunted down by a verra powerful and verra rich clan. There is good fortune many would envy.”

      “Then I pray it continues to bless us,” she murmured and closed her eyes, unable to keep them open a moment longer. “If you have any more questions to ask of me, Sir Murray, I fear they must wait until the morrow.”

      Nigel laughed softly when she almost immediately fell asleep, then grew solemn as he lightly brushed a dusting of dirt from her soft cheek. She was a strong little woman, enduring a lot, but he was not sure how much more she could tolerate. There was little choice, however. He hated to see her so weary and sore, but he did not wish to see her die, either, and that was the fate awaiting her if the DeVeaux caught up with them. As he closed his eyes and welcomed a much needed sleep, he swore that he would gift her with every comfort as soon as they reached Scotland. He also swore that he would do what her own family seemed incapable of or unwilling to do—free her from the DeVeaux’s blind and unending thirst for revenge.