Page 41 of The Shape of Silence

Several of the men barked short, surprised laughs at that, while Morggán, already knowing this, seemed to be entertained by their reaction to her statement.

“Did ye now?” Finlay asked.

Avery immediately realized perhaps that had not been the proper thing to admit.

“He looks—looked—dangerous,” she defended herself, feeling heat rise into her face all over again beneath the attention. “And very large.”

“Charmed ye in the end, did he?” Alasdair asked, wearing a smirk.

Avery’s blush deepened painfully. “No,” she answered too quickly.

Which only seemed to amuse them further.

Mortified now, Avery turned instinctively toward Morggán instead and found him looking at Alasdair with a hard narrowing of his eyes that erased the last of his earlier amusement and made Alasdair’s grin falter.

“I should get back,” she said, breathless now for some reason. At his nod, she gave a fleeting and stiff smile to the circle of men. “It was nice meeting you,” she said before she turned and made her escape.

Charlie was by her side in the next moment, loping along beside her.

A thought came to her. The forest had hidden her for years, from her parents and the entire changing world, and yet it hadn’t hidden Morggán at all from people intent on finding him.

Chapter Eleven

Morggán watched Avery retreat toward the shelter of the trees with Charlie at her side. She didn’t hurry exactly, yet neither did she linger once she had escaped the weight of so much overtly curious attention. The grass bent softly around her as she crossed back toward the forest, her long hair stirring in the wind, shoulders held with visible composure despite the strain he had watched steadily gathering in her these past several minutes.

“Well,” Alasdair remarked, following her with his gaze, “that explains some parts, I s’pose.”

Morggán, supposing he understood what was implied, and possibly imagined by others, shot him a look. “Mind yourself.”

“What?” Alasdair asked, entirely unrepentant. “Ye disappear for more than a week and expect us nae to wonder about who ye’ve been nesting with?”

“Jesu,” Morggán cursed a warning at the same time Tormod spoke with less heat.

“Enough,” Tormod said.

The rebuke carried little volume, yet Alasdair clamped his lips closed immediately.

Eòin continued watching Avery’s diminishing figure thoughtfully. “We thought the English had ye.”

“Nae.” Morggán glanced once toward the southern hills beyond the trees where his men still sat scattered across the grasslands in loose formation. “Get the horses under cover,” he ordered. “We’ll nae remain exposed out here like fools.”

The command passed quickly through the company. Riders turned mounts toward the forest at once, the loose searching formation dissolving into familiar purposeful motion. Horses threaded between the trees while men dismounted and began settling themselves throughout the clearing surrounding Avery’s hut.

Avery was not going to like this, Morggán guessed. What had been quiet woodland scarcely an hour earlier now filled with the muted noise of an armed company making temporary camp. Morggán walked toward the dwelling with Tormod and his officers, watching it happen with increasingly divided thoughts. Avery was nowhere in sight now. Likely inside, he guessed, hiding from the sudden invasion of her solitude. He could scarcely blame her.

In her everyday existence so far as he understood it, Avery was an exceedingly quiet creature. Though she had grown more accustomed to him over these past days, he remained only one man occupying her space, and even then she often moved through the hut with the wary awareness of someone long used to solitude. This now—more than four full units of armed men spreading themselves throughout the forest around her home—must surely feel to her like the world itself crashing suddenly through the trees.

His gaze swept over the soldiers settling in, then narrowed sharply.

Little Iain stood beside the hut itself poking curious fingers against the oilcloth stretched over the window opening, pressing it inward to peer into the dimness beyond.

“Bluidy hell,” Morggán snapped. He turned to Finlay, at his immediate left. “Get him away from there.”

As Finlay strode off toward the hut, Morggán turned to Alasdair.

“Tell them all: this house is off-limits. Ten-yard perimeter at all times. Nae one enters unless invited,” he said, knowing there would be no invitations.

Alasdair nodded immediately, though a faint frown accompanied it, perhaps at the unusual order itself or the force with which Morggán delivered it. “Aye,” he said simply before moving off to spread the word.