Page 17 of Highland Fire

“Yours isnae so bad, either.” She grimaced when he laughed softly.

“Such flattery.”

His long fingers brushed over the curve of her breast, and Moira shuddered from the force of the desire ripping through her body. Gritting her teeth, she squirmed out of his hold. She hastily stood up, silently praying he could not see how unsteady she was. Somehow she was going to have to find the strength to fight his allure, much more strength than she was showing now.

“We had better be on our way,” she said, inwardly cursing the huskiness infecting her voice.

“Ye cannae keep running away.” Tavig picked up their supplies and began to walk.

“I dinnae ken what ye are talking about,” Moira protested, hurrying after him.

“Aye, ye do. We are fated, Moira. Ye feel that each time I touch you. Ye feel it in your blood, in how it heats with desire.”

“What arrogance.”

Tavig ignored her muttered interruption. “Ye have been so sheltered ye dinnae understand what your body and your heart are telling you, so ye fight it, pushing me away. I am a patient mon, though. I can wait until ye do see the truth.”

Moira glared at his back, wondering how she could ache to tumble about in the heather with him one minute and desperately want to kick him in his too attractive backside the next. She knew what irritated her the most was his knowledge of how she felt. As she grudgingly accepted his help over some moss-covered rocks, she briefly feared he could read her mind. She easily shrugged away that fear. If Tavig could read minds, right now he would either be laughing at her or getting out of the reach of her foot.

He just knows me too well or has a knack for reading the expressions on my face, she mused. If she was to retain any emotional secrets from the man, she was going to have to learn a few new tricks. She had learned to hide her fear and anger from Sir Bearnard. Now she would learn how to hide her feelings, thoughts, and emotional turmoil from Tavig.

“I suppose it had to rain at some time during our journey,” Moira grumbled, trying to huddle farther back beneath the crude branch-and-blanket shelter Tavig had made for them.

“Aye. ’Tis a shame it does so during our resting time, though. We willnae have a comfortable sleep.” He cut her a slice of bread from the dwindling loaf he had stolen that afternoon. “This is all we shall have for food tonight as I cannae light a fire without dry wood and kindling.”

“Do ye think that will make me less concerned that ye stole this?” She wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself as she nibbled on the bread.

“Nay. I ken that ye have the strength to cling tightly to your disapproval.”

“But not so tightly that I refuse to eat this ill-gotten bounty. Ye need not keep that thought to yourself. I swear I can hear ye thinking the words.” She sighed, rubbing her aching feet.

“Why dinnae ye unwrap the rags from your feet and stick them out in the rain for a wee while?”

“But they will get wet. Most likely cold as weel.”

“’Twill soothe that aching ye are trying so hard to hide.” He met her disbelieving look with a smile. “Trust me, dearling. There was a time or two when I had to walk long miles in ill-made boots or bare feet. I ken weel that hot aching that can afflict one’s feet. I found naught that was as soothing as bathing them in cool water. There isnae a stream or pool about, only what falls from the sky. Try it. It cannae hurt.”

“Nay, mayhap not.”

With his help she unwrapped her feet. Cautiously she edged closer to the opening of their shelter until her feet protruded beyond its somewhat weak protection. Moira hated to admit it, but the cool spray did feel good. Just exposing her tender feet to the cooler night air had felt good. The rain washing over her feet made her sigh with relief. She scowled at a grinning Tavig. The man did not have to look so smug.

“Aye, it helps some,” she muttered.

Tavig laughed and shook his head. “Ye are a stubborn lass, Moira Robertson.”

Moira knew her sudden, instinctive flash of fear had been seen by him, for his laughter abruptly faded, and he scowled at her. In her years with Bearnard Robertson, being called a stubborn lass had always been followed by a beating or one of Sir Bearnard’s many other cruel punishments. Although she had been with Tavig only a short while, she knew he would never treat her as her guardian had. Her fears could not yet make that distinction, however.

“I wish I kenned what I must do to get ye to cease fearing me,” Tavig said, cutting her another slice of bread.

“I dinnae fear you, Tavig,” she said quietly.

“Nay? ’Twas stark fear I just saw in your face, loving.”

“Aye, ye probably did see that. Howbeit, it wasnae a fear of you. ’Twas fear of a memory.”

“A memory?”

“Aye, a memory. Ye called me a stubborn lass, and the words stirred a harsh, frightening memory. That was what my fear was born of, not ye or anything ye have done.”