Page 24 of Highland Fire

The way the woman began to study Moira closely made Tavig uneasy. Too careful an inspection would tell the woman Moira was no ragged pauper despite her attire. Moira might have callouses on her hands and feet, but everything else about her bespoke quality. Tavig did not want any more questions or suspicions roused.

“Thank ye, mistress. We have a dire need of all those things, ill-fitting or not. We must go now, Moira,” he said, tugging sharply at Moira’s hand and waving the innkeeper on. He scowled at her when she resisted his pull, freeing her hand.

“Thank ye, mistress.” Moira echoed Tavig and, setting down her sack, briefly clasped the woman’s hand.

The moment her hands enclosed the woman’s, Moira realized she had made a mistake, perhaps even a fatal one. The calloused hand she held was knotted with pain. The woman’s tired eyes widened as Moira’s touch began to work its magic. Silently, trying to put all of her own fear and a plea for secrecy into her expression, Moira held the woman’s gaze as she finished the work she had inadvertently begun. As soon as she was certain her gift could do no more, she released the woman’s hand, picked up her sack, and followed Tavig.

Flora Dunn stared after the couple as they hurried away, then stared at her hand. She closed it into a fist and opened it again and again until she realized the rest of her family was staring at her. Without a word she reached out, grasping her husband’s hand and squeezing. There was no pain. Her husband’s eyes also widened, and she felt hers sting with tears. One by one she clasped the hands of the rest of her family until they all stared at her with a mixture of wonder and confusion.

“What miracle has cured your hand, child?” asked her father, the innkeeper in a hoarse voice, taking her now straight and limber hand in his.

“That tiny woman but held it for a moment, ’tis all. She enfolded my crippled hand between both of hers, and ’twas as if all the knots within my hand eased apart.”

An old woman shuffled forward to touch Flora’s hand timidly. “Then they were witches.”

“Nay,” snapped the innkeeper. “Mother, when have witches e’er done a kind thing? My child’s hand is now strong and straight instead of cramped and gnarled with pain. My wee bonnie grandchild is alive instead of trampled beneath the hooves of our laird’s warhorses. Nay, that lad but has the sight and his wee lass has the healing touch. God preserve them, they have blessed us twice.”

“I dinnae think he kens she has the gift of healing,” murmured Flora. “In her eyes was a plea for silence.”

“Weel, the path they are taking is a treacherous one. He will soon ken her secret as the time will come for her to use it on him. I fear trouble stalks those two.”

“Tavig, cannae we rest yet?” Moira asked. But she did not slow down as she followed Tavig’s swift progress through the heather and treacherous patches of thistle. “I need to catch my breath.”

It felt to Moira as if they had been moving at a steady lope for hours. She was not sure she could trot another mile. Her feet hurt, and the sack she carried began to feel as if it were filled with bricks.

“Not yet, lass. I think that wee burn we must cross is just ahead. I can hear the sound of tumbling water.”

She listened carefully for a moment and nodded. “Aye, I can hear it, too.”

Cursing herself for being a coward, she looked behind her for what she was sure was the hundredth time. The woman whose hand she had healed had made no outcry, but Moira still feared their rescuers would suffer a change of heart and come after them. She cursed herself again for not having been more careful, for not having looked at the woman closely before impulsively enfolding her hand in her own. If she had been more cautious she would have seen that the woman had a crippled hand. In that one moment of impulsiveness she could have ruined everything—exposed her secret or, worse, put a swift end to all chance of escape for herself and Tavig.

She had risked enough while she and Tavig had been prisoners. Tavig could have guessed that she had eased his pain with her touch. It had been impossible just to sit by and leave him in pain, however. She had decided to take the risk that her special gift would be revealed. The fact that Tavig had been unconscious during most of her work had helped her maintain her secret. The woman had been a complete mistake, however. Moira prayed that the fear she had been gripped with then as she had faced possible exposure would be enough to remind her of the important need to be cautious.

“There it is, loving,” Tavig announced, dropping her hand and bounding ahead to study the brook they would have to cross.

Moira walked up to stand at his side, frowning at the rapidly flowing water. It was clear enough for her to see the rocky bottom, but she could not judge its depth accurately. Neither could she see a way to cross it without getting extremely wet.

“It looks deep, cold, and it runs too swiftly,” she muttered. “I dinnae suppose we can find a way to walk around it.”

“Nay, sweeting. Straight across.”

“Weel, ye shall get verra wet carrying those sacks and me.”

Tavig laughed, stepping into the water and yanking her along after him, “’Tis not enough to drown you.”

A small screech escaped her as the bitter cold of the water cut through her clothes. She quickly put the small sack she carried on top of her head, holding it there with one hand. She muttered complaints and curses all the way across, ignoring Tavig’s amusement. Complaining helped her control her fear when, in the middle of the little river, the swift water rose up to her waist, chilling her to the bone as it pulled at her.

“There, on land again and safe,” he said, helping her climb up the mossy bank.

“Aye, but chilled to the bone.” She set down her sack to squeeze the cold water from her skirts.

“It was a wee bit brisk.”

“Brisk! ’Twas ice that forgot to grow hard. We shall both catch the fever and die.”

“Nay, the sun is warm, and the sky is clear of clouds. We will be dry again soon enough.”

He took her hand, starting up a low, rocky rise leading into a thick wood. It had not taken him long to see that Moira’s complaints were but a way to hide her fear. She never faltered and was proving to have a surprising strength. That had certainly been revealed back in the village when, instead of fleeing, she had tried to help him. Her talk of fever did worry him, however, even though he knew she was fond of predicting their deaths at every new obstacle they faced.