Page 31 of Highland Fire

A soft groan escaped Moira as she sat down on the soft, mossy ground. She glanced back at the rocky hill they had spent all morning trudging over. Seeing it from a level place, she was surprised they had crossed it so quickly. Looking to the other side of the thin valley Tavig had chosen for their noon respite, she saw more low but rocky hills and groaned again.

“Here, lassie, a wee sip of wine will revive you,” Tavig said, sitting by her side and holding out the skin.

Moira took a hearty drink of the sweet wine, then accepted the bread and cheese Tavig gave her. “How many more mountains do we have to climb?” she asked.

He grinned at her. “Ye cannae call those wee hills mountains, lass.”

“Aye, I can. They certainly feel like mountains when we are scrambling o’er them.”

“The lot of hills ahead of us are smaller and right at the foot of them lies Dalnasith. Now, I havenae been there in a long while, so they will believe I could have been wed in the interim. Ye can be my wife again.”

“Oh? It didnae keep us verra safe in Craigmoordun, did it?”

“Moira, it isnae wise for ye to be traveling about with a mon. Ye ken how folk frown on such things and how they would treat ye if they thought ye were just my leman.”

“They have no right to think that I am your leman.”

“Nay, but they will, and weel ye ken it. By claiming that ye are my wife, we avoid all of that irritation and trouble. I fear I cannae do much to avoid trouble I dinnae see coming, trouble of the kind we met in Craigmoordun.”

“I was wondering why ye didnae sense it was there waiting for us.”

Tavig doused the fire with water and dirt. “I fear my gift isnae constant. ’Tis actually quite a fickle thing. And the closer the danger is to me and mine, the more fickle it becomes.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Mayhap there were just too many things I needed to be worried about. My gift chose to warn me about the bairn instead.”

“She was the one of us least able to help herself,” Moira said. “Mayhap that is how your gift chooses to work.”

“’Twould be nice if there was such reason behind it, but I fear ’tis just a temperamental thing.” He picked up his sack and their rolled-up bedding. “I get no feelings about Dalnasith, but I cannae promise ye that it will be completely safe.”

“Is there a chance of getting a hot bath and a soft bed?” she asked, picking up her sack.

“Aye, and a hot meal, fresh bread, and some fine ale or sweet cider.”

“Then why do we continue to cool our heels here?”

Tavig laughed, starting toward the hills. Moira quickly fell into step beside him. For a hot bath she would scramble over the rocky hills with the speed and ease of a goat. The brief icy wetting she had gotten while crossing the small river had rinsed off some of the travel dust she had collected, but she craved a long soak in hot water. With scented soap, she mused with a sigh.

A soft bed would also be welcome, she decided, silently cursing the rocks that prodded her feet through the soft bottoms of her boots. She would be grateful for any bed besides the hard ground. Her life with Sir Bearnard had been far from easy, but on the nights she was not being punished in some way, she had at least had a bed to go to when her work was done.

The thought of Sir Bearnard made her shiver. She looked over her shoulder, almost surprised not to find him looming behind her, his meaty fists raised to strike. The man and his treatment of her had become a canker in her heart, mind, and soul. She wondered if she would ever be free of him and the fears he had beaten into her.

“He isnae here, dearling,” Tavig said, his voice soft and comforting.

Moira gasped softly and stared at him as he helped her up a steep, sheer incline. “Do ye see into my mind?” The thought that Tavig could do so was a chilling one. She did not like the idea of being so completely exposed.

“Nay, lass, not truly.” He stopped when they reached an easier part of the path through the hills, turning to trace her cheekbone lightly with his fingertips. “I but caught a certain look on your face.”

“A look? What sort of look?”

“That haunted look ye get whenever ye see, hear, or think of that bastard Sir Bearnard Robertson. A deep fear clouds your bonnie eyes, and your face tightens. I will make that slinking cur pay for putting that look into your eyes.”

“’Tis my fault, too. I am a coward. I gave up fighting.”

“Fool. Ye have survived. That takes both strength and courage. Ye are no mon, battle-hardened and able to face down a mon like Bearnard. Ye are but a wee lass, and were naught but a bairn when ye first came under Robertson’s fists. Aye, ye have scars, but ye didnae break, and I have naught but admiration for that.”

Moira did not know what to say. He spoke only the truth as he saw it. She could see it in his eyes. All his flattery about her eyes, her hair, or whatever attractive attributes he felt she had had been easy to shrug off or treat as a man’s nonsense. This compliment struck deep into her heart. She felt her much-abused pride stir to life, but swiftly quelled its rebirth. Pride was an emotion that often got her into trouble.

“Weel, I dinnae think I am such a grand person, but thank ye.”

“Mayhap ye just need to see others who have lived beneath the fist of some brute. Then ye will see how weel ye have survived. In truth, ye already have seen such folk. The people of Craigmoordun showed ye how others act when their lives are ruled by fear and brutality.” When Moira said nothing, he shrugged, starting on his way again. “I cannae make ye see your own strengths with just words. ’Tis something ye must learn by yourself. Ye have to banish your fears and Robertson’s ugly specter from your heart.”