Page 6 of Highland Fire

“Sir Tavig,” Moira said, struggling to follow him as he scrambled up a rocky incline to the moorlands bordering the beach. “Where do ye plan to take us?”

“To my cousin’s keep.” After helping her up the last few inches of the stony rise, he headed toward a tiny thatch-roofed cottage a few yards away. “He will not only aid us, but also find us a priest so that we can be wed.”

Moira decided the best thing to do concerning his daft talk of marriage was to ignore it. “Do I have any knowledge of this cousin of yours? I am certain that ye must have several cousins since ye surely cannae mean Sir Iver who hunts ye down. A name would be most helpful.”

“Mungan Coll.” Tavig heard her stumble to a halt, and turned to look at her.

“The Mungan Coll we were traveling to meet when I was swept into the sea? The Mungan Coll who holds my cousin Una for ransom?”

“The verra same.”

“Ye would have me believe that I could find safety with such a mon?”

“Aye, but I can see that ye arenae inclined to do so. Consider this, then—ye will be in a place where your kinsmen are certain to find ye.” He took her by the hand, ignoring her slight resistance, and tugged her toward the fisherman’s hut.

“Oh, aye—to find me captive right alongside Una. No doubt a wee ransom would be asked for me as weel.” That deeply worried her for Moira could not feel sure that her kinsmen would pay anything to free her.

“Nay. Mungan would ne’er ransom my wife.”

As he nudged her inside the hut, Moira muttered a curse. She stood just inside the low door while he lit a fire and a few tallow candles. His plan was a terrible one as far as she could see, but much to her annoyance she could not think of a better one.

When there was some light in the nearly windowless house, she sat down on a rough bench next to an equally crudely made wooden table. A little sullenly she watched as Tavig found some food and began to make them porridge. His self-sufficiency irritated her. It all too clearly illustrated the one very good reason why she was stuck with him. She had never, in all of her eighteen years upon the earth, been on her own. Not only did the thought of trying to fend for herself terrify her, but also she greatly doubted that she could survive any long period of enforced hardship.

Her lack of skills was not wholly her fault, she consoled herself. Her parents, nurses, and even her maids had allowed her to do very little. She had not been allowed to continue that pampered life when she had gone to live with Sir Bearnard Robertson and his family, however. She had quickly been put to work weaving and sewing. But neither skill would do her much good now. Crooked Annie, who had taken her under her aging wing two years ago, had begun to teach her a few more useful things. There had not been enough time, however, to learn very much except for a reasonably good skill with a knife.

So, I can protect myself a wee bit, she mused. It was some comfort. She knew it was far from enough. It would not keep her fed or clothed or protected from the harshness of the weather. She needed Tavig MacAlpin, and that galled her. Moira glared at the bowl of porridge he set before her.

“Ah, now, lassie—why so dreary?” Tavig sat down opposite her and began to eat.

“Ye mean aside from the fact that I spent several hours being tossed about in the cold seawater and was nearly drowned?” She had to acknowledge that he could stir up a fine meal of porridge, which did nothing to improve her mood.

“But ye survived. Ye were slapped about some, but ye were still alive when the water spat ye up onto the shore.”

“Then what about the fact that I have naught to wear but this tattered nightgown and bedraggled cloak?”

“I was thinking that your clothes survived your ordeal rather weel.”

“Were ye, indeed? How about the fact that I have no idea of where we are? I am stuck upon some desolate moorlands with no idea of where to go or how to get there.”

“Dinnae worry o’er that, dearling. I will lead ye to safety.”

“Aye, and there is another thing,” she muttered, scraping the last of the porridge from her bowl with short, clipped movements.

“And what is that other thing?” he asked when she did not continue and simply glared into her now-empty bowl.

“I cannae take care of myself. I cannae do whatever needs to be done to survive this ordeal. I have to depend upon ye to help me to get somewhere safe.”

“’Tisnae such a bad thing for a wife to depend upon her husband.”

Moira slammed her crude wooden spoon down onto the table. “If we must be together, ye can just cease that foolish talk right now. I dinnae find it at all amusing.”

“I am glad to hear it. Marriage isnae something to chuckle at. ’Tis a verra serious matter.” He almost laughed at the thoroughly disgusted look she gave him.

“Why do ye persist?”

It had to be a jest, and she found that a little painful. She had more or less resigned herself to spinsterhood, perhaps spending her days as nursemaid to Una’s children. Since no marriage had been arranged for her or even been discussed, she assumed that she had no dowry. That lack combined with her red hair, something many considered an unacceptable color if not a mark of the devil himself, made marriage an unattainable goal. And there was her “gift,” her healing touch, which she kept a close secret for it also stirred people’s fears. She doubted she could keep it a secret forever from her own husband. That fact made her believe that it was probably for the best if she remained a maid, to forgo marriage forever. Now this man continually teased her about it. It seemed somewhat cruel of him.

“Ye dinnae even ken who I am,” she continued. “Our acquaintance is too short a one for ye to be talking about making it a permanent partnership. Not that your life looks to be a verra long one anyway.”