Chapter Two
A hoarse groan grated upon Moira’s ears.
It took her a moment to realize that the wretched sound was coming from her own mouth.
She felt terrible. Her cheek pressed against something both damp and gritty, and she realized she was sprawled facedown on a beach.
Her body ached so much that she wanted to weep.
She was drenched both inside and out. Suddenly her stomach clenched.
Struggling to lift up her head, she became painfully, helplessly ill.
A low male voice murmuring some nonsense about how the agony she was enduring was for the best, that she would soon feel better, penetrated her misery.
Moira prayed that she would stop being ill just long enough to tell the fool to go to hell and stay there, but she was not sure she could accomplish that goal.
Her body was determined to rid itself of whatever ailed it, and that agony held all of her attention.
Tavig smiled wearily when he heard her cursing him.
She would be all right. He continued to rub her back as she retched, hating to view her misery, but knowing that it was necessary.
The moment she was done, he tugged her away from the place where she had been ill before allowing her to collapse on the sand.
“Here, rinse out your mouth,” he urged.
Moira opened her eyes to see him holding out a roughly carved cup.
She propped herself up on one elbow, took the cup, and discovered that it held wine.
As she rinsed out her mouth then sipped some of the mildly bitter brew, she glanced around.
Slowly she began to remember what had happened and understood why she was sitting on a beach tinted a soft rose by a rising sun. She frowned as she looked at Tavig.
“Where did ye get the wine and the cup? They didnae wash up with us, did they?”
“Nay, there is a fishermon’s hut just beyond the shore.”
“So there is someone who may help us?”
“I dinnae think so. The hut looks as if no one has used it for a while. Since there are still supplies within and there is no sign of a boat of any kind, I can only think that the poor soul went out fishing and didnae return.”
Even as she handed him back the cup, Moira crossed herself.
She then collapsed back onto the sand. Tavig’s clothes were dirty and ragged, and she wondered why he even bothered to wear what was left of a once fine linen shirt.
The tatters that remained of the garment did very little to cover the broad expanse of his smooth, dark chest.
The sad state of his attire started her wondering about her own.
A cool morning breeze flowed across the shore.
It was touching far more of her skin than it should be if her nightgown and cloak were still whole.
Moira knew she ought to at least peek down at herself to be sure that she was decently covered but she was not inclined to move.
Every inch of her body felt battered and drained of all strength.
“What happened to your beard?” she asked, thinking that his lean features were too attractive for her peace of mind.
“I scraped it off. Couldnae abide the thing,” he replied, sitting more comfortably at her side.
“And your wife who died of a fever?”
“A lie, I fear. Do ye feel any better?”
“Nay, not verra much. I believe I shall just lie here and finish dying. I am nearly as cold as a corpse already. Ye had best dig me a grave and prepare my winding sheet.”
“I dinnae think that, even between us, we have enough cloth left for a winding sheet.”
“So I, too, am clothed in rags and mayhap indecently covered.”
“Weel—nay. At least, the parts I wouldnae mind having a wee look at are still hidden.”
Moira wondered why she did not blush, did not even feel outraged, then decided she was simply too weary to be bothered by his impudence. “Ye are verra impertinent for a mon condemned to hang.”
“Condemned—aye—but free.”
“No condemned mon can e’er be free. Ye are but alive. And so am I. For that I thank ye. I recall enough to ken that ye leapt in after me. A verra strange thing to do, but I am grateful for that moment of madness.”
“Ye tried to stop your guardian from cleaving me in twain. That distraction may weel have saved my life. I could do no less in return. And how could I just stand by and let the lass I mean to wed be swept away?”
Tavig waited patiently for his statement to be understood.
He could read her face so easily. First there was confusion, then slow understanding, which caused her rich blue eyes to grow very wide.
He doubted she would believe him. She would probably think he was mad.
Tavig wondered about that himself. Nevertheless, as he had tended to her, he had begun to understand why their lives were suddenly so completely intertwined.
They were mates. He was almost certain of it.
It took Moira a little while to be sure she had heard what she thought she had heard. Even as she began to believe it, she did not understand. The man had to be mad. Or, she mused, he was testing her, trying to see if she still had the wit to recognize the absurdity of what he just said.
“I think ye swallowed so much water it has rotted your brain, Sir MacAlpin,” she said.
“A most unusual response to a proposal,” he murmured.
“Proposal? ’Twas nonsense. I thought ye but tested me to see if I was aware enough to recognize it as such.”
“Madness and nonsense? I am wounded to the heart.”
“Cease your teasing and help me sit up.” She held her hand out to him. “Do ye think that the ship itself sank?” she asked as he pulled her up then kept a firm grasp on her hand.
“Nay, I think not. I saw no wreckage upon the beach.” He ignored her attempts to extract her hand delicately from his. “I walked a fair distance in both directions whilst I waited for ye to rouse yourself.”
With her free hand, Moira tugged her damp, torn cloak over her legs.
She was pleased to see that little else was exposed to his obsidian gaze.
Their situation was awkward enough without having to concern herself about her modesty as well.
She set her mind back on the intricate matter of what she must do next.
“If the ship survived the storm, my kinsmen will look for us,” she said. “I think I should just stay here.”
“Do ye now?” he drawled.
“I realize that ye have no wish to see them again so I will understand if ye take this chance to flee.”
“How kind.”
She scowled at him as she ceased trying to be subtle about freeing her hand from his, forcefully yanking it from his firm grasp. “Sir MacAlpin, I begin to think that ye consider my plan a verra poor one.”
“I kenned from the start that ye were a clever lass.” Tavig could see by her narrowing eyes that he was starting to anger her, and so rushed to explain himself.
“If your kinsmen dinnae believe that ye are dead already and actually think that ye might have survived being washed away, there are miles and miles of shoreline they will have to search. ’Twould take them days to find ye, and they dinnae have days, do they? ”
Moira cursed softly. He was irritatingly correct.
Her kinsmen did not have the time to search for her even if they thought she might still be alive.
They had to ransom her cousin Una by the end of the month.
That was only three weeks away. They had wasted too much time trying to bargain with Una’s kidnapper and had none to spare now.
She was sure whatever ransom was being offered for Sir Tavig MacAlpin would tempt them, but not enough to risk losing Una.
Sir Bearnard had some grand plans for his daughter.
He intended to enhance his own prestige and fatten his purse through a skillfully arranged marriage for her.
She had to help herself, she decided, glancing at Tavig who sat calmly watching her.
She probably could not depend upon him for any more assistance than he had already given.
He had his own neck to save. If he stayed with her he could well meet up with her kinsmen again.
She was sure the man had no wish to see Sir Bearnard again.
Then, too, she decided, how much faith could she put in a man accused of two murders even if that man had risked his life to save her?
“Weel, then I had best go in search of a sheriff or the like,” she finally said.
“And do ye really think ye will find much aid here? Ye are now ragged and with no means of proving ye are who ye say ye are. I mean no insult, lass, but right now ye look no more than a poor beggar girl. And, since your tattered clothes are of such a rich material, ye could easily be taken for a thief as weel.”
“Do ye have a better plan, then?” she snapped, annoyed at the way he destroyed her schemes with unarguable logic.
“Aye, my ill-tempered bride.”
“I am not your bride.”
Tavig ignored that sulky interruption. “Ye can stay with me, and I shall take ye to a safe place.”
“With ye? I heard what my cousin Bearnard said when your disguise wilted away. Ye are headed straight for the gallows. I dinnae think that is a verra safe place.”
“The noose isnae around my neck yet, dearling.” He stood up, brushed himself off, and held his hand out to her. “Come along. We had best be on our way. ’Tis a long, hard journey that lies ahead of us.”
A little warily she allowed him to help her to her feet. “Where do we journey to?”
He started to walk inland, smiling faintly when he heard her hurry to follow him.
Tavig was not really hurt by her wary attitude toward him, nor did he blame her for having it.
Even though he had saved her life, he was a condemned murderer.
Since she did not really know him, she could make no judgment upon the truth of those charges.
And she had to think he was just a little mad with his abrupt talk of marriage, he mused, chuckling to himself.
In truth, he would have thought she was lacking in wits if she had not shown some hesitancy and mistrust.