Chapter Fifteen #2
“’Tis a verra fine tower house, Sir Mungan,” she said. “What does it have to do with me?”
“’Tis yours,” Mungan replied, scowling at her.
“Nay, ye are mistaken. I have nothing.”
“Ye have that and more, though I cannae say how much more. I was only concerned about that thrice-cursed tower which looms o’er my lands like some carrion bird.
I have been trying to get my hands on it since your parents died, but that cur Sir Bearnard wouldnae deal fairly with me.
I even offered for your hand though I loathed the idea of gaining something through forcing a lass to my bed.
Robertson laughed at my offer. That is when I conceived my plan to just take ye and wed ye.
Aye, then that fat swine would cease to laugh. ”
“I dinnae own anything,” Moira said, feeling confused and somewhat desperate.
“Wait,” Tavig urged, placing his arm around her shoulders and ignoring his cousin’s dark scowl. “Mungan, are ye verra sure Moira owns that tower house? Mayhap her parents didnae own it?”
“I wish I could say they dinnae, but no one kens better than I just who owns it,” Mungan grumbled, placing his hands on his hips and glaring at the tower house.
“Do ye remember what a whimsical fellow my father was?” Tavig nodded, and Mungan continued.
“Weel, he met with the lass’s parents once and was so taken with the young couple, he gave them that lump of stone. ”
“He gave it to them? He asked naught for it?”
“Not a farthing. And I was but a wee lad—”
“Mungan, ye were ne’er a wee lad.”
“Weel, I was too young to stop that as I stopped so many other fancies he was seized with. That old mon would have left us with naught but rags had I let him do all he pleased. That tower was the last thing he gave away. I held tight to everything else or retrieved it later. I think I could have dealt with the lass’s parents, but there is no dealing with Robertson, who holds all the lass’s properties and coin. ”
“Coin, too? Are ye sure? The lass was told that she had nothing, not a farthing.”
“Aye, Robertson would tell such a lie. His steward can be more truthful, though. It took but a wee bit of cajoling to get that spindly wee mon to tell me all he kenned about Robertson’s lands and monies.” He gave one sharp bark of laughter. “That coward was verra free with Robertson’s secrets.”
“But if ye hurt Robertson’s steward, then Robertson must be aware of all ye have learned.”
“I didnae hurt him.” He held his hands out in a pleading gesture when Tavig scowled at him.
“I swear it, Cousin. I but hung the wee mon up by his heels for a while over a fire. I cannae help it if the fool believed I was going to roast him alive. God’s bones, the fire wasnae even hot enough to singe what few locks of hair he had.
Once he told me what I wished to learn, I let him scurry away.
There was no reason for Robertson to be suspicious, and that little coward of a steward would ne’er confess what he had done. Robertson would cut his skinny throat.”
“I own land and I have money,” Moira said, her voice hoarse and weak. “Sir Bearnard has been lying to me for years.”
“Ye sound as if ye dinnae believe it.” Tavig kissed her cheek, holding her tighter. “It doesnae surprise me, lass.”
“Why would Papa keep her if she could keep herself?” Una asked. “She made him so angry, ’twould have made more sense to use her dowry to arrange a marriage for her and be rid of her.”
“Aye,” agreed Mungan, “it would make more sense if your papa wasnae such a greedy bastard.”
“Aha, he wanted what she had for himself. Aye, that does sound like Papa.”
“I need to sit down,” Moira said, walking toward the table.
She retook her seat at the table and filled her tankard with Mungan’s strong mead.
Moira drank it all and refilled her tankard as Mungan, Una, and Tavig returned to their seats.
Tavig was looking very worried. Moira knew she ought to tell him something to ease his concerns, but she could think of nothing to say.
Her emotions were in a confusing tangle.
Her thoughts leapt from place to place and back again until they were a knot of half-finished ideas and opinions.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream.
She wanted to confront Sir Bearnard with his deception. She wanted to kill him.
“Are ye all right?” Tavig asked, placing his hand over her tightly clenched fist.
“I dinnae ken.” She took several deep breaths, hoping to calm herself for she knew she needed to think clearly. “I think I need a wee bit of time to understand just how many lies I have been told since my parents died.”
“Just when did they die and how? I havenae wanted to ask, but it may be of importance.”
“They died ten years ago. We were returning from a market fair in a nearby village when we were set upon by thieves. They killed Mama, Papa, and Grandmère, my mother’s mother.
The men-at-arms with us were also murdered, and I was left for dead.
S’truth, I nearly was. An old lady found me and nursed me.
’Twas weeks ere I began to recover. Then she began the search for my kinsmen.
Not long after, Sir Bearnard came to take me away.
” She saw Mungan and Tavig exchange a long look.
“Do ye think Sir Bearnard killed my family?”
“’Tis a possibility, lass, but after ten years ’twould be hard to prove. What matters now is that ye do have land and ye have money. Ye arenae to let that bastard keep it from ye any longer.”
“She doesnae need to worry on that,” said Mungan. “Robertson willnae get his greedy hands on what belongs to my wife. As soon as the lass and I are wed—”
“Ye arenae marrying her,” yelled Tavig.
“Please,” Moira cried. “I have just learned that the last ten years of my life have been a lie. Mayhap ye can give me a wee bit of time ere ye begin to plan my future.”
Tavig pulled her into his arms, smoothing his hands up and down her back. “Aye, lass. Ye will have all the time ye need.” He glared at his cousin. “Where are we to sleep?”
“We? I told ye there will be no more of that. Ye will not be bedding her here.”
“What does it matter?” snapped Una, slamming her tankard down onto the table and sloshing mead onto it. “The two of them have been rutting about in the heather for days. ’Tis a wee bit late to untangle them now.”
Moira closed her eyes, letting the argument swirl around her.
She appreciated Tavig’s efforts to get his obstinate cousin to listen to reason, but she wished they could save all their squabbles until the morning.
The journey she and Tavig had completed was enough to exhaust her and make her long for a soft bed.
Learning that she was not a pauper, that her cousin and guardian had been cheating her for years, was a hard blow.
The wealth of emotion the truth had produced had drained the last of her strength.
She wanted to go to sleep. She did not want to think anymore.
Closing her eyes, she decided her three companions did not really need her to add to their rousing argument.
It took Tavig a moment to realize that Moira had gone limp in his grasp.
Leaving Mungan and Una to squabble between themselves, he lifted the sleeping Moira onto his lap.
He had hoped to force Mungan to give up his mad idea of marrying Moira, but the man was clinging to it the way a starving hound clung to a scrap of meat.
The way Una kept glaring at Moira made it clear there would soon be trouble from her as well.
“Mungan,” Tavig said, interrupting Una’s explicit instructions on what Mungan could do with his offer to keep her as his mistress. “Moira and I need a bed.”
“I told ye that ye cannae keep bedding down with my bride.” Mungan slammed his fist down on the table, sending his half-full tankard of ale spinning onto the rush-strewn floor.
“She isnae your bride yet. Until she declares herself to ye, she is mine.”
“Has she declared herself to you, Cousin?”
“She shared my blanket. For a lass like this, ’tis declaration enough until she says otherwise. Now, where are we to bed down?”
Grumbling all the way, Mungan led Tavig to a small room at the top of the east tower.
Tavig watched his cousin closely as he gently settled Moira on their bed.
Mungan stood by an arrow slit that overlooked the loch, staring morosely at the tower house.
Shaking his head, Tavig stood beside his cousin.
“If ye wanted it so badly why didnae ye just take it some when over the last ten years?” Tavig asked.
“I tried a time or two, but the cost was too high. Ye ken that I am not one to waste my men’s lives, and trying to take that cursed tower exacted a high toll amongst my men. Yet I cannae leave it sitting there, looming over me, and allow some enemy to mon its parapets.”
“Moira would never be your enemy, Mungan.”
“She is naught but a wee lass, Tavig. For most of her life she has been in Robertson’s hard grasp. She could easily fall under the grasp of another rogue and one who will covetously eye my lands. I cannae put my fate in the hands of a wee skinny lass.”
“Then put it into mine.”
Mungan scowled. “What do ye mean?”
“Ye ken verra weel what I mean. She is mine. We are fated. We will marry.”
“She hasnae said she will wed ye, has she?”
Tavig silently cursed Mungan’s insight. “Nay. She fears superstition would be roused to a deadly height if she, a redhead, married a mon with the sight I but need to show her that, at least at Drumdearg, that wouldnae be so. I must convince her that she exaggerates the danger we may face.”
“Maybe ye will, but mayhap ye willnae,” Mungan drawled, strolling to the door.
“What do ye mean by that?”
“Exactly what ye think I mean. The lass is still free game, Cousin.”