Chapter Nine
Errol had to give Moira credit. She held her father in high respect. Which, as his daughter, she should, but Moira didn’t ken her father like he did. She didn’t see the same side of him that he saw. The warrior side.
The enemy side.
He’d met Laird Arthur Hart on more than one occasion. The man was as fierce as Errol’s own father. He actually believed the men were similar in personalities and that was why they could never come to any reasonable agreement. Neither wanted to give in to the other’s demands.
And Errol couldn’t blame them.
There was a lot at stake considering the land and holdings betwixt the two clans. Neither side was going to roll over and let the other seize what they believed was rightfully theirs.
The smell of roasted hare wafted over to him. He wasn’t sure what Moira had done to the meat, but the scent was divine and his stomach growled in response. Or mayhap he was just starving since he hadn’t supped since this morn.
The sun had gone down and they were enveloped in darkness. He found torches and lit them to brighten the bothy, bathing it in warm golden light.
“’Tis ready, I believe.” She blushed. “Please be kind. I have ne’er cooked aught afore.”
“It seems ye are having a lot of firsts this trip,” he quipped. “E’en if ye havenae, I wouldnae be aught but kind. And thankful.” He helped her with the spit and slid the roasted hare onto the prep table.
“Thank ye.”
He raised a brow in question.
Moira pointed to the hare. “For this. For the water. I dinnae think I have given ye my thanks yet. And most of all for this adventure. I ken ye didnae want to accompany me,” she scoffed and pointed to his arm.
“And look where that got us. Look where it got ye. With a sliced arm that we can only hope doesnae fester while we are so far from help.”
He lifted his arm and looked at the bandage covering his wound. “I had a verra good healer. I am for certs ’twillnae fester.” He spoke the truth. He didn’t understand why it mattered. Why he cared that he put Moira at ease. Why he felt the need to compliment her.
But he did.
Moira dipped her head but not afore he saw the blush that splashed her cheeks pink.
They ate in silence except for when he praised her for the delicious hare she’d prepared. Once again, she’d blushed, but didn’t hide her face this time.
After the meal, Errol made another trip to the well and fetched fresh water to get them through the night.
Outside the night was still, not even a breeze to sway the branches.
An owl hooting in the distance the only noise.
He believed the four men that had ambushed them were the only ones that had tracked them.
He’d seen no signs of anyone else. Even so, he’d sleep with his sword at his side and his dagger under his pillow this night.
He entered the bothy and set the bucket of water on the prep table as Moira bolted the door behind him.
“We should get some rest. The hour is growing late.”
Moira nodded. “Ye especially. Ye need to sleep to help ye heal.” She said in an almost motherly tone as her eyes fell on the bed.
The only bed.
A situation they had found themselves in afore. But Seema was with them then. Now, it was just the two of them.
Alone.
In a bothy deep in the highlands.
“I will sleep on the floor,” he said, hoping to ease her wariness.
“Ye will do no such thing. Ye willnae get a restful sleep on the floor.” She eyed the bed again, biting her lip. “’Tis large enough for us both.” She approached the bed and looked it over, nodding. “Aye. If I lay on this side near the edge we willnae touch.”
He closed his eyes and blew out a breath.
Not a good idea. Errol didn’t think that he would get a minute of sleep kenning that Moira lay so close that he would be able to feel the warmth emanating off her body.
So close that he only needed to reach out his hand to be able to touch her. He wouldn’t, of course.
But he would spend the whole night fighting off the temptation.
Nay. He couldn’t. “I dinnae believe that is a good idea.”
Moira raised her eyebrows. “Well, I guess ’tis a good thing I am no’ asking ye, then, isnae it?
” She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “’Tis been a long, trying day.
We dinnae ken what the morrow brings. Because of that, the bed is needed for us both.
” She crossed her arms as if daring him to challenge her.
A spitfire.
Errol appreciated that. He could understand why his sister and Moira got on so well. Anna also kenned what she wanted and went after it head first without thinking of the consequences. A sure-fire way to get into trouble, but since she usually remained at MacLeod Keep it wasn’t an issue.
Moira seemed to possess the same headstrong attitude.
“I will sleep on top of the throws.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Will ye no’ be cold?”
“Nay. I’ve my plaid to keep me warm. I’ll have easier access to my sword that way as well.” Her eyes rounded as she looked around the bothy, her eyes pausing on the window. “Do ye think we will be attacked again?”
He shook his head. “There is no one about. But ’tis best to stay vigilant always.”
Nodding, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms.
“Get ready for bed. All will be well,” Errol promised.
He moved to another part of the bothy to give her privacy and when they finally settled into bed, with Moira under the throws, and Errol on top of them, he could do naught but stare at the shadows of the fire that still burned bright, dancing across the ceiling.
The only light since he’d snuffed the torches afore lying down.
His arm was sore and felt stiff. He tried to stretch it out without causing too much movement on the bed, so he didn’t disturb Moira. He also took care not to open the stitches that Moira had meticulously sewn.
“Errol?” Moira whispered after quite some time had passed. “Are ye awake?”
Her voice was low enough that if he were asleep he wouldn’t have heard her. He could pretend that he hadn’t. But why do that? He wasn’t sleeping either. Besides, she had his curiosity piqued. Why did she call for him?
“Aye?” He answered.
“Why do you think our families hate each other?”
He sighed, the sound so loud in the space of the small bothy it seemed to vibrate off the walls. “’Tis no’ an easy answer. And one ye shouldnae fash about.”
“Why no’? Why do men always say that women mustnae concern themselves with such things?” She rolled to her side and met his gaze, her expression serious. “We are always verra much affected by the actions taken by men. ’Tis only natural that we ask about it. That we want to ken.”
Errol pushed himself up to a sitting position and Moira did the same as she watched and waited patiently for him to answer.
“I think sometimes men who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders think they can protect the women they love by no’ discussing the ugliness of war.”
She chewed on her lower lip as she thought about what he’d said.
“But dinnae those same men ken that a strong woman by their side could help ease their burden?”
He cocked his head to the side as he looked at Moira. Truly looked at her. Not as his younger sister’s best friend, but as a woman who had more than likely, on numerous occasions, been told to leave when serious matters came up in conversation.
Her argument had merit.
“I believe ye are correct. There is validity to the point in which ye have made.”
She smiled sweetly. Not a cocky smile as if she kenned she were right.
But one where she seemed happy that he’d taken her words into consideration.
Surely, with all her siblings, and she being the eldest daughter, her words were taken seriously to some extent.
Not when it came to war and fighting, but for certs in other aspects of whatever it was that women did to occupy their days.
“Ye answered one of my questions. But no’ the most important one. What has happened betwixt our families to cause such long and unforgiving rifts?”
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, blowing out a slow breath as the vision of his brother’s broken and dead body lying on the ground flooded his mind.
“I ken no’ what caused the hatred all those years ago. I only ken what I have experienced myself.”
Her brows drew together. “I dinnae understand.” She shifted closer to him.
Errol should pull away. Put that distance betwixt them, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the heat from her body warm his arm that was so close to touching her.
“Did my family hurt ye?” Her eyes traveled the length of his body as if she were searching for wounds or scars branded with the Hart name.
“Aye. Nay.” He blew out an exasperated breath and raked his fingernails over his scalp. “My brother. He was on a watch with other guards from our clan. They were on MacLeod lands. No’ raiding. They had done naught wrong.”
Moira’s hand flew to her mouth, her face stricken as if she kenned what his next words were going to be.
“The whole party was struck down. On our own lands,” he spat. “’Twas the Harts,” he said matter-offactly, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Nay,” Moira gasped. “We wouldnae. Why? If they werenae on Hart land, but e’en then, they wouldnae have been killed for it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Nay. Ye are wrong.”
“I am no’,” he growled, and she shrank back from the vehemence in his voice. “My brother was only ten and seven.”
“Errol,” she whispered. “I am so sorry. But my, we, we wouldnae have done such an atrocity.” She reached for his arm, but he pulled away.
He didn’t want her touch. Her pity.
He wanted her to admit to what her family had done to destroy his.
She clenched the hand that still hung in the air into a tiny fist afore bringing it to her chest.
“I refuse to believe that. My clan is one of peace. We only use violence when ’tis forced upon us.”
Errol barked out a laugh. The sound echoing off the walls of the bothy.
“So naive. Dinnae ye ken? Just as the MacLeods have done our fair share of misdeeds, so have the Harts. Neither of us are innocent. Why dinnae ye think there is no peace betwixt our clans? My brother’s death is one of the reasons.
Until we see justice for Gavin, we will no’ rest.”
He pushed off the bed, ignoring the pain that lanced through his arm at the sudden movement.
“Errol,” she called.
He spun and shook his head. “Nay. I dinnae want to speak of it any longer.” His arm hurt. His head hurt, and most of all, his heart hurt. He hadn’t wanted to bring up Gavin. Didn’t really ken why he did. For one weak moment, he opened up to his enemy. Because that was what Moira Hart was—his enemy.
Aye, he’d help her on this silly quest of hers. But he wouldn’t open his heart up to her again. He’d shown her his weakness, and she could use that against him. He’d been a fool.
He dropped into the chair in front of the fire and rested his sword against the arm. Distance from Moira was what he needed. When she was close, he couldn’t think straight. His thoughts jumbled as if they were being tossed around in the river and then dropping over the falls.
It wouldn’t happen again.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured.
Moira opened her mouth and he thought she was going to fight him on it.
But he pierced her with a glare, and she shrunk back, sliding down the bed and brought the throws up to her chin.
He really hadn’t meant to scare the lass.
But he needed to show her that they weren’t friends. They never would be.
He turned to the dancing flames of the fire. His gaze followed the bursts of sparks made when a log collapsed, sending embers in all directions.
His thoughts were like those sparks. Roaming around carelessly with no sense of direction.
It was a position he hadn’t been faced with afore.
And he found he didn’t like it one bit.
*
The two had finally settled into bed for the night. Well, the lass was in bed. The MacLeod sat in front of the fire, staring into the dancing flames, a dour look settled on his face.
He was lucky that he hadn’t been caught up in the battle that had ensued earlier. He easily could have been. As it was, it was a miracle that his presence hadn’t been noticed.
The four men that had attacked the MacLeod and the Hart bitch had met a quick death at the end of the MacLeod’s blade. Hell, even the Hart bitch had a dagger with which she fought. Not that she needed it. The MacLeod was well-trained and even though he fought four men, they were no match for him.
Once again, he’d remained in the shadows. Watching quietly.
Intently.
He needed to learn the MacLeod’s fighting preferences. What threw him off. The weaknesses he tried to hide.
All of those would prove to be beneficial when it was his time to cut the warrior down.
He wasn’t worried about the Hart wench. Her little dagger didn’t frighten him. However, the MacLeod kenned how to fight. He had spent his whole life in preparation. Training. Honing his skills.
Anger filled him at the thought. His own father had never taken the time to ensure he got his training. Nay, instead his father tried to pass him off to the maids.
“I have nay use for a crippled imbecile,” he would tell them, never looking him in the eye. Barely acknowledging him. The only time his father paid him any attention was to speak about how much of a disappointment he was.
He sniffed and swiped at his eyes. He hated how his father made him feel. Even now, when he’d been dead for years.
The vice-like grip he held on him was suffocating. Stealing all breath from his lungs.
With no need to watch the window any longer, he went to his bag and pulled out his plaid, wrapping it around his shoulders. It would be preferable to sleep near a fire this night, but he couldn’t risk anyone seeing the flame.
Moving into the woods, he found shelter under a low hanging pine and settled onto a bed of needles for the night.
He would be ready to move tomorrow when they emerged. Until then, he would get a few hours of rest.
“See, father,” he said, eyes looking up to the starry night sky. “I can do this. Ye couldnae, but I will succeed where ye failed. Take my word for it.”