Chapter Fifteen
They left the cave just afore dawn. The mist rolling off the water covered the ground below them as Errol and Moira carefully maneuvered their way back down to the rocks and back to their waiting horses.
Errol didn’t ken what to do with all of the information they had just uncovered.
The lies.
Everything was built on a lie.
What the hell was he supposed to do with that revelation?
Had his clan really dismissed Fiona’s explanation of the events that had led to her to seek solace with the MacLeods?
Aye.
They clearly had. And that information had been used to fuel the feud between them for years and years.
Once they had safely descended and their feet were on solid ground, Errol pulled the small chest from his tunic. He had tied off the cloth to act as a sling to support the chest whilst they climbed down.
He set it on the ground and fixed his tunic, so it covered him once again.
Errol hadn’t missed the way Moira’s eyes had lingered on his bared stomach.
She hadn’t said aught. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said everything.
He kenned where they needed to go next. There was only one spot on MacLeod lands that had cliffs leading to the sea with a nearby hollow.
Exhaustion seeped into his bones. It felt like he hadn’t slept for days and if he was tired, Moira surely had to be.
They would pass a village on the way to the cliffs. They could stop there for food and rest.
She needed to sleep. He refused to be blamed for not providing Moira adequate lodging and sustenance whilst she was in his care.
The horses neighed as they drew close. Errol gave them a quick look over to ensure they hadn’t come to any harm in the hours they’d been away. He smoothed his hand over his horse’s muzzle, then ran his hand down his mane and over his muscular flank.
He tucked the chest in his bag draped over the horse’s back then turned to help Moira mount her mare.
She’d been silent ever since they’d exited the cave and he kenned she was thinking about the letter. Thinking about Fiona. About Agnes.
He couldn’t blame her. He was, too.
“Do ye ken where we need to go?” Her voice was quiet. Small.
The opposite of what he’d come to expect from her when she spoke. She was always strong and sure in her words. Suddenly, she seemed, what was the word he was searching for?
Vulnerable. That was it.
She looked vulnerable.
He nodded. “I do. But ye need rest. We’ll stop in the village we will pass on the way by.”
“I dinnae need to—”
He cut her off by holding up his hand. “Ye do and ye will. It’s been a trying night. We havenae slept for some time, nor have we eaten.”
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled loud in the clearing in which they sat atop their horses.
He lifted a brow in question at her. “It seems to me yer stomach is betraying ye. I find I am also quite hungry. We’ll sup. Rest and be fresh to finish this quest. How does that sound?”
She twisted her mouth, not wanting to admit that he was right, but she finally nodded.
“Mayhap we can e’en order baths.”
Her eyes lit up at that and she sat a little straighter on her horse. “That would be nice.”
*
By the time they arrived in the village and made their way to the inn and secured a room, Moira’s eyes had grown heavy with sleep.
He’d watched her closely whilst they rode, ready to step in if he thought she would fall or not be able to continue on. But she persevered and pushed through.
She was strong. He wondered if she realized that about herself.
Now that they’d arrived, she breathed a sigh of relief as they were led to their room, their single room, and fell onto the bed, sinking into the soft pile of throws.
Errol had indeed convinced the innkeeper to prepare baths for them. Of course, he insisted Moira bathe first. When she was done, he’d take his turn.
For a moment when securing the room, he had hesitated on renting only one room. It had been a trying couple of days. The information they’d uncovered had heavy emotional ramifications. He didn’t want her to stay alone.
If she needed comfort, he wanted to be the one to offer it to her, even though he kenned he shouldn’t be.
He sighed, thinking about the revelations they’d learned. Aye, everything he’d kenned growing up was built on a lie. He could explain that to his father. Even show him proof, however, doing that wouldn’t be enough to erase decades of hate toward the Harts.
They’d killed his brother.
He couldn’t forgive them for that.
Ever.
A knock on the door brought his attention back to the room and he answered, allowing the maids carrying buckets of water to enter and fill the tub.
They kept returning until the basin was three-quarters of the way full and steam filled the room.
They even provided a bar of soap scented with dried lavender afore they left.
Once he and Moira were alone, he rubbed his hands together. “I will leave ye to bathe in peace. Do ye need aught from me afore I go?”
Her eyes clashed with his. “Where will ye go?”
“The tavern next door. I could use a whisky. Mayhap e’en two.” He smiled. “But if ye need something afore I go, I will get it for ye.”
She pushed off the bed and crossed her arms, her palms rubbing her upper arms. “Ye brought my bag in, so I have all that I need.” Moving to the tub, she dipped her fingertips in.
“The water is perfect.” She picked up the soap and breathed in its scent, closing her eyes on a sigh. “It smells divine.”
Errol nodded. “Right. Well, I shall leave ye to it. Latch the door behind me, Lass. Dinnae open it for anyone but me.”
She eyed him. “Whoe’er do ye think I would allow into our room?”
He shrugged. “I dinnae ken.” And he didn’t.
She didn’t ken anyone here, but still felt the need for the warning.
He didn’t want aught to happen to her. He didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself if harm came to her on his watch.
But it wasn’t just that. Moira meant something to him.
She’d whittled away at his heart on this journey.
Chipping away his walls piece by piece until it was just a sliver left, and then, she’d chipped that away as well.
“I dinnae believe ye would let anyone else in, but one can ne’er be too cautious.
We are still on MacLeod lands, and ye are still a Hart.
None of these people ken aught about what we’ve found.
As far as they are concerned, ye are still the enemy. ”
She grimaced at that reminder. Then shooed him towards the door. When he turned in the hall to face her, she said, “I promise I willnae open the door for anyone but ye.”
Satisfied, he pulled the door closed and waited for the telltale sound of the latch engaging. Once it had, he made his way down the hall and out the door to the nearby tavern.
The smoke-filled room smelled of soot, stale whisky, and spilled ale. That should bother him more than it did. But he was parched. The whisky could taste like dirty water, and he would probably still drink it.
He found a seat and sat down. Within moments, a serving wench with long red hair plaited down her back, big green eyes, and an even bigger bosom greeted him with a sway of her wide hips. When she smiled, her grin revealed a missing tooth.
Errol didn’t spend much time in this part of MacLeod lands and therefore didn’t recognize any familiar faces. The serving wench was no exception.
“What can I get ye?” She drawled, licking her lips as her eyes slid down his body and then back up again. She cocked her hip to the side and jutted out her chest. He was sure that her actions probably worked on some men that wandered in here, but they had no effect on him whatsoever.
But kenning that Moira was up in their room, naked, her perfect, pale skin slick with water? That was a sight he would pay coin to see.
“Whisky,” he answered.
The wench stayed by his table, instead of going and fetching his order.
When he said naught further, she asked, “Aught else?” She bent over and placed her palms on the table, which gave him an uninhibited view of her hefty bosom thanks to the low neckline of her gown. She formed her lips into a pout.
“Nay. Just the whisky.”
“Are ye for certs? Ye’re a braw man. I bet ye could use—”
He didn’t let her finish whatever she was going to say. “I said nay. Just the whisky. Now.”
Her green eyes widened at his terse voice, and she straightened. “I will be back shortly.”
He ignored her hurt expression at his rejection. He had the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes upon in his room at the inn. The thought of a toss with a serving wench, this one in particular, was not in any way appealing.
He wondered if Moira’s breasts were bobbing in the water of the tub. He groaned, running his palms over his face.
Those were thoughts he didn’t need to be thinking. He needed to remain strong. Remember his duty to his clan and his father.
Moira, pretty as she was. Attractive as she was.
She was still a Hart. And there was no getting around that.