Chapter Three #3
“Nay?” Tavig wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “What would make a woman kill?”
“Tis a verra strange conversation we are having.”
“True, but now ye have stirred my curiosity. What would make a woman kill someone? Hate?” He dampened a scrap of cloth and gently wiped the dust from her small face.
Although Moira found it a little difficult to keep her mind on what they were discussing, she struggled to reply.
“A woman can hate. Mayhaps e’en more adamantly than a mon.
” Still unsettled by his soft bathing of her face, she watched as he briskly wiped the dust from his own.
“Jealousy might prompt a woman, too,” she continued, hoping that talk would stop him from noticing how she kept staring at him.
“And greed.” He slung the waterskin over his shoulder, took her by the hand, and started walking again.
“Weel—aye—I suppose. And most women would do their utmost to kill anyone who threatened the life of a bairn.”
“Aye, a woman can grow most fierce when ye endanger her child.”
“In truth, I think a woman can be prompted to kill for most of the same reasons a mon can. We just arenae driven to it as often, and some of the things a mon feels are worth dying for or killing for seem verra odd to us.”
“They can sometimes seem verra odd to men, too,” Tavig murmured, glancing at her. “Another difference is that women can be verra treacherous in the manner of their killing.”
“Weel, we cannae always face our enemy eye to eye and sword to sword. We would then become the slain instead of the slayer. Only a fool doesnae recognize his own weaknesses.”
“Aye, so ye slip a dirk in their backs in the dark of night whilst they lie asleep in their beds.”
There was a hint of bitterness in his voice.
Moira puzzled over it, but lacked the courage to ask the reason for it.
She then thought of her guardian, of his brutality both subtle and direct.
Many a time, as she nursed the bruises he gave her, she thought of the many ways she might kill him.
Often she had imagined long, slow deaths that would finally repay him for all of the pain he had caused her.
Occasionally she had simply considered cutting his fat throat as he slept, quietly ending his long reign of cruelty and fear.
“And some men deserve no better than a stealthy death,” she said in a very quiet voice.
A deep anger shaded her words, and Tavig sensed it was directed at Sir Bearnard.
He ached to question her about her life with her guardian, about her feelings, but knew it was not a good time for such an inquisition.
She had to grow more accustomed to him, to get to know him much better.
The wait would be frustrating, for he was certain that Sir Bearnard’s treatment of Moira would cause him some trouble, could even be a wall between them that he would find hard to breach, and yet he could not just charge ahead, demanding the information he wanted.
After silently and heartily cursing Sir Bearnard Robertson, Tavig strove for a tighter tone in their conversation.
“Ye are an impertinent wee thing,” he teased, frowning when he felt her tense.
Moira shivered as a thrill of fear went through her, lodging in her stomach and knotting it.
Impertinent wee thing, Tavig had called her.
When she had first gone to live with her guardian, he had often called her that.
She had quickly learned the wisdom of controlling her tongue.
Any hint of impertinence on her part had always brought about the worst of his beatings.
She covertly studied Tavig, who frowned at her for a moment then shrugged and turned his attention to the rough path they traveled.
Tavig did not look ready to strike her. He did not look as if he even considered such an act.
Nevertheless, she decided to take his words as a warning.
She had learned the thin limits of Sir Bearnard’s tolerance and patience and she would learn Tavig’s limits.
Until now she had not really feared Tavig.
She had spoken with an unaccustomed freedom.
Too much freedom, she mused. She had let herself forget the unkind ways of men, but she would not do so again.
She would remember to weigh her every word and to make sure that she uttered as few words as possible.
Silence had proven to be the safest route to follow.
When Moira continued to say nothing, Tavig concentrated on picking out the smoothest path to follow.
The brief frightened look she had cast his way had stung him.
The almost tangible way she had withdrawn from him, although her hand still rested in his, hurt him.
Tavig knew he had a lot of work ahead of him if he was to accomplish what he felt was their destiny—marriage, full and lasting.
He did not want a wife who cowered at every turn.
He knew there was wit and strength within Moira.
Sir Bearnard had beaten down the spirit within her. Tavig vowed that he would free it.