Chapter Four #2
“Oh. Aye. My thought was that if he truly is dead, there is no one to grieve for him. A person ought to have a few tears shed for him when his life is ended. Someone should miss ye when ye are gone, or ’tis as if ye werenae here at all. ’Tis a verra sad thought.”
“And do ye have folk who would miss ye?” Tavig was curious about what other kinsmon she had, perhaps some a little less swinish and brutal than Sir Bearnard.
Moira inwardly winced, for she knew there would be few, if any, and their sense of loss would be fleeting. She struggled to shrug with an air of nonchalance. “There are a few.”
“Ah, poor wee Moira,” he said in a soft voice, easily seeing through her lie. “I will weep for ye.”
The thought that he might actually do so touched Moira in a way that made her nervous and she frowned at him.
“Ye are a verra silly mon. Ye dinnae e’en ken who I am, have barely kenned me for a full day.
For all ye can tell, I could be one of those people most folk would wish an early death on.
And as far as ye being able to weep for me, I would have to succumb to the Grim Reaper’s touch verra quickly, indeed, to be sure that ye are still alive to do so.
The hangmon waits for ye, Tavig MacAlpin. ”
“A fact I am not apt to forget. If I meet my fate ere ye do, will ye shed a tear for me as I sway from the gallows tree?”
“This is a verra foolish conversation,” she grumbled, walking to their bed of blankets.
Tavig smiled faintly as he watched her settle down on their meager bed. He was beginning to understand Moira. She had not answered his question. That meant that she could not give him a firm nay. Moira would be upset if he was taken by the hangman, although she might not fully understand why.
He banked the fire, leaving a smaller and safer flame to flicker during the night.
It would not give them much warmth, but it would serve to ward off any curious or dangerous animals.
He moved to the bedding they would have to share, sat down, and tugged off his boots.
After slipping beneath the blanket, he placed the ill-made sword he had acquired in the fisherman’s hut close by his side.
He tucked his knife just under the edge of the blanket beneath him.
Tavig turned on his side, smiling at Moira, who pointedly kept her back toward him.
He slipped his arm around her tiny waist.
Moira pushed his arm away, alarmed at how nice it felt as Tavig eased it around her. “There will be none of that. Ye can stay to your own side.”
“A mon ought to be able to cuddle with his bride.”
A warm, subtly intoxicating feeling caused by his closeness had been seeping over Moira, but it abruptly fled at his words.
It occurred to her that his constant talk of marriage could have some cunning purpose.
After all, she mused, if he made her believe they were to be wed, she might grow lax in protecting her chastity.
She turned onto her side and glared at him, silently cursing the shadows that disguised his expression.
“Is that your game, then?” she demanded.
“My game?” Tavig could hear the anger in her husky voice and wondered how he had stepped wrong this time.
“Aye—your game. Ye try to deceive me into acting like some tavern wench. Ye want me to believe all your babble about being wed, about being your bride, so that I will think ’tis no great sin to allow ye to bed me.”
“Ah, now I see what twisted path your thoughts are taking. Ye had me a wee bit confused for a moment. Lass, if all I sought was a good rutting I would ne’er speak the words ‘marriage’ or ‘bride.’ I would be verra careful not to give ye any claim to me.
” He tugged her into his arms, holding her just tight enough to mute her struggles. “I would just seduce you.”
“Such arrogance.” Moira gave up struggling, but remained tense, silently protesting his hold and fighting how right, how good, it felt to be so close to him. “Not every lass can be seduced.”
“Aye, I ken it. I wouldnae try to seduce ye, lass.” He inwardly asked forgiveness for that lie for he had every intention of trying to coax her into being his lover. “I have no need to. We are mates, a fated match. Destiny has paired us.”
“Ye talk such complete nonsense.”
“Do I? Can ye not feel it, fair Moira?”
“Feel what?”
“The bond between us.”
Moira could feel something, but she was not sure she should call it a bond.
He was warming the curve of her neck from her shoulder to her earlobe with soft kisses, and that warmth rippled through her body.
That gentle yet pervasive heat also curled through her mind, melting away all her suspicions and anger.
She considered a bond to be something steadfast, built over the years by familiarity and trust which made a person feel calm, confident, and safe.
What Tavig was stirring inside of her was hot, fierce, new, and frightening.
He was seducing her. He spoke of bonds and matrimony yet what he was pulling from her, what Moira was certain he was intending to stir within her, was the basest of hungers.
Moira was afraid of the strength of that hunger and of her own weakness.
“’Tis unfair of ye to play your lecher’s games with me,” she protested, a little surprised at how soft and husky her voice was. “I am a weelborn maid, not some light-moraled wench.”
“Now, lassie, whilst I will admit that ye make me feel verra lecherous, I play no game here.” He began to brush light, teasing kisses over her small face, stirred by the signs of passion he could sense in her.
“How can ye not feel the bond destiny has set between us? Do ye think I speak of marriage to every sodden lass I find sprawled upon the shore?”
“How should I ken what ye tell the lasses? I only started to speak to ye but yesterday.”
“True, but I have forgiven ye for behaving so coldly toward me.”
“Ye are a jester. Ye should wear the belled cap so that all may ken your wit.”
“Now, Moira, what have I done to make ye mistrust me so?”
“Other than being condemned to hang for the murder of two men?”
Tavig looked at her for a moment then smiled. “Ye ken that I didnae do that.”
Moira decided that the way he could just look at her and know how she felt was not only intimidating but annoying. “I havenae decided if I believe your tale of innocence or not.”
“Aye, ye have.” He kissed the hollow by her ear.
She trembled. “Ye are a verra arrogant fellow.” She clung to the front of his shirt, struggling vainly to regain her wits enough to push him away. “Ye should have more respect for a woman’s innocence and her desire to keep it.”
“Lass, I begin to think that ye could merrily rut with every mon the length and breadth of Scotland and still be innocent. A wee bit of loving from a mon who wishes to wed ye cannae steal it away.”
“I have decided to ignore all your mad talk of wedding me.”
“Have ye now?” He feathered soft kisses over her cheeks, edging ever closer to her full, tempting mouth.
“Aye, and now I demand that ye release me.”
“Free yourself,” he murmured, lightly brushing his lips over hers.
Moira really did not want to. A sharp flicker of resentment cut through the heat flowing through her.
He should accept her refusal to play his game no matter how halfhearted it was.
Her irritation was short-lived, however.
The desire rushing through her body was too strong.
She had never been kissed before and she desperately wanted to know what it would be like to be kissed by the darkly handsome man holding her.
She promised herself that she would allow only one kiss.