Chapter Seven #2
A small screech escaped her as the bitter cold of the water cut through her clothes.
She quickly put the small sack she carried on top of her head, holding it there with one hand.
She muttered complaints and curses all the way across, ignoring Tavig’s amusement.
Complaining helped her control her fear when, in the middle of the little river, the swift water rose up to her waist, chilling her to the bone as it pulled at her.
“There, on land again and safe,” he said, helping her climb up the mossy bank.
“Aye, but chilled to the bone.” She set down her sack to squeeze the cold water from her skirts.
“It was a wee bit brisk.”
“Brisk! ’Twas ice that forgot to grow hard. We shall both catch the fever and die.”
“Nay, the sun is warm, and the sky is clear of clouds. We will be dry again soon enough.”
He took her hand, starting up a low, rocky rise leading into a thick wood.
It had not taken him long to see that Moira’s complaints were but a way to hide her fear.
She never faltered and was proving to have a surprising strength.
That had certainly been revealed back in the village when, instead of fleeing, she had tried to help him.
Her talk of fever did worry him, however, even though he knew she was fond of predicting their deaths at every new obstacle they faced.
The moment he had felt the bite of that cold water, he had been concerned about what it would do to her.
Despite the fortitude Moira had revealed, she was a delicate woman, reed-slim and small.
Tavig wanted to get her to a place where they could camp as fast as possible.
He needed to build a fire to warm her and dry her clothes.
He wished he had been able to steal them a horse so that they could make the rest of their journey in some comfort and with a little more speed, but fleeing in the midst of a sun-drenched afternoon had been risky enough.
On foot it would be another hour or so before it would be safe to camp.
By then the chill of the water could be settling into Moira far more firmly than was healthy.
Nearly two hours passed before Tavig found a spot where they could camp for the night.
The sun was beginning to set, its warmth rapidly diminishing.
The small clearing in the midst of the thick wood had a clear path to the rocky hills just to the north.
It was almost perfect. If they were spotted by anyone, they had a chance, a very good chance, of making it into the hills where pursuit would become extremely difficult.
Tavig wasted no time in digging a shallow pit and starting their fire for, despite her attempts to hide it, Moira was shivering.
“Take those wet clothes off, lass,” he ordered, taking out his flint, crouching by the pile of sticks he had made and striking a spark. He carefully nursed the small spark he made in the dry kindling.
“Take my clothes off?” Moira frowned at him as she set down her sack. “I cannae do that here.”
“There is no one about to see you, dearling. We are quite alone.”
“Ye are still here.”
“I willnae look.” He stood up, extracting a thin blanket from the pack he had made up at the fisherman’s cottage.
He advanced on Moira. “Here, I will hold this up as ye take those wet clothes off then ye can wrap this around yourself.” When she still hesitated, he cursed.
“Ye need to get warm and dry, loving, and ye cannae do so standing about in those sodden clothes.” He turned his face away. “Get ’em off.”
Tavig did his best to keep his eyes averted, but decided it was more than should be asked of any man.
The soft rustle she made as she slipped out of her clothes could not be ignored.
Even as he looked he hoped she would not consider it too large a breach of her trust. He did not want to ruin what few gains he had made in easing her wariness simply because he could not resist temptation.
When he glanced her way he drew his breath in so sharply he was briefly afraid that he had already given himself away.
She was easing off the thin remains of her nightgown which served as her chemise, slowly revealing herself.
He knew it was going to be very difficult to continue to woo her gently and slowly draw out her passion now that he had seen all he hungered for.
Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped, the honey-colored tips hardened by the chill of the air.
His mouth watered as he imagined how they would taste.
There was no excess flesh on her delicate frame.
She reminded him of a young colt, sleek and limber.
Her waist was tiny, her hips gently rounded.
Despite her lack of height, her slender, beautifully shaped legs were long.
Her skin was a soft white, and his hands tingled as he thought of how that skin would feel beneath his touch.
As she dropped her chemise, he quickly turned away, praying that she would not see how aroused he was, for she would be sure to guess that he had been spying on her.
Moira gave a little tug on the blanket, and Tavig immediately released it.
He flashed her a brief, strained smile and quickly moved back to the fire.
Wrapping the blanket around herself, she sat down across from him, but he paid her no attention.
He concentrated on mixing up some porridge.
He remained tensely silent as they ate, but could not shake the image of her slender form from his mind.
It was painfully easy to imagine her lithe body curled around him as he made her his lover.
He found it impossible to dismiss the thought, even though it made him ache uncomfortably with need.
As soon as they had finished eating, he moved to find a store of firewood. He found some sticks to drape her damp clothes on, taking them down from the tree branches she had hung them on. Tavig prayed that keeping busy might ease the hunger for her which was knotting up his insides.
“The nearer they are to the fire the faster they will dry,” he muttered in explanation and, not waiting for an answer, began to set out their bedding.
Moira clutched her blanket around her, glanced at the clothing the village woman had given her, and then looked at Tavig.
The clothes would be big, but they would serve.
They were of such a rough homespun, however.
She dreaded donning them without putting on her nightgown as a chemise to protect her skin.
Still watching Tavig, who was taking far more than his usual care in spreading out their bed, she tried to hitch the blanket more securely around herself.
It, too, was itchy, but not nearly as rough as the clothes.
What concerned her far more than what she was or was not wearing was the way Tavig was acting.
He had barely spoken to her, and she had been prepared for a slew of teasing remarks.
The man loved to make her blush. She scrubbed out their battered wooden bowls with a little water and sand as she tried to ignore his odd mood, but the menial chore failed to distract her fully.
Another look Tavig’s way revealed him scowling at their bedding as he knelt beside it.
Moira grew nervous. Tavig looked angry. Angry men were dangerous men.
She prepared herself to be as silent and unobtrusive as possible, but suddenly she felt that was not the right thing to do.
Moira realized she wanted to know what troubled Tavig.
She was willing to suffer any of the consequences that could result from intruding on his black mood.
She took a deep breath, cautiously approached him, and knelt beside him.
“Tavig? Have I done something to anger you?”