Chapter Eight #2
Easing the intimacy of their embrace, Tavig propped himself up on one elbow to look at her. “What went away, sweet Moira?”
“I am not sure what to call it.” Blushing and unable to meet his gaze, she admitted, “’Twas a feeling. ’Twas verra nice, but it didnae stay as long as I would have liked it to.” She heard him chuckle and looked at him, feeling the sting of embarrassment. “I have said something foolish.”
“Nay, loving.” He cupped her face in his hands, giving her a gentle kiss.
“Ye are all sweetness and fire. My laugh is born of hearing ye say ye felt pleasure. I heard ye cry out, felt your body thrash around mine, but I fear I was so lost in my own hungers by then, I couldnae be sure of what I felt.”
When he rose from their bed, Moira frowned, tugging the discarded blanket over her suddenly chilled body.
He returned a moment later with a wet cloth.
Moira blushed furiously as he yanked her covering away, washed her off, and held the cool cloth between her legs for several moments.
That felt good, but his grin at her embarrassment kept her scowling at him.
Just like a man, she mused, tugging the blanket back over herself when he finished tending her.
No appreciation for even the simplest of modesties.
Tavig laughed softly, tossing the cloth aside.
Moira’s sudden concern over her nakedness amused him as did her irritation over his amusement.
That touch of modesty did not hinder her passion in any way so he found it endearing.
Checking to be sure his sword and dagger were close at hand, he slipped beneath the blanket and tugged her into his arms. The feel of her soft skin against his immediately restirred his desire, but he forcibly quelled it.
Her first time had brought her pleasure, but he knew it had also brought her pain.
He would let her have some time to recover from that.
“Now ye are mine, Moira,” he murmured, combing his fingers through her lightly tangled hair.
“Are ye going to start that mad talk of marriage again?”
“Most women wouldnae consider it mad.”
“I might not, either, had ye not started speaking of it from the first day we met. And, as I have told ye, verra clearly and verra often, ’twould be pure lunacy for us to marry. Ye dinnae have to wed me because of this, either.”
“Wedded or not, ye are still mine.” He smiled when she leaned back a little to send him a cross look.
“Ye are verra particular about that, I see.”
“Aye. I am. I thought it only fair to tell ye how I feel about it.”
“Humph.” She settled herself comfortably back in his arms. “Ye are an arrogant mon, Tavig MacAlpin.”
“So I have often been told. And, after what we have just shared, I feel I have some right to my arrogance.”
“It was shared, was it? Ye felt there was something different, did ye?”
“Oh, aye, loving. Mightily different. I have kent my share of lovers—”
“I dinnae think I wish to ken this part of your past,” she muttered.
He laughed, kissing the top of her head and briefly hugging her.
“It pleases me to hear that hint of jealousy.” Tavig ignored her grumbled denial of such an emotion.
“None of those other women has given me what ye have tonight. None of them has fired my blood as ye have. What we share is what every mon with any wit has a hunger for. ’Twas no simple rutting.
That is what I had in the past. Nay, with ye ’twas blinding heat and fierce, compelling passion. ”
But not love, Moira thought, inwardly sighing.
She wanted Tavig to love her. The moment their bodies had united, Moira knew she loved him, deeply and incurably.
She wanted him to feel the same. She did not wish to hear any more pretty words about passion, fate, or destiny.
She wanted Tavig to shout out that he loved her.
She then cursed herself for her selfishness.
Making him fall in love with her would be cruel even if she could accomplish such a task.
She could not marry him without bringing the full dangerous weight of people’s superstitions down on their heads.
It was kinder to leave him believing her to be one of his more enjoyable lovers.
Then only she would suffer when they had to part.
To draw out his love would only serve to stroke her vanity.
“I—” She gave a muffled cry of surprise when Tavig suddenly covered her mouth with his hand.
“Get your clothes on, lass,” he ordered in a whisper, snatching up their blanket and using it to smother their fire.
Moira obeyed him without hesitation. Fear gripping her tightly by the throat, her mind a confusing whirl of questions, she silently and hastily dressed.
Collecting up their bedding and her sack, she followed Tavig into the surrounding wood.
She headed for the rocky hills where Tavig had said they would hide, but, while still within sight of their camp, he veered to the right.
Moira stopped, staring after him in confusion.
He reached out, grasped her by the arm and pulled her along after him.
When they reached a tight knot of trees half encircled by a thick undergrowth, he set their things down.
“I thought we were running away from something,” she whispered, crouching down at Tavig’s side.
“Aye, we were and we will continue to do so as soon as I ken who we are running from.”
“Someone is coming?” she asked, hearing the approach of horses even as she spoke. “Do ye think they search for us?”
“The innkeeper didnae think anyone from Craigmoordun would dare cross that water, and I dinnae see any reason to question his judgment. Still, ’twould be best to ken who trails us. We may have need to change our course.”
Six burly men rode into the clearing, and Moira huddled closer to Tavig. The leader dismounted and knelt by the remains of their fire. He yanked off his gauntlet, gingerly touching the still-warm ashes.
“They cannae have been gone but a few minutes,” he said.
“They must ken that we are near, Tavig,” Moira said, speaking close to his ear.
“Aye. I think these are the men the innkeeper fears so much. ’Tis also clear they have kenned that we are on their lands and rode in here to find us.” He picked up his things. “I think we had better leave, dearling.”
“I think ye and your dearling had better come with me,” drawled a deep voice,
Tavig whirled, clasping the hilt of his sword.
Moira wriggled back when he swung his arm to push her behind him.
The man who spoke was huge, wearing only his plaid.
His long sword was pointed at Tavig, as were the swords of his two smaller and grinning companions.
Moira was sure that they were about to die.
“Now, laddie,” said the man, “do ye really want to cross swords with three men whilst dearling is here? Up now. We will go and talk to Old Colin, eh? I will have those weapons of yours first, though.”
Cursing softly, Tavig stood up and handed the man his weapons.
He kept an eye on the three grinning men as he picked up his and Moira’s belongings.
Putting his arm around a faintly trembling Moira’s shoulders, he allowed himself to be led back to the clearing.
His mind worked feverishly over ways to ensure Moira’s safety.
He faced the man poking idly at the relit fire.
Since his captors had nudged him and Moira toward the man, Tavig knew this had to be Old Colin.
Except for the white streaking the man’s long, shaggy dark hair, Tavig saw little sign of age in this hard-muscled man closely studying him and Moira.
Old Colin looked impressively wild in his plaid and his wolfskin cape.
Tavig relaxed a little as he met the man’s steady gaze, for he could find nothing to fear there.
He prayed that his confidence was born of his instincts and not false hope.
“Now, laddie,” Old Colin said, “I think ye should tell me why ye are roaming across my lands.”
“I think they be that pair that fled Craigmoordun,” said the largest of their three captors.
“Aye, Lachlan, they are. What I want to hear is why they fled that wee village as if the devil’s hounds were nipping at their heels. Do ye have a good answer for that?” Colin asked Tavig.
“I saved a wee child’s life,” Tavig answered, smiling grimly at Colin’s narrow-eyed stare.
“Aye, ’tis all. I saw that she would be trampled by the laird’s men-at-arms so I pulled her out of the road.
No one else saw the danger, so felt I must have used some devil’s trick.
They cried me a witch.” Feeling Moira tremble at the mere mention of the word, he hugged her a little closer to his side.
“My wife tried to intervene and was also accused.”
“So why arenae ye waiting for the priest to pile kindling about your feet and strike his flint?”
“The family of the child decided that roasting us wasnae the proper way to thank us for their child’s life.”
“And your names?”
“Tavig and Moira.”
“Ye have no clan, no laird?”
“Not at this moment.” Tavig was a little surprised when the man grinned.
“And where are ye traveling to?”
“North, to my cousin Sir Mungan Coll.”