Chapter Eleven #3
Iain dragged the goat over to Moira, stuffing the animal’s lead into her hand.
“The child thrives on the goat’s milk. Has since the day he was born.
Jeanne wasnae the sort of lass to feed a bairn herself.
” He handed her a sack. “Ye will find all ye need for him in here. I am sorry to set this trouble in your arms, mistress, but I cannae care for the lad. I swear to ye, he is a good bairn and will give ye little trouble. I pray ye willnae fault him for his mother.”
“Nay, sir. I would ne’er do that. No bairn should be made to pay for the sins of his mother.” She glanced at Tavig. “Or father. He will be cared for as weel as possible.”
“I ken that ye will do your best. Take care. God be with ye, laddie,” he murmured, pausing briefly to kiss the baby’s cheek before disappearing into the wood.
“Moira,” Tavig said quietly as soon as the man was gone.
She grimaced, forcing herself to look at Tavig yet not give in to the emotions tearing at her. Seeing him holding the child, Jeanne’s child, made restraint very difficult. She needed time to recover from the shock.
“I thought ye felt it was verra important for us to get as far away from here as we can. Have ye changed your mind about that, then?” she asked.
“Nay, ’tis still important. The villagers kenned that they had been tricked into making false accusations and turned their anger on the one who tricked them.
I dinnae want to linger here to see if they might now feel angry that they have been driven to kill one of their own and would like to blame us for that. ”
“Then we had best be moving along.” She adjusted the sacks she had to carry and started to walk.
“’Twill be awkward to walk carrying this bairn.”
She stopped, taking a deep breath, and turned back to him.
Without saying a word, she made a sling out of one of their blankets, tied it on herself and secured the baby inside it.
With the child tucked snugly against her chest, she handed the sacks to Tavig, took hold of the goat’s lead, and started on her way again.
To her relief, Tavig made no effort to speak to her.
She was afraid of what she might say to him while her emotions still ran so hot and were so confused.
Anger was one emotion she easily recognized, but she was not really sure what she was angry about.
She had never thought Tavig was as untouched and innocent as she.
A bastard child should come as no great surprise.
She decided that knowing Tavig had bedded other women was a lot easier to endure than seeing the tangible proof of his past. And there was no more tangible proof than the cooing child pressed against her.
She was going to have to convince herself that giving a woman a child was not necessarily a sign of any true affection.
Considering the number of illegitimate children cluttering the land, she was a little surprised that she still clung to such a hazily romantic ideal.
There was also jealousy and hurt stirring within her.
She did her best to banish those feelings.
The babe was nine months old and had taken nine months to be formed.
She had not even known who Sir Tavig MacAlpin was eighteen months ago, and he had not known anything about her.
It would be the height of foolishness to consider the making of the child as some personal affront.
The only thing that should matter to her was how Tavig had and did act while he was with her.
In that she had no cause for complaint, jealousy, or hurt.
Yanking the stubborn goat up a steep path, she continued to scold herself for how she was feeling.
If nothing else, she wished such ill feelings banished from her heart before the tiny boy she carried could become aware of them and be hurt by them.
Tavig did not deserve them, either, she decided, but resisted the urge to look at him.
There would be plenty of time to talk when they made camp.
Since she could not go to some private place to sort out her emotions, she kept herself private by simply pretending Tavig was not there.
Tavig cursed when, yet again, he failed to catch Moira’s eye.
She was acting as if he did not exist. Although he could sympathize with how she must feel, it was extremely annoying to be so totally ignored.
He wanted to know what she felt and thought, and he wanted to know now.
If he did not learn what was stirring in her heart and mind he would be unable to say what was needed to soothe her.
His deepest fear was that the appearance of his illegitimate son had built a wall between them that he might never breach.
The workings of fate, he decided, were not only frivolous, but also cruel.
Moira was going to be a hard-won prize. The very last thing he needed was yet another obstacle to her heart.
He concentrated on finding them a suitable place to camp for what little remained of the night.
Once he had her captive in one spot he would make her talk to him.