Chapter Thirteen
Moira gaped at Tavig as he burst through the trees, running straight toward her.
They had stopped so that she could give Adair his afternoon meal.
Although they had only had the child with them for two days, Adair was adjusting to the journey with ease.
Even he looked startled by Tavig’s abrupt arrival, however.
Then Moira saw the tense expression on Tavig’s dark face, and she felt fear tickle its way down her spine.
“Ye didnae find the rabbit ye were looking for, did ye?” she said, stuffing Adair’s things back into his sack in preparation for the order to leave she expected Tavig to give.
“Nay,” he replied. “But I did see a pack of wolves and I fear they saw me.” He helped her get Adair into the sling she wore across her chest.
“Those are wolves following you?”
“Sorry, dearling, I am being unclear. These wolves are men, hunters sent out by my cousin Iver. Now, I want ye to take the goat, our supplies, and all else ye can carry and go and hide.”
“But, Tavig, what are ye going to do? Ye should be trying to find a place to hide as weel.”
“They are too close. I am going to lead them away from ye and the bairn. If I dinnae return by the time the sun begins to set, ye are to continue on to Mungan’s without me.
Straight o’er those hills to the north. Go,” he demanded, giving her a slight push.
“Ye dinnae want to fall into the hands of these curs, and they cannae find my son, either.”
She wanted to argue with him but she could hear the men approaching.
Although she could demand to go with him, she no longer had only herself to consider.
Tavig was right. His enemies could not be allowed to find Adair.
Iver would see Adair as just another impediment to all he coveted.
Adair’s life was in as much danger as Tavig’s.
As Tavig disappeared into the trees she hurried to find a good hiding place. Just as she found a hollow inside a clump of thick shrubs encircling a boulder she heard a cry rise up from Iver’s men. Tavig had been spotted. Now all she could do was hide, wait, and pray.
Tavig cursed as he looked over his shoulder. He tried to keep to the thick wood that slowed his mounted pursuers, but they were still gaining on him. Worse, he was approaching a clearing, and they were blocking his way back into the forest. Once out of the wood, they would easily overrun him.
As he broke through the last of the trees and underbrush into the open land, he cursed again.
His gift of foresight had failed him miserably this time.
It had given him no warning at all. Intent upon finding some meat for their evening meal, he had practically walked into his enemies’ hands.
All his efforts to elude Iver’s dogs were proving useless.
He knew that the minute he saw them and they saw him.
His only consolation was that Moira and Adair were safe.
Once out into the open field, Iver’s men quickly encircled him. Tavig drew his sword, hoping to take down at least a few of the six well-armed men before they captured him. He had no doubt that he would lose the fight, but he wanted them to pay dearly for their victory.
Wounding two of the men proved so easy Tavig felt his hopes rise.
Even as he pulled a third man from his saddle, his brief hope of freedom was brutally extinguished.
Before Tavig could get on the riderless horse a burly man slammed into him from behind.
Tavig hit the ground hard enough to push all the breath from his body.
He had no chance to fight back, a flurry of kicks and punches sending him into a helpless, semiconscious state.
Although he hated to give Iver’s men the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt him, he groaned as he was yanked to his feet, one man roughly bringing his hands behind his back.
The man standing before him was Andrew MacBain, and Tavig realized he was in the hands of Iver’s mercenaries, men cast out by their own clans who were willing and often eager to do anything for coin.
“Iver will pay us weel for this,” Andrew said, stroking his dirty, tangled beard. “He is offering a handsome sum for ye, Tavig.”
“So I have been told. If ye trust Iver to pay you, ye are a bigger fool than I was.”
“Nay, laddie, dinnae try seeding distrust. We have been duly warned about your clever tongue. Iver will pay us the fee he promised to any mon who brought his murdering cousin to justice.”
“Fine words coming from the mon who wielded the knife.”
“Ye are the only one who kens that aside from Iver and ourselves. Iver daren’t speak the truth, and none of my men will, either.
Aye, and ye shouldnae speak of it too often.
” He drew his dagger and idly touched its sharp blade.
“’Tisnae so rare for a mon to lose his tongue in battle.
” After holding Tavig’s gaze for a moment, he resheathed his dagger.
“How are the wounded?” he asked the man on his right.
“Their wounds arenae bad, but they need bandaging.”
“Aye. Weel, we have ridden hard this day so we will camp now. Here is as good a place as any. ’Twill be hard for anyone to creep up on us here.” He shoved Tavig back down onto the ground. “Tie his ankles,” he ordered a thin, scar-faced man.
Once tied, Tavig was left where he was as the men saw to the wounded and prepared their camp.
Wincing over the aches in his body, Tavig edged back against a low bush to escape the wind.
August was almost over, and the breeze carried the bite of approaching fall.
Weakened by the beating he had endured at the hands of his captors, Tavig decided he would be wise to try to avoid catching a chill.
Unless some miracle happened, Iver had won, and that was a bitter taste in Tavig’s mouth—a defeat made all the more bitter by how close he had come to reaching Mungan Coll, aid, and safety.
The moment Moira reached Mungan and told him everything that had happened, he was certain Mungan would try to come to his rescue.
He was also sure it would be too late. MacBain and his hard-eyed men would get him to Iver before Moira could get to Mungan.
Iver would undoubtedly take some time to gloat over his victory, but not enough to allow Mungan to rescue him.
As he thought of Moira, Tavig sighed, saddened by the thought of never seeing her again and angry at himself for not planning for such an inevitability.
She was not his wife, nor had he the tools or the time to write down his wishes for her future.
She would have no choice but to return to Sir Bearnard’s brutal care.
Tavig could not shake the feeling that he had failed her—badly.
And his son as well, he realized, cursing viciously at himself.
He had not claimed Adair as his own by spoken or written word.
That was going to make it very difficult for Adair to claim what was his by birthright, far more his than Iver’s.
Despite his looks, Adair would have a hard time proving that he was Tavig MacAlpin’s son.
Worse, when Moira was taken from the child, the boy would truly be orphaned.
It was only a small comfort to know Mungan would care for the boy.
At least they are alive, he told himself fiercely.
If Andrew MacBain and his cohorts had captured Moira and Adair, neither would have survived for long.
Worse, Tavig knew he would have had to live through the hell of watching Moira abused then murdered.
The very thought of it twisted his insides into hard, painful knots of fear.
Tavig prayed that Moira had the good sense to do exactly as he had ordered.
Moira stared up at the sky as she finished changing Adair’s rags.
She could no longer deny that it was sunset, and Tavig was nowhere to be seen.
Setting Adair in his sling, she used another blanket to set the sacks of supplies like panniers on the goat’s back.
Head straight for the hills, Tavig had told her.
Looking down at a peacefully sleeping Adair, she knew she had no choice but to obey.
Her only hope—and she knew it was a small one—was that she would reach Mungan Coll in time for him to hie to Tavig’s rescue.
Not only did she doubt her ability to get to Mungan’s keep with any great speed, but also she doubted Iver would allow Tavig to live very long after he got his hands on him.
“He wouldnae let ye live verra long either, laddie,” she murmured, winding her way through the trees, fixing her gaze on the hills she had to cross and dragging the reluctant goat behind her.
“Ye are Tavig’s son. Ye may not have been claimed openly by him—save within my hearing—and ye may have no paper, but ye do have the look of him.
Iver would take one peek at ye and ken exactly who ye are.
He willnae think on how ye have naught to prove your claim, he will just see Tavig’s son and want ye dead.
I just wish that saving your life didnae mean losing all chance to save Tavig.
Not that I could help him anyway,” she grumbled, shoving aside a branch blocking her path.
Adair gurgled sleepily, reaching out to grab her long braid and tucking it against his cheek as he closed his eyes.
Moira briefly touched his thick black curls and sighed.
She was so afraid for Tavig she ached, yet every instinct told her to walk away from him, to leave the man and save the child.
Moira prayed that when Adair grew up, he would understand not only why she made such a choice, but how hard it was for her to do it.