With a chuckle, she went down to the great hall and took a seat at the table.
“Ye missed the fun last evening,” Nigel said, sitting next to her.
“I heard th’ music and singing. I’m glad everyone enjoyed th’ entertainment. They worked hard.” She faced Nigel. “I will be asking Laird Ewan for help ta rebuild. Let me know what we need.”
“I agree, we need help.” He said nothing else.
She searched his face. “But?”
“Gilmar is no’ a large village and tis too far from Dundhragon. Cináed had many discussions wi’ Laird Ewan about moving th’ clan to the castle. Now may be th’ right time.”
“Father discussed moving th’ clan and all his councilors agreed wi’ him, ye among them. Our clan wouldna do well at th’ castle.” Was it pride that kept her father from bringing them to the castle? Perhaps a little, but his reason was sound. They were farmers and fishermen, not used to living in cramped spaces.
She put her hands on the table, pushed back her chair, and stood. “I am prepared ta answer all Laird Ewan’s questions, but I willna move our clan without a fight ta stay in our homes.”
She left Nigel in the great hall and headed for the north field. No one appeared to be about. The houses had been dismantled. Deep ruts in the soft ground led to the green where all the debris had been piled.
“Are you looking for someone?” Gareth called as he came down the road from the mill.
“No. I noticed people working here earlier and thought I would see what was left ta be done.”
“Left to be done? Look around. Your people worked without stopping. There is nothing here, not a building or a leaf from any crop. Nothing. Or are you here to give them more work? You needn’t ask them, you set the example of your expectation by doing the work yourself, shaming them not to rest.”
At first, she was too startled by his words to offer an explanation, but she soon found her voice. “That’s no’ why I came here. Everyone is doing th’ best they can. Many have lost much more than me. I still have a roof over my head. Gilmar Manor is one of th’ few buildings still standing. Do you think I press them ta work faster ta git them out of my house?”
Gareth’s face was void of any emotion.
“I push them so when I leave, I am confident they are safe.” She swung her arm where the houses once stood. “There is nothing for them unless I bring help back. My councilors tell me there is little chance of that happening.”
Gareth sighed and nodded.
“Does that answer yer question?” She waited impatiently for his reply. “Ye seem to know all the answers. So, think what ye will. Yer opinion means little to me.”
She marched back to the manor. By the time she reached the gate, she was out of breath, not from the swift walk but from her building anger.
Why was every encounter with him becoming a struggle? How he made her bristle. Now he stared at her. She could feel his eyes on her back. With all the willpower she possessed, she refused to turn and look at him, but not because she didn’t want to see him. She was afraid if she turned, she’d run straight into his arms, for she was not a pirate’s wench.
Chapter Eleven
Gilmar, Scotland
September 25, 1267
Evening
It took her clan four days to restore the forge and mill. Their resilience was a testament to their courage and loyalty to each other. Moira was proud of their efforts.
Tonight marked the completion of the first part of their recovery, and that was worth a celebration.
The day was spent preparing for the festivities. The women cooked, and the men played games. During the evening, everyone gathered at the green for dinner by the pile destined to be the bonfire.
The aroma of fresh bread, pottage, baked salmon, and roasted meat drew everyone to the long tables that were set at the end of the green. The villagers talked and laughed as they waited their turn to be served.
The younger children played games. Every now and then, one of them ran to the table, grabbed berries or nuts, then darted away.
Moira took everything in and, for the moment, imagined the attack had never happened. They were safe and at peace. As long as she didn’t look at the destruction behind her, she could fool herself. She sighed. It was a nice thought but not the truth.
From her position behind the table, she glanced around the green, looking from one group to the next. She could account for everyone, except Gareth.
“Some pottage,” the farmer in front of her said.
Shaken out of her thoughts, Moira ladled the stew onto his trencher. Ready for the next person, she glanced down the line. There weren’t many left to serve. Gareth still hadn’t arrived.
“Ye have been serving pottage since we brought it ta th’ table. Let me finish for ye,” Fiona said, putting some nuts into a cloth and handing it to her son. “Ye should eat.”
Moira served the next person.
“Ye have my thanks, but there aren’t many left ta feed.”
Fiona nodded and made her way to one of the groups. Hamish and Wesley were the last to be served. Then Moira glanced toward the dock.
“Who are ye looking for?” Hamish asked, following her gaze.
“No one in particular. I want ta make sure everyone is fed,” she lied. The blacksmith moved on.
“He’s not here,” Wesley said as she gave him his portion of food.
“Who?” She didn’t look him in the eyes. Instead, she gave him another spoonful of potatoes.
Wesley shook his head, and started to walk away.
“Gareth’s help hasna gone unnoticed, but I have no’ talked to him,” she said. “I’ve seen him from afar, but when I set out ta speak ta him, he’s nowhere ta be seen. And he doona come ta th’ manor for dinner. Where is he? I wanted ta ask him about his hand.”
She’d watched Gareth help her people. He did whatever was asked of him. On the one or two occasions she found herself with him, their conversations were short. He didn’t linger with her as he did her people. In truth, he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.
Wesley glanced over his shoulder and pointed to the ship.
“Gareth spends the nights keeping watch. There is no need to worry about him much longer. You’ll be rid of him in the morning. Many thanks for dinner.” Wesley went to eat with his men before she could respond.
With shaking hands, she stared into the pot. Finally, she put the ladle down, covered the stew, then wrapped her shawl about her shoulders.
“Here, Moira. Ye should eat.” Fiona handed her a basket.
“Many thanks,” she said.
“Th’ night is pleasant. Th’ boulder by the dock is th’ perfect place to sit,” Fiona said.
These last two days had kept Moira busy, but now that Gareth was leaving, their latest, unresolved confrontation bothered her. Each time she glanced at him, whether at the forge, in the field, playing with the children, or spending time with the men, all she thought about was his injured hand and her insensitive words. The more she tried to convince herself her actions were justified, the more she realized she had been wrong.
Moira walked to the beach and sat on the boulder at the end of the dock. Surely, he’d seek her out in the morning before he left. That would give her an opportunity, as chieftain, to tell Gareth how the clan appreciated his time and effort. Yes, she’d thank him on behalf of the clan.
But he’d found a way to avoid her these last days. What if he didn’t come to her? What if he left without saying a word? She squeezed the handle of the basket until the rough rope bit into her palm.
Moira glanced at the basket and slid off the rock. It was up to her to thank him for his generosity. She headed for the Sea Diamond.
The evening breeze was gentle, the sky clear. Feeling nervous, she marched up the plank.
“I request permission to board,” she called out, blinded by a lantern held high, unable to make out anything on deck.
The lantern lowered. She was caught off
guard by her discovery, a bare-chested Gareth standing in front of her. His hair was wet, and his chest glistened with droplets of water.
“Permission granted.” A tankard in one hand, Gareth held out his other to help her aboard.
Moira took his hand, but she couldn’t take her eyes off his chest. His cough brought her eyes to his face. Reluctantly, he released her hand. He smiled as he grabbed his shirt from a peg on the mast and struggled in the breeze to put it on. When he faced her, she didn’t miss the spark in his eyes. He didn’t appear angry, but that didn’t matter. She still had to fix what she had done.
Moira licked her dry lips and settled her shoulders back. Now what?
Gareth cleared his throat.
“Here. Ta go wi’ yer ale.” She nodded toward the barrels to emphasize her point, then thrust the basket toward him.
“What did you bring me?”
“I thought ta bring you….” She let out a sigh. “A peace offering.”
Gareth took the basket, and coughed again.
“You should speak ta Fiona. Her elderberry and honey tea would help wi’ that cough,” she said.
He still didn’t speak.
In the grip of a silent panic, her heart raced. Surely, she should say something more…
“I understand ye’re leaving us tomorrow. I was afraid I wouldna see ye. Wi’ so much ta do in th’ village, there is barely time ta…” A knot in her throat made it difficult for her to swallow. She didn’t want him to leave. “As clan chieftain, I want ta give my thanks for all yer help. It hasn’t gone unnoticed by th’ people, or by me.” The man who stood before her was so strong, had a commanding presence, and was handsome. That hadn’t gone unnoticed either. “I spoke out of place before and regret if I offended ye.”
She let out a frustrated breath and licked her lips. Why didn’t she plan this with more care?
“Please, don’t do that again,” he said.
She gazed at him, not sure what he meant.
“Lick your lips,” he clarified. “They’ll get dry and cracked.”
Her fingers went to her lips. In a heartbeat, his face changed from cool indifference to tender concern. Then a playful smirk lightened his features. Her body reacted to the change that suddenly came over him. The tingling in the pit of her stomach took her by surprise.
“I’m truly sorry if I offended ye,” she said.
“You need not say anymore. We all say or do things we regret.”
“Did you eat?” he asked as he opened the basket.
She shook her head.
“Come.” He offered his hand. “We’re hungry, and there isn’t enough food here for both of us. And Wesley is waiting for this barrel.”
Gareth put the keg on his shoulder with ease, and together, they brought it to the gathering on the village green.
“Ah, Gareth. You brought my gift. Come everyone. For all your hard work,” Wesley said. “This is my special brew.” Wesley stood by Gareth. “I’m all the sorrier you’re leaving. It’s been like old times. I will miss you, my friend.” Wesley slapped him firmly on his back. “I best go and find a tankard before the barrel is dry.” He grabbed a vessel from a nearby table. “Save me some ale!” He stepped away and was lost in the crowd.
“I thought ye were hungry,” Moira said.
“In truth, I had to move you off the ship. If you licked your lips again, I’d never let you leave.” Gareth bent down and kissed her softly.
Her heart nearly burst. She put her hands on either side of his face, pulled him closer, and kissed him back.
“If ye kept yer shirt off, ye wouldna have been able ta make me leave.” She clamped her hands over her mouth. She was the chieftain of Clan MacDougall.
A look of surprise spread across his face. Moira wondered why, until Gareth threw back his head and burst into laughter.
“You bear the weight of the clan on your shoulders. I, on the other hand, bear the weight of a barrel of ale on mine. Let’s join the others.” He took her hand and led her along.
His hands were gentler than she had hoped, and his kiss, more powerful than she had ever imagined.
They ate and laughed with the others until every belly was full and satisfied. The meal over, everyone gathered around the pile of wood in the middle of the green, eager for the bonfire to begin. Wilem began to play his lyre. One of the sailors took out a flute, another a drum. Moira and Gareth found a place to sit, and made themselves comfortable.
Tonight, she didn’t want to be their chieftain, only a villager, or a pirate’s wench. From their perch, they gazed at the sea and were lost in the sound of the breaking waves on the shore. Gareth draped his arm around Moira’s shoulders and grinned.
“I love the colors at sunset,” Moira said.
He pulled her closer, and she shivered. Gareth tilted his face toward her.
“Are you cold?”
She glanced at him. His question was a small thing, but the concern made her heart flutter.
“No’ at all,” she said, pulling her gaze away, afraid he would see something she was not ready to admit.
He cleared his throat.
She struggled to keep from smiling at his signal. Gareth had shoulders wide enough to carry the weight of the world. Although he would never admit it, he had a habit of coughing in awkward situations.
He squeezed her arm and returned his attention to the sun while it slipped lower in the sky. The red sky darkened until the heavens were velvety black.
For the moment, they only saw each other.
She stared overhead at the hundreds of stars above. The beauty never escaped her, and the vastness humbled her. She let out a deep sigh, her body close to Gareth’s. The strain of the last week faded with the sun. Contentment floated on the air, helped along by Wesley’s ale and music.
“Are ye humming?” Moira asked.
Gareth glanced at her. Her heart jolted at the devilish look in his eyes.
“Has my voice offended you, milady?” He pulled his head back. “I’ve been told I have a good voice.”
“No, ye dinna offend me. I was trying ta determine which angel was singing.”
He gaped at her. Finally, he laughed so hard, he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
“Angel? No one has called me that since I was a small lad.” Another chuckle escaped his lips. “If you think me an angel, it is a dark one.”
Moira couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“Angel…” he whispered. Gareth stared at her while his finger traced her lips. Then his arm snaked around her back and drew her closer. His lips brushed against hers as he spoke. “From your lips, let it be so.”
She didn’t resist but gave herself freely to his kiss. His hand ran up her arm, the tenderness of his touch made her powerless to refuse him. He broke the kiss and then rested his forehead against hers.
Entranced by the tenderness between them, Moira longed for more. She wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted by a man, happy, and secure…
A soft moan escaped Gareth’s lips.
A deep, sensual sound that stoked a fire inside her. In the darkness, she ventured to stare at him. There was strength in the way he carried himself, and pride and something else she struggled to name. He was a man who knew who and what he was. He glanced at her with that devilish grin that made her melt.
Flashes of light from the torches the villagers carried onto the green intruded into their small world, the magic of the moment died as quickly as it began. They watched in silence as the wood was set ablaze.
He gently planted a kiss on her head.
The soft music turned lively. The children were the first to dance, but soon everyone was on their feet.
“My men play the Carole. Dance with me,” Gareth said.
She nodded, and he helped her up.
The circle dance was a favorite of hers, and the bonfire made a perfect centerpiece.
He led her to the circle where he broke in, and they held the hands of the people next to them.
“Who will sing?” Wilem called out.
“Gareth,” answered the crew.
Everyone turned toward them.
“So ye no’ only hum like an angel, ye also sing like one, too.” She laughed without missing a step of the dance.
He sang the sailors’ version of a fast-paced ballad and coughed when he came to the bawdy words. Someone called out the missing word, sending everyone laughing. After two songs, Gareth and Moira excused themselves.
He handed her an ale from a passing server as they walked away from the crowd.
“You’re more beautiful when you smile,” he said. He peered at her over the rim of his tankard.
A hot flush crept up her neck, and she licked her lips.
Gareth removed the ale from her hands, and put both their tankards down.
She didn’t know what to say. What was he going to do?
He took her hand and pulled her along beside him.
“Where are we going?” she asked. They walked deeper into the darkness and turned the corner of a burned-out cottage.
“Anywhere to be alone.”
She leaned against the building, waiting for his next move, imagining another, more passionate kiss. He held her in place with his eyes. Gareth braced his hand on the wall beside her, then leaned forward.
She could smell the ale on his breath.
“You must stop licking your lips. You make me want to…” He brushed a stray hair away from her face. “Do this.”
Gareth cupped her face between his hands. Her heart pounded as he tilted his head and captured her lips, softly at first, but then the kiss turned fierce.
Wave after wave of desire pulled at her until all she could do was ride it to its full height. She waited, yearned for it to come crashing down. A moment of panic filled her mind, then disappeared as the wave crashed against the shore in a rush of heat.
He lifted his head and stared into her eyes. How he took her breath away.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. She laid her head on his chest, and he held her close.
Her lips were still warm from his kiss, and her head filled with music, Gareth’s music. He hummed to her as he stroked her back.
The Pirate’s Redemption Page 7