by Aileen Adams
He stood then, his back to her, the water barely waist-high. His fists rested on his hips, narrow and firm. She swallowed, wishing with all her might that she had never seen this.
And that she might never stop watching him, as he gazed out over the river. What was he thinking of? What kept him in place for such a long time?
He shook his head before turning, walking from the river to the bank. Every step revealed more of him as the river retreated and he emerged.
Her knees shook so, but she managed to back away as swiftly and soundlessly as she might, while still staring at him. Why was it so unimaginably difficult to look away?
It was both a blessing and a crushing disappointment when he disappeared into the pines.
Her face burned fiercely—she reminded herself this was to be expected, as she had behaved shamefully by spying on his private moments. She had every reason to be ashamed of her actions.
Yet there was a deeper understanding which had suddenly bloomed in her, one which she had never known the fullness of before then. A knowing she had only guessed at, of which she had only the vaguest awareness.
It was not shame which made her cheeks burn or caused her heart to race sickeningly fast.
Rather, the awareness of him as a man and of herself as a woman.
She went to the water again, this time kneeling to splash her face and the back of her neck, drawing her hair up on top of her head to do so. Dense waves, tending toward curls, which carried pine needles after a night spent sleeping on them.
She had never so wished for smooth, lovely hair which did not pick up every bit of refuse which drifted its way.
She had never given much thought to her hair at all—or, in fact, to any part of herself. Her body was an instrument, something to be used for survival of herself and her brothers.
Any thought of herself as a woman had come with regret, bitterness, as being a woman had always served as a disadvantage. Would that she were a man, she’d always wished.
Now?
She sat back on her calves, hands folded in her lap. Staring out over the river as he had.
Now she questioned what it would have meant to be his bride.
12
It was not until the sun had nearly climbed overhead that Fergus realized he’d spent the morning looking for her. Listening for her. Waiting for her to appear.
Had Elspeth gone on her way without saying goodbye?
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath. Why would she say goodbye to him? She owed him nothing, he owed nothing to her. There was nothing between them but a chance meeting and a shared supper.
Like as not, she’d been too embarrassed after the previous night’s recollections to face him in the morning. She had no reason to be as far as he was concerned, but she was a prideful thing. Willful.
‘Twas a shame, then, as he would certainly have enjoyed sharing more meals with her. Two hunters were better than one, especially when one was as skilled as she.
It would be best to focus on covering ground. If Rodric and Quinn completed their mission and reached the inn before he did, they would leave word with Murphy of Fergus’s intention to meet with him. He would be waiting, perhaps even saving a job he knew Fergus would do well with.
It would not do to keep him waiting long.
He reached a familiar stretch of road not long after that and decided to stop to rest the horse and eat his dinner. He hobbled the gelding in a thick patch of grass it might enjoy eating, and settled himself in front of a birch whose branches provided shade against the midday sun.
This was roughly the place where his cousins found him.
He would be so much further along, had it not been for their treachery. Would that he knew where they made their homes. He would be more than happy to make the sacrifice of taking more time away from his purpose if it meant looking into their surprised faces before smashing his fist into them.
Had his father grown more ill since they’d said goodbye? How much longer did he have to live? If only they could have parted on better terms.
If only the man had not lied to him.
It was not Fergus’s fault that his father had chosen to lie.
He tossed an apple core to the horse that it might eat the thing. Resentment had all but soured the fruit’s sweet flesh. The horse seemed to enjoy it nonetheless. At least one of them had.
A pair of riders trotted past, neither of them paying notice to the man beneath the tree. It was just as well. After an all but sleepless night, not even a morning swim in the cold river had forced him into wakefulness.
The idea of holding a conversation, even idle bits of pleasantry, repulsed him.
A look at his pack told him of the need to hunt. He would stop earlier than usual that evening to allow time to use his bow and quiver for something constructive.
It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed roast venison. The odds of being caught and accused of poaching were slim, as he was still within Campbell territory and might call upon his relation to the clan if questioned.
But in all the time he’d spent riding through the Cairngorms, only twice had he come across his uncle’s men as they patrolled the land. Either they were lazy, or Luthais was sorely in need of greater numbers at his disposal.
Regardless of the reason, Fergus was glad for it. He did not relish the idea of a stranger dragging him back to Ben Macdui simply because he’d been hungry for something more than hare.
He followed the road, where it bent to shadow the flow of the river, where the ground dipped low enough in one place that it must have flooded at the height of the storm the previous day—while nearly all of the road had already hardened under the warm, spring sun, that patch was still muddy, as though the water had taken time to recede.
A good thing he’d taken shelter when he did, then, as he might have gotten caught in the flood water.
The fact that Elspeth had been there was merely a pleasant diversion.
Even if digging through mud was not his idea of an enjoyable way to spend his time.
Tightness in his shoulders and back were a reminder, if not unbearable at least persistent, of the exertion he’d used to free the lass and her mare. He would do it again if need be, though he hoped most fervently that the occasion might not come again.
He did wish he’d found out more about her, and questions would always pull at him. She had seemed lonely. As though she might need help.
Though he was not daft.
She would have refused any assistance he offered.
And like as not, he would have been in the wrong had he offered. She was not his responsibility. She meant nothing to him. The lass would have slowed him down when he had somewhere to be.
His stomach growled, reminding him of the need to hunt for his next meal. He pulled up on the reins at a likely-looking spot near the river’s edge, where a mere strip of grass and a handful of trees separated bank from road.
He tied the gelding and withdrew his bow and quiver, slinging the arrows over one shoulder before searching for a place in which to wait for deer to come looking for water. They would, once the day began winding into night—already the light had taken on a golden hue, the air had begun to cool.
He need only wait.
As he did, he kept his ears tuned to the road. The line of trees to his right made for decent cover, and if a rider approached he might have time to make it appear as though he’d been resting rather than hunting.
Further downriver was a thicket, dense with small, white flowers, and he watched it closely for signs of movement. Like as not, this would be the place from which deer would emerge—they were not foolish creatures and took few chances when it came to their safety. They would wish to hide themselves from the road, just as he did.
The light around him had grown soft and dim by the time there was movement in the thicket.
Fergus nocked his arrow, drawing it back until the bow bent.
A pair of doe emerged, the two of them bending to touch t
heir noses to the water.
He checked his aim before drawing a deep breath to steady his arms. It would not do to miss—he would frighten them both away and face not only hunger but the knowledge of having wasted precious time which might have been better spent riding.
The doe nearest him lifted its head, ears twitching as though it heard a noise.
He was a heartbeat away from releasing the arrow when the doe went down, sending its partner running into the woods.
Surprise sent his shot off its course and into the trunk of a nearby tree, but he hardly noticed. Instead, he pressed his back to the trunk and looked around.
Someone had been tracking the same doe without his knowing it. How?
“Hello, there.” A voice from up in the trees, and he craned his neck to see who it belonged to.
At first sight of that wild thatch of brown waves, he slumped slightly.
How had he not guessed?
“What are ye doing up there? And where have ye been all day, that I find ye nearly on top of me?” He backed away from the tree to give her space to climb down. She’d been directly above him, and he’d never noticed.
Either his skills had dulled with time, or she was something beyond a mere woman. He’d heard tales as a child, of creatures who made the woods their home, sprightly things skilled at trickery.
At one time, he had dismissed these stories as the stuff of childhood. Perhaps he had been hasty in his decision.
Elspeth landed on the ground, smiling from ear to ear. “You might have been successful if you had not hesitated so long,” she informed him, brushing pine needles from her kirtle before going to the doe.
He followed, still speechless, watched as she knelt beside the felled creature. A beautiful thing who had not suffered. The bolt had struck clean through the heart.
To his surprise, the lass stroked the doe’s tawny hide.
“Thank you for giving your life,” she whispered before taking a grip of the bolt with both hands. She let out a breath, then inhaled and pulled in one sharp, quick movement.
The doe’s body twitched as the arrowhead slid free.
Elspeth handed him the bolt without looking. “Can you wash this in the river?”
This roused him to speak. “Pardon me?”
“If we’re to skin and clean the thing, we ought to do it under better cover, and we do not have much time.” She brushed back a lock of hair to meet his gaze. “Do you disagree?”
How had she lured him into claiming part ownership of the beast?
He took the bolt, knowing it was better not to argue. The lass had a point, they ought to get the doe out of sight before Campbell patrols found them.
So she was aware of their presence, too, and of the laws against poaching game from clan territory.
And yet, she’d done it. Why?
Another question, one of so many.
He held the doe’s front legs while she took the rear—her strength ought not to have surprised him by this point in time—and they hurried across the road and into deeper wood. She grunted with the effort to carry the carcass but would not give up until they’d reached a clearing far beyond the tree line, through rows of pines whose low-hanging branches would provide cover.
He then returned to the scene of the hunt to retrieve his horse and packs.
He did not notice until he’d crossed the road, reins in hand, that he was smiling.
“Why are ye still following me?” he asked upon securing the gelding near the mare. The two of them touched noses as though sharing a secret they did not wish their riders to overhear.
“I never said I was following you.” Elspeth rolled up her sleeves. “I merely happened to be waiting in the tree for game to approach. And you lumbered along and nearly destroyed the chance of a deer venturing near enough to shoot.”
“I do not lumber.”
She snorted. “You are not exactly light of foot, unless you are in the act of trying to frighten a lonely, young woman.”
He thought he saw her smirking as she bent to the task of skinning the doe.
“You might build a fire,” she murmured, not looking up.
He wondered yet again how she had managed any of this.
And yet he did as he was told.
13
“Where are ye heading, lass?” Before Moira had time to offer a retort, Fergus held up a hand as if to defend himself. “No sense in offering the sharp side of your tongue. I merely asked because I thought we might make good partners.”
She bit her lip in thought, the faint sting when she did a reminder of how hard she’d bitten down only that morning, while he’d been having a swim.
Would that she might forget all about it. She wanted to, so badly.
Nothing good would come of it.
Just as nothing good could come of their riding together.
She ought not even to have followed him throughout the day, but the temptation had proven too strong—along with the prospect of showing him up while on the hunt, which she had quite neatly managed. The moment she’d seen him slow to a stop, some yards ahead while she’d ridden close to the riverbank, she’d known what he had in mind.
How? There was no telling. She had simply known the way she knew that night followed day.
And he had tried to fell the doe, and she had bested him. There was no small sense of pride in the knowing of it.
But riding with him? Out in the open? The last thing she ought to be doing was spending time with the man. She ought to be riding away from him, perhaps to the north if he intended to continue westward.
What if she accidentally revealed her true identity?
He expected an answer—not only that, but he expected the answer he desired. She hated to disappoint him.
“I do not take partners.” She tossed the bones left of her portion of venison into the fire and wiped her hands on her skirts. She’d already washed the blood-stained kirtle as best she could, the doe’s blood still fresh when she had, and had replaced it with the one she’d washed the day prior.
Simple garments, roughly and cheaply made. All she could afford. Worn at the seat and elbows, perhaps a bit tight at the bust.
She ran her hands over her hair, aware of it once again in a way she despised. This was what he did to her. He made her overly conscious of herself, and she did not enjoy it in the least.
Why would she then subject herself to more of his attention?
Why would she wish to torment herself?
“Nor do I, except for a group of friends I ride with,” he admitted. “I would not ride with anyone else but them if given my choice in the matter. I am not easily impressed and can become rather ill-mannered.”
She merely smirked in reply.
“Thank ye for holding your tongue,” he chuckled. “I ask ye because I’m impressed with ye. I believe your skills as a hunter and mine as a tracker will serve us well. We would make a strong team.”
Why did he have to use such language? They were not a team. They might have been, but she did not wish to marry him and ought to run away screaming from any hint of their working together.
She ought to.
She did not wish to, however.
Was it the memory of that morning by the river?
“I… thank you for the compliment,” she mumbled, stumbling over her words as though her mouth was unaccustomed to them—but then, it was, for who besides her brothers had ever complimented her for any reason? “I know what it is to dislike being with others, and to be unimpressed with most people.”
He laughed. “I suspected ye would, lass, for you are unlike others.”
Why did he insist upon flattering her? All it did was weaken her resolve. She wished he wouldn’t… even as her heart craved it, for she had never been the subject of flattery before.
“I do not believe it would be wise for us to travel together,” she insisted. “We would fight like wild boars, butting our heads and tearing with our tusks. We do not get along well for very long at
a time.”
“We are getting on well at the moment,” he pointed out in a quiet voice she fervently wished he would not use.
“Yes, that is so, but for how long?”
“Where is it ye are going?” he asked again, more determined this time. “Are ye merely wandering the wilderness on your own?”
“And if I am?”
“If ye are, ye are a fool I had not taken ye for.”
She all but growled. “What makes you believe I would go anywhere or do anything with you after this? Must you insult me? And this, after I have already proven what I can do!”
“A band o’ thieves will not see a clever, strong lass,” he murmured. “They will see a lass. I do not think you could fight off a band of them, though ye might try. And they might anger at your cleverness and strength and determine among them to break ye.”
His words hung heavy between them.
Moira was not a foolish person. She knew all too well how right he was and would put nothing past a man brutal enough to make his living from the sweat of another’s brow. Thieves and cutthroats used violence to get what they wanted and would stop at nothing, the base creatures.
“It’s sorry I am if I offended ye,” he muttered, looking down at the ground between his feet.
“You have not done anything of the sort.” She held her head high. “And if you must know, I live as I do because I have no home to go to. There are times when the threat of what might come is not as terrible as the threat of what is.”
It was his turn to look uncomfortable over something she’d said. “Even so,” he ventured, “ye do not have to go it alone. It sounds daft even to my own ears, but I must tell ye that I felt sorry when I thought you’d gone off on your own this morning.”
Her heart betrayed her by skipping a beat. “You did?”
He shrugged. “My better nature plagued me, ye might say. If there was anything I could do to help ye get to where ye were going, I would have liked to. It is what I do, I suppose ye could say. Part of it. My friends and I.”