A Highlander's Need

by Aileen Adams

  She did not say a word, merely turning away from him and bending at the waist with her arms crossed. When she lifted the kirtle over her head, he sputtered.

  “What are ye doin’?” he demanded.

  “Wait.” She tossed the kirtle aside, now in nothing but a thin chemise. Though the sun shone warmly on her skin, goosebumps ran over her shoulders and arms.

  She pulled her braid over one shoulder before easing the garment over her shoulders, down her arms.

  “What…?” His feet crunched on fallen pinecones, twigs, as he approached.

  “This is what I need you to know,” she whispered, arms wrapped around her middle. “This is what he did to me. I’ve never seen it, myself, but I know it’s there. I feel them when I lie on my back—which is why I try to avoid doing so.”

  “Och, Moira…” His voice, so heavy. “Do ye want me to show ye?”

  “Show me?”

  She did not feel the pressure from his fingers at first. Only when he began drawing them from her left ribs to her right did she know what he meant to do.

  He stopped at her right ribs, then moved up and repeated the left-to-right motion. Another slash, longer, this time from right shoulder blade to the middle of her back.

  Each measure of every scar. He touched all of it, tenderly, as though tracing a trail on a map. He might as well have been tracing the path of her life.

  She felt no shame at the man’s hands on her scarred skin. In fact, he was the first man ever to touch her so sweetly. She closed her eyes against fat, hot tears which welled up from her broken heart.

  “Lass. I never thought.” Finally, once every scar was traced, he rested the palm of one hand against her back. “Ye never said.”

  “I brought home a stag one night,” she explained in spite of the quaver in her voice. Now that she had started, it seemed only right for the entire story to pour forth. “It took hours to drag it through the woods and the fields surrounding the cottage. I was alone, of course. I normally hunt alone.”

  Fergus’s hand found the chemise’s shoulders and eased them up until they were in place once again.

  “I had the strange idea that he might take pride in me—just the smallest bit, as I had not only felled the great thing, but had brought it home on my own. Oh, my shoulders ached. And my back. I thought I knew pain.” She snorted, bitter.

  Fergus was silent.

  “He took a look at me, up and down. I must have looked a fright,” she recounted, a rueful smile drawing up the corners of her lips. “Oh, he was so cold. I may as well have been a rodent beneath his feet. He asked who killed the stag and called me so many filthy things when I insisted I’d been the one to do it. Before I knew what was happening, he’d taken me by the arm and pulled me into the house and after that…”

  Tears dripped from her chin to her chest. “After that, I do not remember much. Perhaps it is for the best.”

  “He beat ye because ye did something good?”

  “He beat me because I did something he could not. He was in his cups, hardly able to stand up straight when I arrived at the door. Never much of a hunter even on his best days. That was why I had no choice but to learn to do the hunting for the family.” She hung her head.

  Fergus’s hands on her shoulders were warm, strong, and she did not protest when he turned her to face him. Rather than ask her to look him in the eye—something she knew she could not manage, not with tears flowing down her cheeks as they were—he thoroughly surprised her by wrapping her in his arms and drawing her to his chest.

  “He would be so angry if you told him you know what he’s done to me,” she wept, shaking in spite of the comfort of his chest beneath her cheek and the arms which held her fast. “You must see it. The worse you made it for him, the worse it would be when you were gone.”

  “Hush, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “I know that now. I would never do it to ye. Dinna ye worry your head on it now.”

  The relief washed over her like warm rain. She allowed him to hold her until the tears subsided. His tunic was wet with them by the time he released her and allowed her to dress again.

  There was no mistaking the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders and arms as he waited. His nostrils flared. His eyes were narrow, dark. She could only guess at the manner of thoughts going through his head.

  None of them were pleasant, she would wager.

  Once she’d finished and had taken the mare’s reins in her hand, Fergus muttered, “I suppose this means we must devise a new plan for ye. I canna take ye back to your home. I little like the notion of leaving ye in the village to fend for yourself there.”

  She cleared her throat. Would it work? His mood toward her had softened quite a bit in light of her honesty; if there was ever a time when he might accept such an idea, it was just then.

  “I had a thought of my own which I would like to share with you,” she ventured.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Her spine stiffened. Her shoulders rolled back. Her chin lifted. This was it.

  “I want to join your group. I want to ride with you and your friends.”

  20

  And Fergus had thought there was no chance of Moira surprising him again.

  “Ye wish to…” He scratched his head, squinting. “Ye wish to join us? Ye mean, to ride with us and accept missions and perform the duties we perform? Along with us?”

  “Yes. That is what I had in mind.”

  His mouth fell open.

  She rolled her eyes, jutted her chin. “You need not look at me as though I’ve suddenly grown horns.”

  “Ye might as well have!” He wanted more than anything to laugh at the notion, but even he with his limited understanding of the female gender knew his laughter would sound cruel after everything she had just shared.

  Her hands found her hips, and she went from a weeping, shaking lass to the Moira he’d come to know. Angry, bold, full of ideas, of strength and skill.

  “I do not understand what you feel is so amusing or unthinkable,” she muttered.

  “Ye do not? Let me see.” He leaned against the nearest tree, counting off on his fingers. “First, ye know nothing of fighting. We do have to fight from time to time—cutthroats, thieves along the road. Or enemies of the person or people we’ve been tasked with protecting.”

  “I would leave that to you, though you’ve seen how easily I handle a dirk,” she reminded him. “I’m a skilled archer, as well. If I can hit a deer in the heart before it has the chance to learn of my presence, I can hit a man.”

  “Ye won’t have the chance to put enough distance between the two of ye to so much as draw your bow,” he assured her. “As I was sayin’. Second, ye would be riding with men. If ye think I’m unpleasant to ride with, wait until ye meet my friends.”

  “I have dealt with unpleasant men,” she sneered. “I understand the true nature of your protests. You do not wish to ride with a woman. Are you afraid to? Have I done anything since we met to give you cause to fear me?”

  He laughed. “That is not a fair question, as ye have held a blade to my throat.”

  “Which proved how well I handle a blade,” she reminded him.

  “Aye, I admit it. Even so, I can promise with all certainty that none of the others will take well to the notion of working alongside a woman—no matter how able she is,” he added when she opened her mouth to unleash hell on him.

  “Third,” he finished, counting off one more finger, “and this is most important of all, lass, so ye might be paying close attention—when there is a woman on the road, she is the one a man will devote his attention to. And I dinna mean because he finds her comely.”

  “You mean because you’ll feel I need protecting.”

  “Aye, and it matters not how much you protest.” He held up his hands, half-certain the lass would pummel him if he did not. “We shall always feel as though your safety needs protecting, first of all. We know all too well the dangers of women traveling over rough, open roa
d. Which means we may not devote the attention we need to our own safety, or the safety of someone under our care. Do ye understand me, Moira?”

  “I understand perfectly well that you lot are afraid to admit a woman can take care of herself without your help,” she smiled. He wanted so much to take her and shake her when she smiled in such a way.

  She refused to see the truth he tried hard to help her understand. She was the type who would have to learn the hard way.

  He did not wish to subject her to such difficult lessons.

  She’d already learned more than her share that way.

  He would never forget the rippled scars on her back, the way they crossed each other. Ten in all, none of them very thick, but all visible to his eyes and fingers.

  How many other strikes were there, strikes which had not broken the skin? What a mass of bruises and blood she must have been afterward. He hadn’t thought to ask who’d treated her and never would, as it would mean bringing up ugly memories again.

  Perhaps her brothers had tended her, washing the wounds. How old had they been? She hadn’t said.

  All three Reid children had faced the hardships of life from a young age, it seemed.

  Why did the eldest of them insist upon bringing more of the same upon herself?

  “I cannot allow it. I’m sorry, lass, but this is simply not the way things are done. You canna expect to do what we do, ‘tis difficult enough for us, and we’ve been at it for many a year.”

  She did not squall in protest. She did not swing at him as she had earlier.

  She merely narrowed her eyes.

  He knew this was more dangerous than anything else she could have done.

  Her smile was slow. Sweet. “Do you have the courage to make a wager? Or does the idea of wagering with a woman frighten you as much as the thought of riding with one?”

  “I would watch my tongue if I were ye,” he warned. “I only have so much patience.”

  “Very well.”

  He watched in bemusement as she went to the mare, withdrawing her bow and quiver.

  “The question is the same. Are you up for a wager?”

  “It depends upon the stakes.”

  She nodded, a faint smile playing upon her lips. “Fair enough.” Her head tilted back, her eyes scanning the sky.

  “What are ye looking for?”

  “A target.” Her smile widened. She pointed up. “I would not normally do this, but if it is to prove a point, I choose that hawk. Up there.”

  He shielded his eyes with one hand, looking up in the direction of her extended finger to find a hawk perched atop a tall pine.

  “Ye choose a hawk for what?”

  “If I hit that hawk, you must allow me to come with you on one mission. And if that mission is a success and I prove myself worthy, you will allow me to continue on with you.”

  What were the chances of her striking the thing? If it were a trunk she wished to strike, he would feel less confident in his chances. But a hawk? It would likely take flight before the bolt reached it, so far from the ground.

  He looked at it again, then at her. She certainly appeared confident, with that knowing smirk of hers. She’d already nocked the bolt and was merely waiting for him to agree.

  “Come now,” she whispered, grinning. “Are you game? Do you believe I would miss the hawk? How much are you willing to chance?”

  In spite of the stakes, he found himself fighting a smile. Strange, that.

  “All right. Let us see what ye can do, lass.” He shielded his eyes once again, hoping with all his might that the hawk would take flight long before Moira released the bolt. What would Rodric and Quinn think if he arrived in the village with a woman?

  How hard would his brother laugh, especially when he found out who the lass was?

  He heard her draw a breath—

  And just then, in that very instant, the hawk spread its impressive wings and took to the air.

  His heart rejoiced, his mind eased.

  Moira, meanwhile, released the bolt and sent it flying.

  The hawk soared, seeming to hang in midair—

  then plummeted to the ground.

  “This canna be!” He took off at a run, eyes moving back and forth over the ground until he found the bird. Dead, on its back, the bolt having pierced its chest.

  Moira joined him, dropped to one knee beside the fallen hawk. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving your life.”

  “Who taught ye to speak that way to the things ye kill?” he asked, remembering how she’d done the same after taking down the doe.

  Moira glanced up through the hair which had fallen from her braid. “My mother. I was a small girl, and we happened to be walking through the woods when we saw some of my father’s friends returning from a hunt. She told me I ought to always thank the animal who gave their life for my meal.”

  She returned her attention to the hawk. “I cannot tell myself I needed to kill this sweet bird. Perhaps I was a bit bold in naming it as the target.”

  “Ye act before ye think,” he observed.

  “I have been accused of just that.” She stood, bloodied bolt in hand.

  “Aye. So have I.”

  They stood that way for a long, silent moment, regarding each other.

  In another place and time, he might have taken her in his arms and kissed her until all such foolish ideas were nothing but a memory. He might have taken her and made her his own, for he’d never known a woman who stirred him, body and soul.

  So strong was the impulse that the only way to overcome it was to turn away. He could not gaze into her clear, frank, shining eyes another moment.

  “Well?” she prompted from behind him. “What will it be, then? Will you honor your word, Fergus MacDougal?”

  What choice did he have? The lass would only track him until they reached his destination, then continue to do so once Murphy gave him a task to complete.

  Better to keep her close to him, then, to be sure of her safety.

  So he told himself.

  “Aye,” he grunted.

  “Supper,” she uttered, kneeling to collect the hawk.

  He beat her to it, then mounted the horse.

  “Let us be on our way.”

  Her smile was radiant.

  The sort of smile a man could become accustomed to.

  21

  “I could use a hot bath,” Fergus grumbled beside her.

  Two days. For two days he’d been telling Moira how much he needed a hot bath. For two days she’d listened to his complaints, his grumblings, his muttering.

  “Could you, indeed?” she asked, favoring him with the same smile she’d shown up to then.

  An old tactic, one she would not fall victim to.

  He forgot she’d already raised two willful lads.

  “Aye,” he snarled, raising an arm and ducking his head to smell himself. “I might just as well burn this.”

  “You would not want to go to the trouble of washing it,” she observed, still smiling.

  “I need good, hot water and soap to get the smell of me from it,” he groused.

  “It’s a good thing we’ll reach the village before nightfall, then.” She took care to keep her eyes on the road and away from him.

  He had to see how unaffected she was by his deliberate attempt at making her miserable.

  Her behavior had the effect she desired; he was fit to be tied, muttering under his breath whenever she did not respond as he wished. For he wanted her to argue. He wanted her to fall into despair and join in his complaints.

  He wanted to hear her swear an oath that if he complained once more, she would slice his throat and give him something to truly complain about.

  She might have won their wager, but he was not about to make life easy for her as a result.

  Just as the twins had done when they were younger. No more than bairns! And he, a grown man, resorting to the same childish behavior.

  She was of a mind to ask how he’d
managed to avoid growing up since the day they first met but knew better.

  He might just as easily call off their bargain and refuse to have anything to do with her.

  She couldn’t have that.

  For this was the first real, true adventure of her life.

  Keeping body and soul together while living in the wilderness was a challenge, to be sure, but it was one she’d long since become accustomed to. There was nothing to it once a person decided to survive and thus did whatever it was they had to do to make it so.

  Hardships mattered little at such times.

  She knew they mattered little to Fergus, as well. He’d been traveling the countryside for years, and she would have made another wager—that it bothered him little, if at all, to smell as he did.

  Further, if he’d ever shared his complaints with his brother or friends, they would have surely shown him the true meaning of misery. Men such as they did not make a habit of voicing every grievance.

  It was only when they wished to make a woman regret having set eyes upon them that they behaved so.

  She would not—could not—allow him to trap her that way. The worse he complained, the louder and more determined he became, the sweeter her temperament. The more it pleased her to drive him mad.

  Perhaps there was something to be said for holding her tongue, after all. She never would have believed it.

  Time such as these called for a new way of behaving, it seemed. For she’d certainly never imagined herself as part of a band of former soldiers who accepted payment for protection and—she assumed—committing acts of violence on behalf of those who paid well enough.

  It was a dry day, and warm. Sweat soaked into her braid and caused it to hang heavier than usual against her back. The kirtle stuck to her back, under her arms, in wet patches. Would that she had a hat to shade her eyes and prevent her face from burning.

  A strong gust of wind blew dirt and grit into her eyes. She grimaced, knuckling away what she could, tears springing up to wash away what remained.

  “Uncomfortable?”