by Aileen Adams
Fergus, on the other hand, took no little offense at the man’s behavior. “She isn’t for ye, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He sat with a decided thud, elbows on the table. “You need pay her no mind.”
“My name is Moira.” She folded her arms, sitting back the way Murphy did.
“Lass…” Fergus warned. Would that she hadn’t shared her real name. He hadn’t thought to warn against it, to suggest she use the name she first gave him.
Murphy knew all, and he would know who she was right off.
Sure enough, the old man laughed heartily. “Ye don’t say! Well, this is quite a treat for me, as I have heard quite a bit about ye. No one mentioned how lovely ye are.”
“Because I am not, and we both know it,” she returned with a wry smile. “Perhaps your kind words would soften the heart of another lass, but I am not another lass. I am myself. And I trust you will not be sharing our meeting with any who might find interest in it.”
Fergus could only watch as Murphy’s face revealed his surprise—and, soon after, his admiration. “Aye, lass. I shall keep ye to myself. With pleasure.” He winked, a lewd gesture which caused Fergus’s fists to clench.
“Ye found one another, after all,” he observed, turning to Fergus with one corner of his mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. “Seems quite a coincidence, does it not?”
“Aye, aye, let us get on with it,” Fergus grunted. He had no desire to speak of coincidence or any other such thing. “Did Quinn or Rodric warn ye I would be meetin’ ye here?”
Murphy set his mug down on the table, some of the ale sloshing over the sides and onto the wood. “Aye, they did, and I do have word of a mission ye might like to take on. Though I dinna know if it is quite the sort of thing a lass is suited to—not to insult ye,” he was quick to add when Moira’s mouth opened to protest, color coming to her cheeks while her eyes flashed.
Fergus knew that expression all too well, and knew it was a prelude to something dangerous.
“What is it? Get on with it, man,” Fergus grumbled.
Murphy leaned in, which Fergus wished he would not do as it only made his stench more difficult to bear. “A lad trained in the army, as ye were. He beat a man to death over some small matter, claims it was the other man’s fault, as is normally the case in such matters. He lives to the north of Gairlochy, along the River Lochy, and wishes to get away from there before he’s strung up for the crime. The only thing which has saved him from a neck stretching til now is the man he killed is a stranger to all. But once some weeping widow or grieving mother comes calling, it will all be over for him.”
“Where does he wish to go?” Moira whispered.
Fergus groaned inwardly at the sight of her bright, eager eyes.
“He has family up in Kiliwhimin, at the southern point of Loch Ness. Believes they’ll keep him safe up there. But he does not wish to travel alone.”
“Fair enough. We ought to start out.” He pushed back his chair. “I merely need the specifics as to where he can be found, as always.”
“Not so fast, why so hasty?” Murphy grinned at Moira. “The pair of ye have not yet eaten, and ‘tis quite a ride to Gairlochy.”
“A matter of miles.”
“Everything is a matter of miles,” Murphy snapped. He’d never taken a sharp tone with Fergus before.
It would be best to keep the man happy, he decided, as Murphy’s connections stretched all over Scotland and into England. He kept Fergus and the others busy. To have him for an enemy would mean losing much of the work they did.
“All right, then.” He pulled his chair back to the table and suffered through Murphy’s tale telling for far longer than he felt was necessary.
When they left, once the old man saw fit to grant them their leave, Fergus swore to find the day had turned dark and foreboding, as the sky had been cloudless when they’d first started out.
“Damn the man,” he muttered, spitting on the ground before mounting his horse. “If we lost valuable time because of him, he’ll hear it from me.”
“He seems an interesting one,” Moira smirked as they rode away from the inn, heading north.
“Aye, that’s a word for him. I can think of a few more at the moment.”
“He is lonely,” she decided. “He wants for the company of a woman, and I’m certain few would have him in his condition.”
There was true feeling in her voice—compassion, sympathy. He marveled at her ability to see things as she did. Just when he considered her beyond such womanly emotions.
He decided he liked her better for it.
“At any rate, we shall have to make haste before the rain comes.” He swore again under his breath. “These spring storms. So sudden.”
“No more so than summer storms. It’s glad I am we aren’t riding in summer.”
“Do ye think we do not ride in summer?” Fergus laughed. “We ride until the snow falls—and even then, there are times we ride through that.”
“I only meant I am glad the lightning storms are fewer in spring than in summer. I can handle anything.” She looked away. “I do not have to like it, is all.”
He managed to keep his laughter to himself.
To his surprise, the rain held off until it was well past midday and they’d been riding for many hours straight. Once the drops began pattering on the leaves, and the wind picked up, it was clear they’d have to leave the road.
“I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait,” Moira mused, taking shelter under a pine, reins in hand.
Fergus scowled as he dismounted. “I suppose not. Perhaps if ye weren’t so keen on lingering at the inn—”
“Will you please stop going on about that?” she shouted. “You have been the most unpleasant man as of late, and I do not care for it!”
“I’ve been unpleasant?” he laughed. “Ye happen to be the one who shut the door in my face last night when all I wished to do was wish ye a pleasant evening.”
Her gaze shifted to the ground. “I was still drying from my bath. I felt embarrassed.”
“Lass, I’ve spent the better part of a week with ye, and ye still feel shame around me?”
She was unmoved. “Leave it alone, please.”
“I’ve seen your hair wet, I’ve seen it dry. I’ve seen ye covered in mud. You’ve seen me covered in mud…”
“I said, leave it alone.” She did not shout. She did not snarl. She simply spoke the words in a low, clear voice.
Somehow, this had a greater effect than a shout. He fell silent. but only for a moment, as he’d never been one to allow another the last word.
“Ye only had to say so at the time.”
Her head snapped around, hand raised to slap him before he had time to blink.
As before, he caught her wrist in time. but now, with the rain falling around them and the memory of each look, each smile, each time they’d laughed together, each time he’d studied her from across the campfire, and the night he’d spent tossing and turning and wishing she were with him, he did not hold her in place.
This time, he pulled her to him.
Took the back of her neck in one hand.
Pressed his mouth to hers, crushing her lips beneath his at first before easing the pressure when he tasted the sweetness of her. Wishing to make the kiss last forever.
Especially since she kissed him back.
The hand she’d raised to slap him now curled in a fist at his shoulder, bunching up his tunic before releasing it and moving to his head. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he held her by the neck.
A sigh escaped her throat when his fingers moved round to her throat, stroking the slim column and feeling the rapid beat of her pulse beneath the smooth skin. His heart beat the same, racing faster the longer the kiss went on.
Until she jumped back.
And slapped him. Hard.
“What was that for?” he breathed, fighting what she’d stirred in him while fighting to control his temper. The last thing he
’d expected after such a kiss was such a strike—or any strike at all.
Her face was red, her eyes wide and unfocused, her breathing heavier than his. She pushed her way past him, still holding onto the mare’s reins.
“Where are ye going?” he asked as she led the horse deeper into the woods.
“Can I not have a moment’s privacy?” she snapped, the sounds of her walking through the brush fading the further she went.
“Ye had better not be thinking about running away!”
She did not answer, but he did not hear the sound of a horse taking off, either, so he thought better of following her.
He ought not have kissed her. It was the act of a rogue, pure and simple. She like as not had no past experience with men, especially not men such as himself. He had taken what he wanted—which was not half of what he wished he could have taken, but that was not within his code. He did not force himself on women nor did he take advantage of them.
Even so, as pleasurable as the kiss had been and as certain as he was that she felt the same, it was no excuse.
He cursed himself as he waited for her to return so that he might apologize.
“Fergus!”
A single scream.
Footsteps behind him.
A blow to his head.
Darkness.
24
Damn him!
And damn her for wanting him!
Moira stormed through the woods, ignoring the rain which dripped down the back of her neck while she sought to put as much ground between herself and Fergus as possible.
Her face still burned, her lips still tingled as though he kissed her still.
Would that he were…
No! No, she did not want that. She would not allow him to use her that way, to make a fool of her. She was no man’s fool.
None of it made sense. Her head spun so, she could hardly think.
Why had she not left the mare behind?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, patting the horse’s neck. It nuzzled her hand.
Little comfort, but the only comfort afforded to her at the moment.
What was it about him that made it so difficult for her to resist? She could not resist fighting with him any better than she could resist melting into his arms. It seemed she always wanted to do either one or the other.
Now that she had kissed him, or been kissed by him, she would want one much more than the other. She would never get the taste of him out of her mouth or her mind. Or her heart.
She leaned against the trunk of the nearest pine, tilting her head back that the few drops of water which made their way through the branches dripped onto her upturned face.
What was she going to do with him? With herself?
The mare snorted, causing her to look around. Had she heard a noise? “Fergus? I want you to leave me alone.”
Another noise, something like a footstep. A broken twig.
The mare fought against the reins, wanting to break loose.
“Fergus?” She reached into her belt for her dirk.
There was no time to reach it before a pair of rough hands grabbed her from behind, spinning her in place, slamming her against the tree. Stars burst behind her eyelids as the side of her face made contact with the unforgiving trunk.
She drew in a breath with the intent of screaming, but a hand covered her mouth before she could manage.
“Take the horse.” A harsh whisper in her ear.
A shadowy figure took the mare’s reins, motioned as though they were calming it.
Meanwhile, the man who pinned her to the tree chuckled. “What’s a lass doing, wandering the woods by herself? Why would ye take such chances when there are thieves and cutthroats everywhere?”
She fought against his arms, his hands, his heavy body weighing on hers. It was no use. He was unmoving as the pine against which she writhed in protest.
“I enjoy spirited lasses such as yourself,” the man chuckled, his breath hot and sour in her face. “I believe you’ll make life more interesting until we tire of ye. Or wear ye out.”
Her mind reeled in horror at the prospect, and somehow gave her the strength to bite his hand and push him from her when he recoiled.
“Fergus!” she screamed, but that was all she managed before those strong hands slammed her against the tree again, and all went black.
Her last clear thought was of Fergus, and how she had at least kissed him before she died.
But she did not die.
When Moira came to, she was hanging over the saddle, bouncing with each step the mare took. Her wrists and ankles were bound tight enough to leave hands and feet numb. Useless.
Her captors—cutthroats, the word was—muttered to each other as they walked through the rain. It did not seem to matter to them that the heavens had opened as they had.
She remembered the sour stench of the man who’d attacked her. The rain was likely a good thing. He might come clean.
They thought she was still unconscious. Good. She listened hard, willing herself to ignore the pain in her face. It felt as though the entire side was bruised, scraped. But not broken. She could still move her jaw, though it pained her to do so.
“Now we’ll get nothing for her,” one of them muttered.
“We didna take ‘er to get anything for ‘er. From ‘er, aye, but not for ‘er.”
Their laughter—filthy, nasty—told her what she needed to know. He had already told her as much, of course. They planned to use her until they were through with her, then either kill her or leave her to die.
But why would they get nothing for her if they tried?
Fergus. Where was Fergus?
“Ye left him there, then?”
A third voice. “Aye, he’ll not be tellin’ anyone of us. He’ll not be tellin’ anyone anythin’ now.”
They laughed again, as screams rang through her head.
They’d killed him. They left him to die after attacking her. He was back in the woods somewhere, and he would never know she’d loved him. Stupid, foolish, damnable pride.
There was no holding back her grief, no matter how she tried. Her sniffling got the attention of the men, and they stopped the mare.
“What have we here?” Before she knew what was happening, one of them took her by the back of the head, pulling her hair as he yanked her head up so he might look her in the eye.
She blinked against the rain and glared at him. “Take your hands off me, you filthy, rabid dog.”
The man’s one eye—the other covered with a patch, telling her he’d likely lost it—narrowed as he studied her.
Then, he laughed.
Before tightening his grip on her hair, making her squeal in pain.
He laughed harder.
“I told ye she was a fighter, did I not?” He leaned in closer as his friends chuckled. “Ye want to be kind to me, lass, for I can make what’s left of yer life easy, or I can make it terrible hard. ‘Tis up to ye.”
He dropped her head then, spitting on the ground near her. “Let us move.”
“We haven’t eaten all day,” one of the other two complained.
“Aye, and the rain isn’t lettin’ up,” the other muttered.
“We haven’t put enough ground between us and him,” the one-eyed man snarled.
“Ain’t nobody gonna find him, lyin’ dead in the woods. We have plenty of time.”
“You animals!” she screamed, fighting to throw herself from over the back of the horse. It was no use, bound as she was.
“You’ll be shuttin’ your mouth!” one of them snarled.
The one-eyed man chuckled. “Full of fire. We’ll see how long it takes that fire to burn out.”
The horse came to a stop. “Aye, might as well camp here, then, if the pair of ye willna stop cryin’ like bairns about how hungry ye are.”
Minutes later, Moira hit the ground with a thud.
“Build a fire,” the one-eyed man growled, “and one of ye catch us somethin’ to eat, as ye a
lready complained how hungry ye are.”
Meanwhile, he sat across from her, his back to a tree as hers was. He wore a filthy tunic, trousers torn and patched many times over. His shoes were worn nearly all the way through at the heels. His long hair was thin, dirty.
“Why do you do this?” she asked, her nose wrinkling at the smell of him. “It does not bring you wealth, that much is clear.”
“I wouldna be insulting me if I were ye,” he muttered.
“You murder innocent people. No insult is strong enough for you.”
He chuckled, looking away, turning his eyepatch to her. “Maybe I like it,” he snarled. “I enjoy the killin’, the endin’ of a man’s life. Just as I’ll enjoy killin’ ye, when the time times. Oh, aye. I’ll enjoy it much more now that I’ve heard the things comin’ from yer wicked tongue.”
“I’ll say a lot more than that,” she warned.
“Oh, I’ve no doubt, unless I break every one of yer teeth before gaggin’ ye.”
She swallowed hard, unwilling to reveal the horror he inspired. Even so, the thought of the violence he promised made her quake inside. Made her close her mouth.
It hurt to speak, anyway. Everything hurt.
Why had she not told Fergus how she felt when she might? She would never see him again, and he had died without knowing.
He cannot be dead. He must not be dead. There is no world without him in it.
And yet she could not bring herself to believe it. She refused to. He needed to believe he was still alive, or else what was there to fight for?
He was a strong man, was he not? It would take quite a bit to kill one such as him. He’d survived war and had learned to live in the woods for long stretches of time while riding out on one task or another.
He could survive an attack from this lot. She was certain of it.
She had to be.
The rain slowed to nothing more than a drizzle, and the other two cutthroats returned with arms full of dry wood. They were younger than their leader, and neither seemed very clever. They moved slowly. She supposed they made up for their lack of speed with strength, which they must have possessed if they were to overtake Fergus.