by Aileen Adams
“Who taught ye?”
“Why does it matter?” Margaret looked over at her, wiping dirty hands on the hem of her skirt before standing. “I learned. I had no choice.”
“Why can you not tell me?”
“I do not wish to speak of it,” she snarled, aware of the way she sounded and no longer caring to carry on with this pretense.
Moira stood, her movement slow and controlled. “I did not intend to upset you. I merely wished to be your friend.”
“By forcing yourself into my intimacy?”
“Have you never had a friend?” Moira asked, her eyes never leaving Margaret’s. “I understand. I never had a friend before arriving here. I was always alone.”
“That is none of my affair, as my life is none of yours,” Margaret whispered. “It would be best for you to keep your questions to yourself.”
“Please, forgive me,” Moira murmured, though the tightness in her body spoke of an awareness of her companion. She did not entirely trust Margaret. She viewed her as a threat, and rightly so. “I suppose I am still rather unskilled when it comes to making a friendship.”
“You might stop, then,” Margaret suggested. “Do not try. I do not wish for you to try.”
The two of them circled each other, gazes still locked. This was not going to end well, it was clear.
“If there is someone in the household who cannot be trusted, it is up to me to share this with Padraig,” Moira whispered. “I know he trusts you, as the rest of us do. But are we right in doing so?”
That was that. If Moira questioned whether she could be trusted, there was nothing left to do.
Margaret sprang forward off the balls of her feet, hands taking Moira’s shoulders and slamming her against the nearest tree. She gasped as the air was forced from her lungs, then groaned when the back of her head hit the trunk.
But it was the matter of a heartbeat before she brought her arms up between them, flinging Margaret’s hands away before drawing back one fist and driving it forward, toward her face.
Margaret blocked the blow with her left arm while swinging the right, sinking her fist into Moira’s midsection—when she doubled over, Margaret struck the side of her face in a backhanded blow which sent her reeling backward.
Even then, she recovered quickly, dodging another blow.
Margaret let out a strangled cry when her knuckles struck the tree trunk.
Moira took advantage by landing a solid kick to Margaret’s side which knocked her sideways, staggering but not falling.
Moira followed, throwing herself against Margaret and sending them both to the ground.
They groaned and growled, rolling to and fro as they locked in battle. Moira jammed her hands against Margaret’s jaw while pinned to the ground, forcing her head back before punching her in the throat.
Margaret fell to the side, freeing Moira, but pulled back both legs and drove her feet into Moira’s face before she could stand. Moira dropped back with a cry while Margaret fought to pull air in through her bruised throat.
She scrambled to her feet, withdrawing the thin silver blade from her boot as she did, taking Moira by the hair as she bent to retrieve a limb from the ground and hauling her up. She touched the dagger to Moira’s throat, ending the fight.
The only sound coming from either of them was their ragged breathing.
It would be the matter of merely applying more pressure. She could place the blame on cutthroats in the woods. There would be no trouble.
“What are you about, then?” Moira’s eyes were wide, panic-filled, darting between Margaret’s and the hand holding the blade. “I was one of the ones who rescued you from those men in the village. Remember? I’ve always been on your side. What do you think you’re doing?”
Margaret blinked, but her hand never faltered.
She did not push the blade into Moira’s flesh, either. She swallowed, sweat beading on her upper lip, good sense struggling to be heard over the instinctive urge to destroy her enemy.
What did she think she was doing?
Removing an obstacle. Moira asked far too many questions, was far too curious. She would destroy Margaret’s chance at safety with her curiosity and her cunning ways—the way she handled herself, for one, which was nearly as admirable as anyone in the Order.
Yes, this was what needed to be done. Margaret needed to silence her.
“Margaret, speak to me,” Moira gasped. Her chest hitched in great, heaving gasps, making the pulse jump in her throat. It would take no pressure at all. The merest flick of her wrist, and Margaret would bring an end to this woman’s life. Not a woman. A threat.
No. A woman.
Nothing made sense. Her head spun as she struggled in vain to clear away the voice which commanded her to kill. To save herself. A voice which sounded much like that of Mother Cressida.
Mother Cressida was not here. She was far away and like as not awaiting word of Margaret’s capture and murder.
She did not order Margaret any longer. No one ordered her but herself.
Perhaps the most frightening realization of all, that she and she alone decided what she did—and she would be the only one to take the blame when she did wrong.
With a shaking hand, she lowered the dagger. Moira’s body heaved one great sigh as she sank to the ground, leaning against a tree for support.
Margaret looked down at the shining weapon as though she’d never seen it before. Her body had acted of its own accord, instinct compelling her to bring the fight to a swift end.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice sounding foreign even to herself.
“Who are you?”
Margaret shook her head, bending to replace the silver dagger. “Someone who will now be on her way. I was mistaken to have spent even this little amount of time here. Please, forgive me.”
She straightened, looked down at Moira’s crouched form. “I would not wish to bring harm to you or to anyone of Clan Anderson. You must believe that.”
“You could have fooled me for a moment there,” Moira scoffed, touching gentle fingers to the spot on her neck where the blade had come a hairsbreadth from piercing her skin.
“I was in control of the dagger at all times, I assure you.”
Moira looked up at her, eyes narrowing. “You were. Which is what I find most interesting of all, and why I ask who you are. Never have I seen anyone like you.”
“It matters not.” Margaret extended a hand in hopes of helping Moira to her feet. And only she would have taken note of the moment’s hesitation on Moira’s part before accepting that hand. “I must go now.”
“Do not.” Moira did not release her hand upon standing. “Please. Where will you go if you leave?”
“Anywhere. I was in hiding when you found me. I shall hide again.”
“I thought you might have been hiding from a father or husband, perhaps running from an unhappy marriage prospect. But this?”
“It is beyond anything you know of.”
“Aye, so I would expect. But that is no reason to run away.”
“It would be for the best.” With one quick jerk of her arm, her hand was free. Something kept her rooted to the spot just the same.
Once the voices in her head quieted a bit, she discovered how very tired she was. Too tired to run.
“You don’t want to do it,” Moira surmised. “And you do not have to. Truly. I won’t tell anyone of what happened here.”
Margaret scoffed. “You won’t?”
Moira did not blink, did not move. One of the many skills which Margaret’s training had afforded her—the ability to tell lies from truth. Moira did not avoid her gaze, did not flinch. Her breathing did not change, nor did her posture. “I will not. No one need know.”
“Why would you lie for me?”
To her credit, she thought this over for a moment before shrugging. “I know what it means to fight. And what it means to find a home where I need no longer fight. To survive, to find food, to protect myself and
my brothers.”
“Is that what made you so fierce?”
Moira grinned. “Coming from ye, I take that as a high compliment. Aye, there was no choice. I could not behave otherwise.”
“I had no choice, either.”
This seemed enough for Moira, who was wise enough to know when to stop asking questions. “I suppose we ought to be getting back, Sorcha will be after us before long.” She fetched the basket, discarded during the fight, and filled it with the herbs and flowers they’d gathered.
“What will we say about this?” Margaret motioned to her face, where she felt rather than saw the evidence of their fight. The right corner of her mouth smarted, and she tasted blood when she swept her tongue over it. Her left cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat. Her knuckles bore the evidence of the damage to Moira’s face, as well—a bloodied nose, a bruised jaw. She’d torn the elbow of one sleeve, while Margaret’s skirt was torn to the knee.
“Leave that to me,” Moira assured her. “Remain quiet and agree with me, and we ought to be all right.”
Margaret touched her arm before she could start for the house. “Thank you. I wish there was a way I could repay you for this.”
Moira snickered. “You wish to repay me? Do not let me see that dagger in your hand again, at least, not when you intend to use it against me. If ever we’re threatened by thieves or foes, I would like it very much to know you’re on my side.”
Margaret found herself smiling. “I give you my word.”
They walked to the house as though nothing outside the ordinary had transpired, in spite of their injuries and general state of untidiness. Only when Sorcha took in their state and let out a cry of alarm did anyone pay them mind.
“What happened to ye?” she demanded, taking Moira’s face in her hands.
Moira flinched back, sucking air through gritted teeth. “Careful there.”
Fergus came on the run. “What’s this? What happened?”
“I was only asking the same thing,” Sorcha fretted, wringing her hands in the absence of being able to touch either of their faces. Margaret had also shied away, wincing.
“Who did this?” Fergus demanded.
“If you would allow me to speak, I would tell you,” Moira snapped.
“What is all the shouting about?” Padraig now, striding out from his study. He had not left yet for the northern border, so much the worse for her.
“Och, for the love of all that’s holy!” Moira looked to Margaret, who would have spoken if she knew the tale Moira had in mind—as she’d already been instructed to stay silent, she held her tongue. “We were accosted by thieves in the wood.”
“Thieves? On Anderson land?” Padraig all but growled at this, one hand lingering on the handle of his dirk.
Fergus glowered, taking his wife’s arm.
“Did they try anything?” Fergus asked. “Did they…?”
“Nay.” For a moment, no longer than the time it took to blink an eye, Moira softened. She placed gentle hands on her husband’s shoulders. “Do not worry. They did not touch us. Not in the way they might have wanted to.”
“But they did strike ye?” Padraig’s eyes flashed fire, looking darker to Margaret than they ever had before. He was enraged, simply and plainly. His nostrils flared as he breathed hard, heavily.
“In protection of themselves,” Moira snickered. “They were no match for us, were they?”
Margaret only shook her head. She had lied more times in her life than she could possibly count. She’d lied to save her life, to end the lives of others. The fact that she was still alive, standing there in the entry hall to the Anderson keep, spoke to her proficiency in this area.
But she could not have trusted herself to lie convincingly right then. Not with Padraig’s rage and Fergus’s concern and Sorcha’s ever-watchful eye on her. Somehow, it thickened her tongue, scrambled her thoughts. Perhaps because when she’d lied previously, she’d been lying as someone else. Not as herself, and certainly not to anyone she cared much for.
Fergus’s troubled expression gave way to one of relief. And pride. “Aye, my fierce bride. There isn’t a man alive who can defeat ye, to be certain.”
Moira exchanged a quick glance with Margaret before allowing herself to be led away. Margaret could only trust her to keep her word.
Somehow, she did.
Padraig lingered near her, shuffling from one foot to the other. “Are ye… in need of the healer?” he muttered.
Margaret did not favor him with a glance before running up the stairs and to her bedchamber. It was too much, the thought of speaking to him. She was capable of many things, but not that.
11
The fresh air was a blessing, to be sure, as Padraig started out the morning after the incident in the woods. He’d been in a dark mood, perhaps even darker than he’d been in since Alan’s death, ever since setting eyes on Moira’s and Margaret’s injured faces.
Especially Margaret’s.
He knew this and would not lie to himself about it. What sense would it make to pretend as though the sight of her bruises did not stir him to hot, bitter anger? Granted, were Brice or Rodric to question his motives behind demanding the woods be searched and emptied of all such trespassers, he would cite a responsibility to the clan, to his family.
This would not be a lie, but it would not be the entire truth.
Never had there been a better time to get out of doors, to ride to where the new house was being built for Caitlin and Rodric, for his nieces.
The notion of them living away from the keep, where they had only been for a fortnight, made Padraig’s heart ache. Slightly, but enough that he took note of the discomfort. The house would seem somehow darker, quieter without Fiona’s sparkling laughter, without Gavina’s babbling and squeals when he tossed her over his head.
All the more reason for him to fill the keep with children of his own. He might take pleasure in their growth, in their discovery of the world. He might take pride in them without any reservations, without the need to remind himself of their not being his.
Why, then, had he not sent out the letter? The letter he had all but slaved over, choosing each word so carefully? Why did he recoil in his mind at the thought of wedding a strange woman whose only claims to his marital bed were her bloodline and her ability to bear his heirs?
This was his duty.
He supposed there was no crime in lacking enthusiasm for a duty he had no wish to perform. In the end, so long as he did what was needed of him, no one need know how he dreaded it.
Not even his wife.
She might be bonny, at that. Then again, there were a great many comely, worthy lassies in the Highlands. The lairds of the surrounding clans treated their daughters well, knowing they would one day serve as a means to unite their clans with others. Only a fool would mistreat his daughter, and Padraig would not wish to align himself with a fool, no matter how powerful.
There were sacrifices he was willing to make, but that was not one of them.
The sight of a new house rising along the banks of the River Nevis made him smile, as did the sight of Fiona running barefooted in the grass. Gavina, he assumed, was off with Caitlin, while Rodric oversaw the raising of the new walls.
“Uncle Pad!” Fiona waved both arms, curls bouncing as ever.
He waved in reply as the horse crossed the bridge spanning a narrow stretch of the river.
“Careful there!” he called out when she strayed too close to the bank. He refrained from riding to her and perhaps delivering a stern warning. She was not his child to discipline, no matter how strong his love for her was.
Rodric heard him, turning away from the work in favor of greeting his brother. “Aye, so you’ve visited at last.”
“I have little else to do, as ye know,” Padraig muttered with a roll of his eyes.
“What do ye think of it, then?” Rodric was clearly proud of what was to be his home, with its walls of gray stone pulled from the river. Centuries of cu
rrent had worn them smooth, and the men of the clan who had plucked them from the banks and beneath the river’s flow were at work placing them on top of each other, using a mixture of lime and sand to hold everything in place.
“I think it shall be grand,” Padraig decided. “A grand home for a growing family.”
Rodric chuckled, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Aye, though I must confess I dinna know how much larger I could stand my family growing. Perhaps if I had a son, I would no longer feel so gravely outnumbered by women.”
Padraig laughed. “There is no telling until ye try for a third bairn, then.”
“With my luck, it would turn out to be another lass.” Rodric’s smile faded. “Och, and it would be a blessing at that. I would never wish for ye to think I felt otherwise.”
“I never would,” Padraig assured him. His brother was simply not the sort of man to place overmuch importance on whether he sired sons. What mattered was the love he bore his wife, the woman for whom he’d fought, and the life they had built together.
How Padraig envied him at that moment.
“Careful there, lassie,” Rodric called out, pointing to where Fiona’s feet danced at the grassy edge just before the ground dropped off and led down to the river.
Padraig scowled. “Do ye think ye ought to allow her to dance about there? It would be the matter of a single step for her to topple over.”
“Aye, it would at that,” Rodric agreed, looking over to where his daughter frolicked about. “But I canna keep her from all danger, can I? Would it not be a disservice to remove her from the riverbank and demand she never play there again? Ye know as well as I what happened when Da told us never to do something.”
Padraig chuckled. “Aye. The moment his back was turned…”
“We would do just what he told us not to do,” Rodric nodded with a snort. “And how many times did we very nearly break our unworthy necks?”
“More than I can count. I know not about ye, as ye were so much older than myself.”
“Ye see my meaning, then. Instead, I’ve warned her—sternly, more than once—about how dangerous it is to wander close to the river. I showed her how easy it is for a rather large, heavy limb to get swept up in the current. How easy it is to slip from the edge and into the water. If we’re to live here, so near the river, she must know.”