Highland Fire. Hannah Howell

lass.

      “Is something wrong?” she asked, unsettled by the dark look upon his face.

      “Did your kinsmen ne’er buy ye any shoes, or do ye have a liking for running about barefoot?”

      “They fed and clothed me. I had no right to expect too much.”

      “A pair of shoes isnae too much for your kinsmen to provide.”

      “They did give me some.”

      “Ye couldnae have worn them verra often, then.”

      “Weel, I was only given them last month.” She eased the foot he still held out of his grasp. She was deeply embarrassed that he found her feet hard and rough. His gentle massage was also beginning to feel uncommonly pleasant. “Crooked Annie had even begun to rub my feet with an oil to soften them.”

      “It took them so long to realize that ye were roughening your feet?”

      Moira shrugged. “They had more important matters to concern themselves with.”

      “Aye—themselves,” Tavig muttered as he rose and walked back to the fire

      He sat down and started to cook their porridge. The matter of Moira’s shoes was a puzzle. Why would Sir Bearnard deny her shoes for so long then abruptly discard his cruel parsimony and give her some? Why had the man ignored the condition of her feet until just a month or so ago? It made no sense. Neither did Sir Bearnard appear the sort of man who was given to whims of kindness. There had to be a reason why the man suddenly cared about his ward’s feet becoming as callused as some common beggar’s.

      There was another puzzle he had to solve, Tavig thought, briefly glancing at Moira as she sat down across the fire from him. Why had she been on that ship? There was no need for her presence. She could do nothing to help in ransoming Una Robertson. From what little he had been able to learn of Moira’s life with the Robertsons, Tavig did not think she was considered a part of that family, but was seen as an annoying burden of familial responsibility. There was, quite simply, no reason for Moira’s place in the Robertson entourage.

      As he handed Moira a serving of porridge in a battered wooden bowl, Tavig studied her. He doubted she would know why she had been included. Somehow he had to think of the right questions to ask, ones whose answers would add up to a solution of the puzzle.

      “Moira?” he asked as they ate their plain but filling meal. “Why were ye on that ship?”

      “We were going to ransom Una. I thought ye kenned that.”

      “Aye, I did. I do. I just wondered why ye were going along with the others. Did ye ask to go?”

      For a moment Moira used the act of eating her meal to avoid answering him. She was not really sure what to say. Several times she had asked herself the very same question. There really was no good answer. That was not something she wanted to confess to Tavig. It would be admitting that she had no place in the Robertson family. She dreaded such an admission. Silently acknowledging it to herself was painful enough.

      “’Twas Robertson business,” she finally replied. “Why shouldnae I be there?”

      “If naught else but because the journey is a long, arduous, and dangerous one.”

      “It wasnae verra dangerous until I made the mistake of feeling charitable toward a certain George Fraser.”

      Tavig ignored that. “Ye could serve no purpose. Settling a ransom demand is men’s work.”

      “Mayhap they thought Una would be in need of a female, one of her own ilk to turn to for comfort after her ordeal.”

      “Ye and this Una are close friends?”

      It was yet another question she did not really want to answer. The man had a particular skill for asking such awkward questions, Moira thought as she rubbed out her empty bowl with dirt. This time her hesitation did not work to hide the truth. When he took her bowl from her to rinse it with a little water, she realized she would have to tell the full unpleasant truth.

      “Nay, Una and I arenae friends,” she muttered. “We arenae enemies, either. She was ne’er unkind to me. I was ne’er part of her life in truth. She was verra busy being trained and readied for a good marriage.”

      “And ye were set to work with the maids.”

      “Aye. ’Tis but fair that I earn my keep.”

      Although he suspected she was worked very hard, Tavig said nothing as he wiped out their bowls and stuck them back into their sack of supplies. “So why would anyone think that ye could be a comfort to her?”

      “We are of an age and both maids. There is a great deal we have in common. Why do ye ask? In truth, what does it matter? I can see no reason for your curiosity.” That was not the whole truth, for Moira did see the puzzle, but she did not understand why it should stir Tavig’s interest.

      “Everything that concerns ye is of interest to me. A mon likes to learn all he can about the lass he will marry.”

      The warmth she felt over his first statement faded abruptly with his second. “Ye are mad. Just as I begin to think ye are a reasonable mon, ye talk like a fool again. Weel, I have had my fill of your nonsense for the day. I need some rest.” She scowled toward the bedding he had spread out. “Ye prepared only one place to sleep?”

      “Aye, my sweet Moira. Only one. The fishermon lived alone, I think.”

      “How sad,” she murmured as she stood up, carefully brushing herself off.

      “True. It must have been a lonely life for him.”

      “Oh. Aye. My thought was that if he truly is dead, there is no one to grieve for him. A person ought to have a few tears shed for him when his life is ended. Someone should miss ye when ye are gone, or ’tis as if ye werenae here at all. ’Tis a verra sad thought.”

      “And do ye have folk who would miss ye?” Tavig was curious about what other kinsmon she had, perhaps some a little less swinish and brutal than Sir Bearnard.

      Moira inwardly winced, for she knew there would be few, if any, and their sense of loss would be fleeting. She struggled to shrug with an air of nonchalance. “There are a few.”

      “Ah, poor wee Moira,” he said in a soft voice, easily seeing through her lie. “I will weep for ye.”

      The thought that he might actually do so touched Moira in a way that made her nervous and she frowned at him. “Ye are a verra silly mon. Ye dinnae e’en ken who I am, have barely kenned me for a full day. For all ye can tell, I could be one of those people most folk would wish an early death on. And as far as ye being able to weep for me, I would have to succumb to the Grim Reaper’s touch verra quickly, indeed, to be sure that ye are still alive to do so. The hangmon waits for ye, Tavig MacAlpin.”

      “A fact I am not apt to forget. If I meet my fate ere ye do, will ye shed a tear for me as I sway from the gallows tree?”

      “This is a verra foolish conversation,” she grumbled, walking to their bed of blankets.

      Tavig smiled faintly as he watched her settle down on their meager bed. He was beginning to understand Moira. She had not answered his question. That meant that she could not give him a firm nay. Moira would be upset if he was taken by the hangman, although she might not fully understand why.

      He banked the fire, leaving a smaller and safer flame to flicker during the night. It would not give them much warmth, but it would serve to ward off any curious or dangerous animals. He moved to the bedding they would have to share, sat down, and tugged off his boots. After slipping beneath the blanket, he placed the ill-made sword he had acquired in the fisherman’s hut close by his side. He tucked his knife just under the edge of the blanket beneath him. Tavig turned on his side, smiling at Moira, who pointedly kept her back toward him. He slipped his arm around her tiny waist.

      Moira pushed his arm away, alarmed at how nice it felt as Tavig eased it around her.