Highland Fire. Hannah Howell

backside the next. She knew what irritated her the most was his knowledge of how she felt. As she grudgingly accepted his help over some moss-covered rocks, she briefly feared he could read her mind. She easily shrugged away that fear. If Tavig could read minds, right now he would either be laughing at her or getting out of the reach of her foot.

      He just knows me too well or has a knack for reading the expressions on my face, she mused. If she was to retain any emotional secrets from the man, she was going to have to learn a few new tricks. She had learned to hide her fear and anger from Sir Bearnard. Now she would learn how to hide her feelings, thoughts, and emotional turmoil from Tavig.

      “I suppose it had to rain at some time during our journey,” Moira grumbled, trying to huddle farther back beneath the crude branch-and-blanket shelter Tavig had made for them.

      “Aye. ’Tis a shame it does so during our resting time, though. We willnae have a comfortable sleep.” He cut her a slice of bread from the dwindling loaf he had stolen that afternoon. “This is all we shall have for food tonight as I cannae light a fire without dry wood and kindling.”

      “Do ye think that will make me less concerned that ye stole this?” She wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself as she nibbled on the bread.

      “Nay. I ken that ye have the strength to cling tightly to your disapproval.”

      “But not so tightly that I refuse to eat this ill-gotten bounty. Ye need not keep that thought to yourself. I swear I can hear ye thinking the words.” She sighed, rubbing her aching feet.

      “Why dinnae ye unwrap the rags from your feet and stick them out in the rain for a wee while?”

      “But they will get wet. Most likely cold as weel.”

      “’Twill soothe that aching ye are trying so hard to hide.” He met her disbelieving look with a smile. “Trust me, dearling. There was a time or two when I had to walk long miles in ill-made boots or bare feet. I ken weel that hot aching that can afflict one’s feet. I found naught that was as soothing as bathing them in cool water. There isnae a stream or pool about, only what falls from the sky. Try it. It cannae hurt.”

      “Nay, mayhap not.”

      With his help she unwrapped her feet. Cautiously she edged closer to the opening of their shelter until her feet protruded beyond its somewhat weak protection. Moira hated to admit it, but the cool spray did feel good. Just exposing her tender feet to the cooler night air had felt good. The rain washing over her feet made her sigh with relief. She scowled at a grinning Tavig. The man did not have to look so smug.

      “Aye, it helps some,” she muttered.

      Tavig laughed and shook his head. “Ye are a stubborn lass, Moira Robertson.”

      Moira knew her sudden, instinctive flash of fear had been seen by him, for his laughter abruptly faded, and he scowled at her. In her years with Bearnard Robertson, being called a stubborn lass had always been followed by a beating or one of Sir Bearnard’s many other cruel punishments. Although she had been with Tavig only a short while, she knew he would never treat her as her guardian had. Her fears could not yet make that distinction, however.

      “I wish I kenned what I must do to get ye to cease fearing me,” Tavig said, cutting her another slice of bread.

      “I dinnae fear you, Tavig,” she said quietly.

      “Nay? ’Twas stark fear I just saw in your face, loving.”

      “Aye, ye probably did see that. Howbeit, it wasnae a fear of you. ’Twas fear of a memory.”

      “A memory?”

      “Aye, a memory. Ye called me a stubborn lass, and the words stirred a harsh, frightening memory. That was what my fear was born of, not ye or anything ye have done.”

      “Must I weigh every word I utter then?”

      She shook her head. “That wouldnae be fair to you, nor would it help me. I must learn that just because someone says the same thing Sir Bearnard once said, it doesnae mean he will now act as my guardian did. Ye meant the words as a tease, not a scold or a threat. I must learn to hear more than the words. I must listen to the way they are spoken. There was no anger or warning in your voice. That is what I must teach myself to heed.”

      “Aye, for I begin to think Sir Bearnard said little that wasnae followed by some act of brutality.”

      “Sometimes he said nothing at all. He was at his most dangerous then.” She shivered, trying to shake away bad memories. “The rain grows more chilling than soothing,” she murmured, pulling her feet back inside their shelter.

      As he helped her rub her feet dry and rewrap them, Tavig studied her. She never talked long about Sir Bearnard and her life with the man. There would be one or two faint allusions to what she had endured, then she would grow silent and withdraw, just as she had now. It left him feeling as if she had retreated from him, yet he knew that was not truly the case. He could not help but wonder, however, how long the shadow of Sir Bearnard would hang over them.

      “Not every mon is like your guardian,” he said, huddling back in the shelter and gently tugging her to his side.

      “I ken it. Tavig, I am sorry if the way I act sometimes offends you.”

      He lightly kissed her mouth, stopping her words. “No need to apologize. As ye must learn to heed how the words are spoken, and not just the words themselves, so I must learn to cease thinking that every flash of fear or instinctive cringe is directed at me. Sir Bearnard taught ye those harsh lessons. Ye just need time to learn when and with whom they are needed. Although I intend to insure that ye never have to live that way again.”

      “Oh, and how do ye plan to do that?”

      “By convincing ye to stay with me.”

      “Aye? Your fate isnae too certain, my fine knight. I cannae see that sharing a gallows with you is better than living with Sir Bearnard.”

      “And I dinnae intend to swing from Iver’s gallows.”

      “I cannae say I wish that to happen either, but I dinnae understand how ye can be so verra sure that it willnae.”

      “Once I reach my cousin Mungan I will have the aid I need to fight it out with Iver.”

      “That willnae prove your innocence.” She yawned, leaning more heavily against him.

      “True, but no one believes I killed those men. Every one of my people at Drumdearg kens exactly who is the murderer. Howbeit, I shall try to get some proof of my innocence, mayhap some confession, so that others will believe it, too.” He shook his head. “I have thought of little else besides getting back what has been stolen from me and of making Iver pay for his crimes. Ye are right, though. That willnae prove my innocence, and since Iver has spread his baseless accusations far and wide, I must look to the matter of clearing that black mark from my name.”

      “Ye may never be able to fully clear it.”

      “Ye are a veritable well of cheer, arenae ye?” he grumbled, then smiled when she giggled sleepily. “And ye are right about that as weel, although I curse the unfairness of it. Nevertheless, the people that matter will ken the truth. Most of them do already.”

      “And ye are verra sure that your cousin Mungan will believe your tale and not hand ye over to Iver?”

      “Verra sure. Mungan has always loathed and mistrusted Iver.” He touched a kiss to the top of her head. “Dinnae worry, lass. We will be safe at Mungan’s, and I will find out what game he plays by snatching your cousin.”

      “Ye dinnae suppose he saw her from afar, fell in love with her, and had to try to make her his?”

      Tavig thought about that for a moment then replied with confidence, “Nay, not Mungan. He isnae given to such feelings. He is a good mon, and I am certain your cousin is safe and unharmed, but Mungan isnae a romantic sort of fellow. When he decides to take a wife he will be good to her, care for her, and