Highland Fire. Hannah Howell

completely fair to allow him to do all the work, but she did blame him somewhat for the dire circumstances she found herself in. It would serve as a penance of sorts if he had to wait upon her a little bit.

      She watched him, idly wondering how he could look so good when he was in such a disreputable state. His clothing was ragged and stained. His thick black hair was tousled and stiffened from the salt water they had floundered in for so long. She could also see bruises and swelling upon his face as well as on the patches of skin peeking through his ragged clothes. Some of those marks could have been caused by the rough treatment of the stormy waves, but she suspected most of his wounds were suffered in his battle with Sir Bearnard. When she began to think rather tenderly of nursing his many injuries, she was startled and a little appalled. The man had not only plunged her life into chaos, but also he was starting to have an alarming effect upon her good sense. Moira forced her errant musings back to the matter of what they needed to do next. That was far more important than how smooth his dark skin was or how well shaped his long legs were.

      “Sir Tavig, I hadnae forgotten that ye planned to take us to Mungan Coll’s,” she hurried to say, hoping that by talking she could clear her mind of all thoughts save how to get to safety.

      “Then what else do ye need to be told?”

      “How do we get there? We are ragged, without horses and without supplies.”

      “Verra true.” He wiped his hands on a dingy rag and sat back down at the table. “I think we can find enough here to start us on our way.”

      “That would be stealing.”

      “Lass, the mon who used to abide here is dead, I am fair certain of that. And if by some odd miracle he isnae, then he has fled this place without a thought to what is here. Cease fretting o’er the right and wrong of it all. Whatever happened to the mon, he left everything here to rot or to be taken, and we have a sore need for what little he may have left behind.”

      “I can understand the reasoning ye are using, and ’tis sound, yet it troubles me to take someone else’s things.”

      “If I had any coin I would leave it in payment, but ’twould only be stolen. To ease your acute conscience, I will swear to either return or have someone else come back here later. If the mon is still alive, he will be paid.”

      “’Tis verra kind of ye, but ye may not be able to return.”

      “Then ye can.”

      “I would, but I fear I have no coin.” She felt a mild blush tingle in her cheeks and wondered why she should be embarrassed to confess her poverty to such a man.

      “None at all?” Tavig found her discomfort somewhat endearing for it was self-inflicted by her own honesty.

      “Nay. My cousin Bearnard says that my father didnae have the skill to hold on to a farthing.”

      “Ah, weel, I dinnne mind. An heiress would have been a fine thing to have, but I dinnae need the coin so I can be happy taking a poor lass as a wife.” He grinned when she glared at him.

      Moira told herself that he was not saying such things to be intentionally hurtful. He could not have known about her lack of a dowry before she told him. Neither could he have known how it was one of the many things that doomed her to a spinsterhood she did not really wish to endure, but had been struggling to accept. Even though she could convince herself that he was not intentionally trying to cause her pain, that did not make his cheerful talk of wedding her any less irritating, however.

      “’Tis time that ye found yourself a new jest,” she muttered.

      Tavig shook his head, pulling a mournful face. “Weel, my wee bride, ’tis a good thing we shall be bound together for a fortnight or so because of our circumstances. I can see that ye will take a great deal of wooing.”

      She ignored the latter part of what he said. “A fortnight or so? Why so long?”

      “As ye said—we have no horse.”

      “Oh. Aye. And we cannae get one?”

      “Weel, I have no coin and ye have no coin, and ’tis verra clear that ye arenae amenable to the necessity of stealing. So, nay, we cannae get a horse.”

      “So how do we get to your cousin’s?”

      “We walk.”

      “Walk?”

      “Aye, dearling—use those pretty wee feet of yours.”

      “But your cousin is miles and miles away, isnae he?”

      “He is. ’Twill take us a fortnight or more.”

      Moira stared at him and decided that she should worry less about his being a condemned murderer and more about the fact that he was quite certainly mad.

      Chapter Three

      “I look even more like a beggar than I did before.”

      Tavig looked Moira over, struggling not to grin in response to her complaint. He could not think of a good way to deny her accusation, for it was true. They had found a needle and thread and, as they had taken turns cleaning themselves up, they had patched her clothes as well as they could. The mending could easily be seen since the thread was dark and her nightgown was white. The faded blue plaid tied about her waist served as a skirt, but was thin and crudely mended in places. An old, dull brown linsey-woolsey shirt, too large on her slender frame and marred by a few coarse patches, served as her bodice. Only her delicate features and soft white skin hinted at the fact that she was something more than the poorest of beggars.

      Glancing down at himself, he almost laughed. With all of the neat dark stitching holding it together, his fine white shirt looked as if it were striped. The rough dark homespun jerkin he wore was old, stained, and smelled faintly of fish. So did the ill-fitting hose he wore. The man whose clothes they had confiscated had clearly not made a very good living at fishing.

      “We do make a sad pair,” he murmured.

      “Are ye certain we should take these things at all? Mayhap the mon isnae dead, just left home for a wee while.” Moira still felt she was stealing and did not like it at all.

      “Lass, if ye had seen the condition of the farm animals, few that they were, ye would be as certain as I am that some ill has befallen the mon. No one has tended to those poor beasts for days. I nearly killed them for I thought ’twould be best to simply end their misery. Howbeit, instead I did what little I could for them and then set them loose. They will either feed the wolves, fend for themselves, or be collected up by some poor farmer who can make better use of them. And if by some twist of fate the mon is alive, he deserves to lose his stock for treating it so badly.”

      “’Tis probably true,” she agreed, her reluctance to admit it heavily weighting her voice. “Howbeit, despite all ye have said, I cannae fully shake the feeling that I am stealing.”

      “And, as I have also said, I would be willing to leave his ghost some recompense, but I am a wee bit short of coin. And I doubt ye had the foresight to fetch your purse ere ye were hurled into the sea.” He was not sure he completely believed in her professed poverty although he suspected that she did.

      “Such a finely honed wit. There is no need to be so impertinent.”

      “Lass, your sensibility is to be honored, but I fear ’tis verra misplaced just now. We landed on this harsh shore in naught but rags with no money and no supplies. Since I am nearly certain that the mon who lived here is dead, I consider it fortuitous that the place wasnae already picked clean of all that could be of use to us.”

      She grimaced. He was right—again. Moira decided that it was a particularly irritating quality of his. She would try harder to overcome her “sensibilities” as he called them. Such fine sentiments were a luxury she could not afford to indulge in at the moment.

      “I shallnae speak out again on the way we are forced to survive,” she finally said. “I am sure that ye have far more important