The small blade would mayhap give her some time, but if therewas more than one attacker, she would be disarmed very quickly.
She dressed with haste and washed her face with some of the water from the bucket that still sat on the prep table. Noticing Errol’s travel bag by the door, Moira breathed a sigh of relief.
He hadn’t left her.
But where was he?
The door swung open, and Errol grunted a ‘good morn’ as he brushed past her.
Her fist clutched at her chest, trying to tame the erratic beat of her heart. He’d frightened her when he’d entered.
“I am glad to see ye’ve awakened. We should go,” Errol said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
That was it. There was none of the softness to his voice that she’d seen glimpses of the previous day. Of course, that was afore the events of the night had happened. The reveal of his true hatred for the Harts.
Moira straightened her shoulders. She wouldn’t let Errol ken that he got under her skin.
“The horses are ready,” he stated gruffly as he bent and grabbed his bag.
“As am I.” Moira stated. If he was going to talk in short bursts, so could she. She picked up her bag and when she passed him, he snatched it from her hands to carry it out to be tied to her horse. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
It appeared that no matter how angry Errol was, his manners were still intact.
The sky was gray, filled with clouds that Moira was certain would cry rain upon them soon. Early morning mist covered the mountains as they rode in silence, making their way through thick trees and rocky hillsides. The ride was treacherous and a few times, they had to stop to give the horses a respite. The rest also gave Moira’s heart time to slow its frightfully fast beating. She felt on edge.
Whenever she stole a glance at Errol, he sat with his back ramrodstraight, eyes searching their surroundings, but never landing on her, her unease lifted a bit. He watched vigilantly for aught that might be amiss.
Kenning that he was taking such care for her safety was heartwarming, but cool at the same time. Since last night, he’d erected walls that she couldn’t seem to penetrate.
But words had been few as Errol finally slowed to a stop and she urged her horse to do the same.
It was then that she looked where they’d stopped.
A kirkyard. A shiver ran down her back at the realization. It was old. The headstones lilted in all directions. Some had been overtaken with dark green moss and she could no longer see the name engraved in the stone.
Errol dismounted and Moira frowned.
“W-what are we doing here?” She looked around nervously, feeling uncomfortable.
“’Tis the next stop on yer map.”
Once again her pulse quickened. “A kirkyard? Why? I’ve no interest in disturbing those at rest.”
But Errol wasn’t paying her any attention. Instead, his eyes were focused on a spot near one of the tipped headstones. His head dropped, shoulders slumping forward.
“Errol?” She called out to him, but he didn’t answer.
Sliding off her horse, she slowly approached. He looked distraught, his handsome features distorted with pain.
She reached out her hand, her palm on his arm. “Errol?” She asked again. Something wasn’t right.
He pulled away with a hiss as if her hand touching him burnt his flesh.
“What is wrong?” She asked quietly, retracting her hand. Kenning that something was bothering him, but she didn’t ken what.
“This is where it happened,” Errol finally spoke, his voice low.
He didn’t have to explain to her what he was referring to. His brother. What cruel game was fate playing with them that the map would lead them to the site of his brother’s death? If aught, Errol now had more reason to hate her than afore.
