Page 46 of The Shape of Silence

Morggán guided her toward an open place near the fire beside Tormod and sat himself on the empty stump on her left.

Alasdair, seated on Tormod’s right, leaned forward and turned toward her with no small amount of animation. Before he might have said a word, however, Morggán did.

“Dinna frighten her off before she’s fed,” he warned mildly.

Alasdair pressed one hand solemnly to his chest. “I am charm itself tonight.”

“That will be a first,” said Tormod without any inflection at all.

A rough chuckle passed around the fire.

But Morggán’s words lingered unpleasantly in her thoughts all the same, and she disliked immensely the notion that he believed she required shielding, as though she were some delicate thing liable to wilt beneath ordinary conversation.

Though admittedly, she had not exactly inspired confidence earlier. She had all but fled the circle of his officers this afternoon the moment attention settled too heavily upon her, and only an hour ago had confessed outright that she did not know how to behave among so many people. Small wonder, then, that Morggán now seemed to think she required handholding.

Still, she had survived alone in these woods for years—years!—through winters that had nearly frozen her outright, through sickness, hunger, loneliness, and fear so deep at times it seemed to settle bone deep. She hauled water and chopped wood and skinned rabbits and patched roofs and buried the man with her own two hands. Surely she could manage five minutes beside a fire with a dozen soldiers without needing Morggán to guard her from being overwhelmed.

Though she had no desire whatsoever to become one of them—loud and easy and talking over one another—she did understand that truly, she had no idea how to interact with people, neither properly nor comfortably.

Perhaps this was good for her, she tried to tell herself, even as she felt—hoped?—that she’d never find herself in a similar circumstance ever again. Almost immediately she questioned her own thoughts—good for her? The justification felt suspiciously like something invented merely to keep herself seated beside the fire instead of retreating immediately back into the safety and quiet of the house. Truthfully, she would much rather have been alone. Or, better yet, alone with only Morggán beside her, where conversation had begun to flow a bit easier.

Still, she had come out here now, and pride alone would keep her from bolting back indoors after less than a minute.

So she sat straighter rather than shrinking inward, folding her hands loosely in her lap, refusing to slouch meekly as though frightened by them, even as she did feel entirely out of place. Nor would she cling silently to Morggán like some timid child merely because he made the world around her feel steadier—although in truth he did. Certainly, she wouldn’t have ventured beyond her door if he hadn’t come for her.

Five minutes, she reminded herself firmly.

Surely she could manage that.

Chapter Twelve

Two hours, and by God, she was still here. When he’d coaxed her to the fire, Morggán had imagined she wouldn’t actually last all the five minutes he’d suggested. She’d hardly spoken, true enough, and hadn’t inserted herself into conversation nor attempted to compete with the constant back-and-forth among the men. Yet neither had she retreated into silence as fully as he had expected. And she hadn’t fled.

Her subdued curiosity held him captive tonight. She observed everything, though not with the tense wariness of her first moments by the flames—still measured but less restrained now, as though her every gesture was controlled. She followed conversations as though trying to learn from them. She watched the way the men interrupted one another without offense taken, and Morggán thought she understood that insults were a sign of affection half the time.

And Christ, her expressions.

She offered small, sporadic smiles. Never broad, only slight curves of her lips—fleeting glimpses before she drew her mouth into a composed line. Yet with every passing minute she seemed to forget a little more that she’d only planned to stay five minutes.

Presently she attended a senseless argument between Alasdair and Eòin, the latter still too young and earnest to understand that Alasdair rarely cared about the argument itself so much as the opportunity to provoke someone into defending a ridiculous position—honestly, no man alive did it better.

“Say it plain then,” Alasdair barked across the fire. “Ye ken ye’re a better drunk fighter than I.”

Which was utter nonsense, of course.

Eòin leaned forward and stated vehemently, “I never said that.”

“Ye implied it.”

“I didnae.”

“Ye looked it.”

“Looked it?” Eòin demanded incredulously.

“Aye. Wi’ yer face.”

Several men snorted into their flasks.