Page 44 of Highland Fire

“Determined.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she set Adair down next to her and took the bowl of porridge Tavig held out to her. Beneath her laughter was a lingering pain, however. The end of their journey would mark the end of her time with Tavig and this loomed ahead of her like a death sentence. She knew that she had to leave him for both their sakes. She also knew that it would tear her heart out. Halting his talk of marriage would not lessen that pain, so she decided to let him talk. It allowed her to state her reasons for refusing yet again, and perhaps he would eventually accept them. They were very good reasons. He had to see that.

As she allowed Adair to suck a bit of porridge off her spoon, she prayed she could armor herself against the child as she had failed to do against the father. She did not need to pine for yet another MacAlpin. It saddened her already to think of leaving the child, for she knew she would be able to accept him as her own. Many another woman would not be able to do so.

She quickly shook away that thought. It could easily convince her that she needed to stay with Tavig for the child’s sake. It was almost laughable. She had just scolded Tavig for his tentative attempt to use the child to hold her to his side, yet she was obviously capable of using the child herself—as an excuse to go against her better judgment and follow her heart. Suddenly afraid he could easily read her thoughts, if only by the expressions on her face, Moira leapt to her feet.

“I have to rinse out the bairn’s wet clothes,” she said. “Ye will have to watch o’er him.” Snatching up the goatskin of water, Moira walked away.

Tavig frowned after her, moving quickly to catch Adair, who started to crawl after her. He held on to the boy as he put out the fire. Although Moira was only a few feet away trying to rinse out Adair s things, Tavig could not shake the chilling feeling that she had just run away from him. A look of something akin to fear had sped across her face just before she had leapt to her feet. As Tavig rubbed their eating utensils clean with a great deal of help from Adair, he carefully sorted out everything that had occurred or been said just before Moira’s abrupt retreat.

Suddenly he sat back on his heels and looked at Adair, who was happily chewing on a wooden spoon. Moira had not run from him but from the child. She had suddenly seen how easily she could soften to the boy. That could become a weakness, one that might end her stiff resistance to the idea of marrying him. She had rightfully scolded him for trying to use the child to pull her to his side, only to see that she could also end up using the child as a means to stay with him.

It was only a theory and a wild one at that, but Tavig could not shake the conviction that he was right. He did not want her to stay because of the boy but because her heart told her that he was her true mate. A fortnight might not be enough time to convince her of that, however. Tavig smiled at his son. It might not be the honorable or fair thing to do but it was very comforting to know that if all else failed, he did still hold one last toss of the dice.

Chapter Thirteen

Moira gaped at Tavig as he burst through the trees, running straight toward her. They had stopped so that she could give Adair his afternoon meal. Although they had only had the child with them for two days, Adair was adjusting to the journey with ease. Even he looked startled by Tavig’s abrupt arrival, however. Then Moira saw the tense expression on Tavig’s dark face, and she felt fear tickle its way down her spine.

“Ye didnae find the rabbit ye were looking for, did ye?” she said, stuffing Adair’s things back into his sack in preparation for the order to leave she expected Tavig to give.

“Nay,” he replied. “But I did see a pack of wolves and I fear they saw me.” He helped her get Adair into the sling she wore across her chest.

“Those are wolves following you?”

“Sorry, dearling, I am being unclear. These wolves are men, hunters sent out by my cousin Iver. Now, I want ye to take the goat, our supplies, and all else ye can carry and go and hide.”

“But, Tavig, what are ye going to do? Ye should be trying to find a place to hide as weel.”

“They are too close. I am going to lead them away from ye and the bairn. If I dinnae return by the time the sun begins to set, ye are to continue on to Mungan’s without me. Straight o’er those hills to the north. Go,” he demanded, giving her a slight push. “Ye dinnae want to fall into the hands of these curs, and they cannae find my son, either.”

She wanted to argue with him but she could hear the men approaching. Although she could demand to go with him, she no longer had only herself to consider. Tavig was right. His enemies could not be allowed to find Adair. Iver would see Adair as just another impediment to all he coveted. Adair’s life was in as much danger as Tavig’s.

As Tavig disappeared into the trees she hurried to find a good hiding place. Just as she found a hollow inside a clump of thick shrubs encircling a boulder she heard a cry rise up from Iver’s men. Tavig had been spotted. Now all she could do was hide, wait, and pray.

Tavig cursed as he looked over his shoulder. He tried to keep to the thick wood that slowed his mounted pursuers, but they were still gaining on him. Worse, he was approaching a clearing, and they were blocking his way back into the forest. Once out of the wood, they would easily overrun him.

As he broke through the last of the trees and underbrush into the open land, he cursed again. His gift of foresight had failed him miserably this time. It had given him no warning at all. Intent upon finding some meat for their evening meal, he had practically walked into his enemies’ hands. All his efforts to elude Iver’s dogs were proving useless. He knew that the minute he saw them and they saw him. His only consolation was that Moira and Adair were safe.

Once out into the open field, Iver’s men quickly encircled him. Tavig drew his sword, hoping to take down at least a few of the six well-armed men before they captured him. He had no doubt that he would lose the fight, but he wanted them to pay dearly for their victory.

Wounding two of the men proved so easy Tavig felt his hopes rise. Even as he pulled a third man from his saddle, his brief hope of freedom was brutally extinguished. Before Tavig could get on the riderless horse a burly man slammed into him from behind. Tavig hit the ground hard enough to push all the breath from his body. He had no chance to fight back, a flurry of kicks and punches sending him into a helpless, semiconscious state. Although he hated to give Iver’s men the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt him, he groaned as he was yanked to his feet, one man roughly bringing his hands behind his back. The man standing before him was Andrew MacBain, and Tavig realized he was in the hands of Iver’s mercenaries, men cast out by their own clans who were willing and often eager to do anything for coin.

“Iver will pay us weel for this,” Andrew said, stroking his dirty, tangled beard. “He is offering a handsome sum for ye, Tavig.”

“So I have been told. If ye trust Iver to pay you, ye are a bigger fool than I was.”

“Nay, laddie, dinnae try seeding distrust. We have been duly warned about your clever tongue. Iver will pay us the fee he promised to any mon who brought his murdering cousin to justice.”

“Fine words coming from the mon who wielded the knife.”

“Ye are the only one who kens that aside from Iver and ourselves. Iver daren’t speak the truth, and none of my men will, either. Aye, and ye shouldnae speak of it too often.” He drew his dagger and idly touched its sharp blade. “’Tisnae so rare for a mon to lose his tongue in battle.” After holding Tavig’s gaze for a moment, he resheathed his dagger. “How are the wounded?” he asked the man on his right.

“Their wounds arenae bad, but they need bandaging.”

“Aye. Weel, we have ridden hard this day so we will camp now. Here is as good a place as any. ’Twill be hard for anyone to creep up on us here.” He shoved Tavig back down onto the ground. “Tie his ankles,” he ordered a thin, scar-faced man.

Once tied, Tavig was left where he was as the men saw to the wounded and prepared their camp. Wincing over the aches in his body, Tavig edged back against a low bush to escape the wind. August was almost over, and the breeze carried the bite of approaching fall. Weakened by the beating he had endured at the hands of his captors, Tavig decided he would be wise to try to avoid catching a chill.