Highland Fire. Hannah Howell

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 things to attend to than constantly assuring me we are doing only what is necessary.”

      Tavig briefly put his arm about her shoulders, giving her a little hug and ignoring the way she tensed and pulled away. “As I promised, I will do my best to recall where and what we have appropriated for our own use and see that the ones we borrowed from are paid in full.”

      Moira silently vowed to herself to do the same no matter how difficult it would be for her to get some coin. Although she was finding it increasingly uncomfortable to think of it, there was no ignoring the fact that Tavig was a condemned man. His intention to repay everyone they had to steal from could well be a sincere one, but she could not ignore the possibility that he would be unable to keep his promise. Somehow, some way, she would have to fulfill that promise herself.

      “Now why do ye look so sour? Shake away your ill mood, my wee bride, and let us begin our journey.” He picked up the bundle of supplies he had gathered and started out of the tiny hut.

      “Ye expect me to be gay as I begin what could be a verra long and dangerous walk?” she asked as she followed him. “Only a witless fool could be pleased at the thought of marching o’er Scotland for a fortnight or so with naught but rags and tattered hose to protect his feet.”

      Tavig glanced back at her woolen-swathed feet then looked at his own boots. He felt a twinge of guilt he knew was unwarranted. There had been nothing to fit her dainty feet within the fisherman’s hut. His own battered, salt-stiffened boots were far too large for her. The thick woolen rags wrapped around her feet would have to suffice until he could either steal or beg something else for her to wear.

      “I will concede that your poor wee feet arenae too weel protected,” he said, helping her hop over a shallow ditch. “I will do my best to correct that lack as soon as I can.”

      “Ye mean ye will steal me some shoes.” She winced as she trod on a small thistle plant.

      “A СКАЧАТЬ