Highland Fire. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
his arm when she realized what she was doing. Moira gasped, a tremor of fear banishing the last of her desire, and she hastily pulled away from him.
“I am sorry,” she whispered, tensing with the certainty that he would reciprocate with far more force than she had used.
“For what, lass? I deserved a wee slap.” He frowned. “Do ye now expect me to knock ye on your arse?”
There was a hint of anger in his voice that confused her. It was clearly aimed at what she expected him to do and not at what she had done. “Nay, of course not. And ye cannae do it anyway, for I am already on my arse.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, astounded and a little shocked at her own words. “Oh! Listen to me. Ye are a poor influence, Tavig MacAlpin.”
Tavig laughed, gently kissing her on the forehead. “Nay. What harm in a wee bit of wit even if it is faintly coarse? Aye, and it shows that ye can be at ease with me. There is no harm in that.”
“Nay? I would think that growing at ease with a mon accused of two murders isnae verra clever at all.”
“How ye wound me.”
“I doubt that much can pierce your thick hide.” She yawned, not resisting when he tucked her up close to his side. “I believe I really must go to sleep, Sir Tavig,” she murmured even as she closed her eyes
Tavig waited for her to wish him a good sleep, but after a moment of silence, he looked at her. It was evident she had gone to sleep within a heartbeat of speaking. He smiled, nestling her slim form more comfortably against him. His smile widened when she murmured, cuddling up to him as if it were already a habit.
“Ah, lass, ye will soon see that we are destined. Aye, I just have to soothe those hurts that bastard Sir Bearnard inflicted upon ye.” He sighed, kissing the top of her head. “I just pray that I have the patience and skill to do it.”
Chapter Five
“I dinnae suppose ye will believe me if I say I found this growing wild in the field.”
Moira looked at the bread Tavig held, then at him. “Nay, I dinnae think I would.”
After two days of trudging north over the rougher, emptier parts of Scotland, Moira had begun to believe she had convinced the man not to steal anything. The bread he tempted her with was solid proof that she had been naïve. What she hated most about it was how it forced her to face conflicting emotions within herself. She knew Tavig MacAlpin was a good man yet he could obviously steal with ease and success. The idea of stealing anything was repugnant to her, yet she knew she wanted and would heartily enjoy, some of that bread. Hunger was rapidly blurring her morals.
Tavig sighed, sitting down beside her, taking out his knife and cutting off a piece of bread. “Ye wouldnae believe it was a miracle either, would ye? That it just appeared in my hands because God understood our need?”
“Ye blaspheme. I had hoped we could make this journey without stealing anything.”
“Weel, dearling, I regret dashing your hopes, but they were unreasonable ones. Even if we continue to each eat just two small bowls of porridge a day, we will be without food by the week’s end.” He smiled faintly when she crossly snatched up the piece of bread he held out to her. “Neither of us is accustomed to such a long, arduous march, either.”
The bread was delicious, which irritated Moira. “And that makes a difference, does it?”
“Oh, aye. ’Twill be a struggle requiring all of our strength. One must needs eat weel when enduring such a trial.”
“Ye make some verra pretty excuses.”
“Not excuses—facts.”
“Mayhap, but whilst we fill our bellies, the owner of this bread goes hungry.”
“Nay. I couldnae and wouldnae take food from those who might starve without it.”
“And how can ye be so sure that they didnae need it?”
“Because I took it from the kitchens of a verra fine house a few miles to the west of us. ’Twas one of five loaves, and the meal being prepared showed me that there was no lack of food in the place.”
Moira frowned when he put his arm around her, but she was too curious to waste time scolding him over his familiarity. “Are ye saying that ye just ambled into some wealthy laird’s kitchens, helped yourself to a loaf of his bread and sauntered away?” She absently accepted a second piece of bread.
“It wasnae that easy. I didnae have to do much creeping about or lying, though.” He shook his head. “When my troubles are at an end, I shall have to tell that laird how weak his guard is. He must be a good mon, for his people are a happy, trusting lot. Too trusting. I could easily have been some enemy surveying the mon’s strengths and weaknesses. I shall repay him for this bread by letting him ken how easily he could be taken. Sad to say, a mon cannae allow himself or his people to be too welcoming. Aye, hospitality is the mark of a good knight, but this mon’s keep was as open and vulnerable as a monastery.”
“Ye are right. ’Tis sad that he could be hurt because he lives so openly and trustingly.”
“Aye, and ’twill come, for ’tis clear to anyone who takes a moment to look that he also lives weel.”
“And eventually someone will come along who wishes to take that away.” She frowned up at the sky. “’Tis growing late, only a few hours of light remaining.”
“True. We will travel on in a moment.”
He tucked the remaining bread into his sack, then, smiling faintly, pulled her into his arms. Moira tried to look stern, but it grew more difficult to resist him with each hour she spent in his company. She placed her hands against his chest, intending to push him away. That intention was swiftly banished by the touch of his lips on hers. His mouth was gentle and warm. Good sense and morality told her to resist the temptation they represented, but, as with the bread, she found she was too weak to refuse something she wanted so badly.
She curled her arms around his neck as he teased her lips with small, nibbling kisses. After a moment she pressed closer, silently requesting the fuller kiss he held back. A soft groan escaped her when he readily answered her plea. The heat that both frightened and enthralled her raced through her body, its strength centering low in her abdomen. On occasion Moira had heard one of the maids speak of how she burned for a particular man. Now Moira knew what that maid had been talking about. She knew that she burned for Tavig MacAlpin, ached for him. It was the worst and the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“Ah, lass, ye have the sweetest mouth I have e’er tasted,” he murmured against her throat, tracing her frantic pulse with little kisses.
“Yours isnae so bad, either.” She grimaced when he laughed softly.
“Such flattery.”
His long fingers brushed over the curve of her breast, and Moira shuddered from the force of the desire ripping through her body. Gritting her teeth, she squirmed out of his hold. She hastily stood up, silently praying he could not see how unsteady she was. Somehow she was going to have to find the strength to fight his allure, much more strength than she was showing now.
“We had better be on our way,” she said, inwardly cursing the huskiness infecting her voice.
“Ye cannae keep running away.” Tavig picked up their supplies and began to walk.
“I dinnae ken what ye are talking about,” Moira protested, hurrying after him.
“Aye, ye do. We are fated, Moira. Ye feel that each time I touch you. Ye feel it in your blood, in how it heats with desire.”
“What arrogance.”
Tavig ignored her muttered interruption. “Ye have been so sheltered ye dinnae understand what your body and your heart are telling you, so ye fight it, pushing me away. I am a patient mon, though. I can wait until ye do see the truth.”
Moira