Page 1 of Highland Fire

Chapter One

Northwest Coast of Scotland—August 1400

“Come, lass, surely my flattery deserves at least a wee smile.”

Moira stole a glance at the man speaking to her. He had been watching her since she had boarded the ship three days before. Crooked Annie, her sharp tongued watchdog, had grumbled about the man and sternly warned Moira to avoid him. That was not easy to do on such a small ship.

He made her uneasy. His black hair was heavily streaked with gray, and his middle was very thick, causing his doublet to fit oddly. His black beard was straggly, and he wore his hat so low she could not really see his eyes.

Everything about him indicated an aging, somewhat unclean man, yet she noticed a few things that sharply contradicted that image. The tight sleeves of his elegant black doublet revealed strong, slender arms. His equally black hose fit snugly over long, well-shaped legs. His voice was deep and rich, the voice of a vibrant young man. He moved with a lithe grace that belied his apparent age and overfed condition. Then he smiled at her, and Moira was convinced he was not what he appeared to be. The revelation made her even more nervous. Glancing around for Crooked Annie, she was a little annoyed to see the gnarled old woman cozening up to an equally gnarled old sailor.

“She will be over to scold ye and hurry ye away soon enough,” the man said.

“I believe I will go and join her.” She uttered a soft gasp of surprise when he caught her by the hand and held her in place.

“Now, lass, ye dinnae wish to ruin the old crone’s chance for a wee bit of loving, do ye?”

Moira was shocked by his blunt words. The thought of Annie doing any loving at all was almost as unsettling as being touched by the strange man. He started to grin, then frowned. She realized he could read the fear she was unable to hide. Her guardian had taught her well to fear men. It was unfair, but the moment the man grabbed her by the hand, she tensed for a blow.

“Ah, my poor, sweet, timid bairn, ye have no need to fear old George Fraser.”

It stung to hear this man call her a baby, and she quickly regained some of her lost courage, yanking free of his hold. “As I see it, Master Fraser, a ‘bairn’ ought to be verra concerned when a mon thrice her age cozens up to her.”

“Thrice her age?” George gasped then fiddled with the front of his doublet for a moment before shrugging. “Age doesnae stop a mon from appreciating the sight of a bonnie wee lass.”

“Then perhaps your wife ought to.”

“She would have, save that she is no longer with us.” He sighed, slumping against the railing. “My sainted Margaret caught a fever and coughed her last but three years ago.”

“Oh, I am so sorry, sir.” She patted his arm, her sympathy waning a little when she felt how strong and slender that arm was. “I did not mean to stir any painful memories.”

“Here now, ye keep your old eyes off this bairn,” snapped Crooked Annie, snatching Moira’s hand off his arm just as he was about to cover it with his own.

“We were just discussing his wife,” Moira protested, trying to struggle free of Annie’s iron grip, but the woman’s weathered hand was wrapped around her wrist like a manacle.

“Weel, she ought to box the rogue’s ears for being such a lecherous bastard.”

“Annie,” Moira said with a gasp, blushing a little over Annie’s coarse language. “His wife died.”

“Humph. He probably sent her to her deathbed with all his philandering about.”

“I am sorry, sir.” Moira’s apology faltered a little, for she was sure the man was suppressing a grin.

“Come on, lass.” Annie yanked her away from the man, continuing to pull her along as she headed for the ship’s tiny cabins. “Ye dinnae want old Bearnard to catch ye talking to a mon, do ye?”

The mere thought of her guardian sent a chill coursing down Moira’s spine, immediately ending her attempts to resist Crooked Annie’s insistent tug upon her hand. “Nay, I shouldnae like that at all.”

Tavig MacAlpin watched the scowling Crooked Annie drag Moira away and sighed. He leaned against the railing, checking to be sure no one was watching him as he carefully adjusted the thick padding around his middle. Ever since he had set eyes on Moira Robertson his disguise as the graying George Fraser had become a curse, even though he knew it was saving his life. The ransom offered for his capture was big enough to tempt even the most principled of men. There were none of those on the small ship.

It had taken him three long days to grab a chance to speak to Moira, but he wondered why he had been so intent on doing so. He had watched her avidly as she strolled the deck with her bent, gray-haired nurse. Moira’s coppery hair was always braided tightly, but soft curls forever slipped free to frame her small oval face. Whenever he was fortunate enough to get a closer look at her, he marveled at how few freckles colored her soft white skin. He could clearly recall how startled he had been when he stole his first look into her eyes. Tavig had expected brown ones or even green ones, but never the rich, clear blue eyes she possessed. And such big eyes, too, he mused, smiling faintly. He admitted to himself with a soft laugh that he did whatever he could to get her to look his way so that he could see those huge eyes with their long, thick dark lashes.

A chuckle escaped him. It was possible he remembered her face so well because there was not much else of her to see. She was a tiny, too-thin lass. She had a woman’s soft curves, but they were also tiny. She was certainly not his usual fare, yet Tavig had to concede that she had captured his full attention.

He cursed as he recalled the fear that had flashed in her beautiful eyes when he had touched her. That fear had returned in force when Crooked Annie had mentioned Moira’s guardian’s name. Even some of the color in Moira’s high-boned cheeks had faded. Moira’s guardian Sir Bearnard Robertson was a bully. Tavig had seen that from the start. Although Bearnard had not yet struck Moira, Tavig was certain that the possibility existed. He prayed Bearnard would not touch the girl, at least not until Tavig was within running distance of his cousin Mungan’s keep and safety. He knew that if Bearnard Robertson raised a hand against Moira, he would rush to her rescue. A good tussle with a man the size of Robertson could easily ruin his disguise. Tavig knew that would mean being dragged back to his treacherous cousin Iver. And there awaited a hangman’s noose for murders he had not committed.

A sudden chill wind swept over him. Tavig cursed again and shivered, pulling his heavy black cloak fighter around himself. He scowled up at the sky. Mixed in with the usual evening clouds that forecast the approaching night were some very ominous black clouds. Another chill wind blew over the deck with far more force than the first. Tavig cursed. A late summer storm was nearly upon them. He would soon have to return to the small cabin he shared with three other men and he dreaded it. Such close confinement with others only increased his chances of being discovered. The rain the storm would bring was far more threatening to his tenuous disguise, however, so he promised himself he would seek shelter at the first hint of rain.

A heavy weight across Moira’s chest slowly pulled her out of her dreams. She opened her eyes and hastily swallowed a scream. By the dim light of a lantern dangerously left lit and swinging wildly on its ceiling hook, Moira saw that it was not Crooked Annie sprawled on top of her but Connor, her guardian’s man-at-arms. For one long moment she lay still, barely breathing, until she realized Connor was far too drunk to be a threat. Irritation quickly banished her panic.