Page 22 of Highland Fire

A soft scurrying sound echoed in the dark, and she shuddered. She hated rats. She particularly hated when she could hear them but not see them. It surprised her that she was not terrified. Her guardian was fond of locking her in places for days at a time which had left her with a deep dread of such dark places. Fear was a bitter taste in her mouth, but she still possessed all her senses. She decided it was because she was not alone.

Moira took Tavig’s limp hand in hers, huddling closer to him. It was going to be a long, frightening time while she waited for him to wake up.

Tavig clawed his way back to consciousness, groaning and cursing. Although his head rested on something soft, it was throbbing badly with pain. He felt a cool, faintly callused little hand gently caressing his forehead. Again he cursed, suddenly recalling what had happened. He opened his eyes to look at Moira and saw only blackness. He was momentarily alarmed. It took a minute for him to realize his eyesight had not been affected by the blow to his head; he was simply in a very dark place. He started to move, then stayed where he was, a little startled at how soothing Moira’s touch was, each stroke of her fingers lessening his pain.

“I should have let the twice-cursed bairn toddle to her death,” he muttered.

“Nay,” Moira said. “She would have been killed, and ye would have ached with guilt kenning that ye could have stopped it. How is your head?”

“It feels as if it has been split clean apart.” He frowned. “Although the throbbing already begins to ease.”

“Dinnae fret. ’Tis still in one piece. E’en a thick club cannae break such a hard pate.”

“Thank ye. Where are we? For a moment I feared I had been blinded for when I opened my eyes, I saw nothing. ’Tis cursed dark in here.”

“We have been tossed into a storage hole beneath the inn. I fear we are to be kept secured here until a priest can judge us. From what was said, that willnae happen for a fortnight or so.” She shuddered, and Tavig groped in the dark until he held her hand in his. “I think there are rats in here,” she whispered.

“Verra likely, sweeting. They will do naught if one of us remains awake. If this is where the innkeeper stores things, they probably have enough to eat without trying to have a wee nibble on us.”

“Dinnae say such things!” She glanced around even though she could see nothing.

“Weel, I got us a roof o’er our heads for the night.” He grimaced as he slowly tried to sit up then relaxed, surprised that the movement did not increase throbbing in his head. “A poor jest. Sorry, lass.”

“Most of your jests have been poor ones,” she murmured without any animosity or anger, frowning up toward the hatch they had been tossed through. “Do ye think they will feed and water us?”

“Oh, aye, though it may not be as much as we would like. They will wish us to be alive to face the priest’s godly judgment, howbeit. But of course there is always the chance that the much-feared laird of theirs will hear of all this and seek to judge us for himself.”

“Ye dinnae sound as if ye think that will be a good thing.” He draped his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him. “A priest might be harder in his judgment than some laird.”

He rested his head against the top of hers. “True, but mayhap not this time. Recall what was said about this laird.” He felt her tremble and briefly tightened his hold on her. “I wish I could say something to lift your spirits.”

“Nay, I prefer the truth no matter how dire it is. I just wish it wasnae quite so dark.”

Tavig pressed a kiss to her hair. He could hear the fear in her voice, felt it rippling through her body, but she was fighting it. It fed his sense of guilt even as he felt a wave of tenderness wash over him. The need to get her to safety gnawed at him, but he could see no chance of rescue for either of them. Yet, he could not believe that the fate his foretelling skill had urged him to reach for was that he and Moira would die together before they had even become lovers. He was certain the destiny he had sensed was not an early grave.

“Ye should have run when I told ye to, dearling,” he said.

“That would have been verra cowardly of me. And if ye could leap into the storm-tossed sea to aid me, I could certainly try to get ye free from the grasp of superstitious village fools. There is also the verra practical matter that I have to stay with ye. Ye are the one who kens how to get to your cousin’s. I have no idea of where I am, of where to go, and of how to survive long enough to get there.”

“Ah, and here I was cherishing the thought that ye had come to care for me.”

“Ye shouldnae let your vanity place such lies into your head.”

He smiled against her soft hair at her tart response. She did care for him. It had been there to see in her face as the crowd had turned against him. It had also been there in her cry when he had been struck down. Her regard for him might not be the deep, enduring emotion he sought, but she did have some feeling for him beyond the desire he could stir within her.

“Not that it does ye any good now, ye great oaf,” he grumbled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing, lass. I just curse my stupidity.”

“Ye couldnae ken that ye would be tossed into a hole in the ground for saving a child’s life. The ingratitude those people showed is truly appalling.” She felt him move away, and his absence quickly intensified her fears. “Where are ye going?”

“Not far. There isnae the room here, anyway, I think. The throbbing in my head has eased sooner than I expected, and I thought I would stumble about our prison to see if there is anything of use here. Ye didnae see anything before they closed the door, did ye?”

“Nay, I was too busy falling. I didnae think to see what they threw us into.” She gave a start of surprise when he suddenly took her hand in his, wondering how he could find her in the dark.

“They threw us into this pit?”