It took a long time for Moira to fall asleep that night, and when she’d been so certain of sleep falling upon her, too.

Like a landslide.

Had she revealed too much of herself to him? The question rattled in her brain like stones in an empty jar. Colliding with one another, with the sides of her head, loud enough to hold her eyes open no matter the exhaustion in her body.

Would Fergus MacDougal know of her mother’s death and her father’s absence? Perhaps Luthais had told her would-be husband some of the finer points of her life while they had discussed the marriage?

He had not shown recognition. And she doubted Luthais would have questioned any of the finer points of her life when arranging the match. She was merely a woman, a member of a clan with which he wished to forge a bond. A womb in which a member of his bloodline might place his heir.

A shudder of revulsion ran through her at the thought.

Fergus was not a threat. She had already proven her adeptness at defending herself, had she not? If he so much as hinted at handing her over to the Campbells, she would spill his guts at his feet without a moment’s hesitation.

Oh, she had gotten the better of him. The smug bastard.

It surprised her that he did not remember her—she had not changed much since their first and only meeting, years earlier. Perhaps she had grown taller, a bit fuller as a woman did, but the untamable brown hair and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose had not changed.

Her spirit had not changed.

She had kicked his shins as a reward for becoming saucy with her, and he had howled like a man with his leg stuck in a bear trap. The memory still brought a smile to her face.

That saucy young lad had like as not earned many more kicks from plenty other lasses over the years, so it was only fitting that he had forgotten hers. So she supposed.

Her smile faded when she remembered the other reason that journey to Ben Macdui was memorable. When they’d returned to Banff, it was to find out that the bairns had come.

And her mother had died.

Moira rolled onto her side with a shuddering sigh, curling up on the blanket she’d stretched out over a thick pile of pine needles. As comfortable as any bed she’d ever slept in, to be sure, if only she could fall asleep.

Thinking about her mother would not help matters.

Nor would wondering how different her life might have been had she not come home to find everything she’d left behind was no more. Kin had been kinder to her in those days, going so far as to bring her along to the meeting so as to give her mother quiet in which to rest.

He’d only become brutal after their return, where prior to it he’d been little worse than disinterested. She might have borne his disinterest for the rest of her life without batting an eye.

It was not to be.

She had met Fergus while the men had argued and drank inside the house. A few winters older than she and thus far more mature and interesting in her ten-year-old eyes. She’d become enthralled by his cocksure manner, his charm, his skill in the saddle as he'd pranced around to show off his talents in front of the other lads.

She’d been the only lass, yet that had not stopped her from climbing onto the wooden fence which marked the pen outside the stable, where the horses had been let out to stretch their legs. Anything to have a clear view of him, separated from the lads who merely wished to elbow her out of the way.

Fergus had ridden in circles around the inside of the pen, sitting tall while astride the bare back of a monstrous gray stallion who’d done his best to buck the lad off. There was no bucking the daring Fergus, who’d held on for all his might and made it look so effortless.

In her little-girl way, she had fallen in love with him that day in the pen, surrounded by lads and young men from both the Reid and Campbell clans. She had gazed upon him with a different sort of admiration, free of the jealousy the others held as they’d watched him ride.

And then he’d asked for a kiss after landing at her feet.

Which was when she’d declared him the most impertinent, rudest lad she’d ever known. To think! Being brash enough to do such a thing, and in front of the rest of the lads! To embarrass her in such a manner!

All eyes were on them, snickers and outright laughter coming from all sides. Whether they’d laughed at Fergus or at her was of little difference.

There had been nothing for her ten-year-old self to do but draw back one leg and slam her foot into his shin. Then, the other shin. She’d kicked as hard as she could, leaving the toes of both feet numb for days. It had been worth it to make him howl as he had.

Now a grown woman, Moira could look back and see the event for what it truly was. He had wished to impress the others even more and had seen the opportunity to do so by using her.

He had shattered her fragile image of him as something godlike and worthy of adoration.

There was nothing so cruel as having one’s dreams shattered like glass, especially at a tender age.

Even so, she might have forgiven him and treasured the memory of her hero on horseback upon returning home. Might have dreamed of him. Might have carried him in her heart and wished for the day when they might meet again.

Were it not for what she had come home to.

There had been little time to dream of brash young men on horseback while tending to a pair of squalling twins and mourning the mother she’d not been given the chance to kiss goodbye forever.

She closed her eyes, as though this would shut out the memories of the numb horror which had soaked into her bones in those early days.

The blessed emptiness of sleep overtook her then.

When she woke, it was with a renewed determination to travel as far as she could from Campbell lands and into something new.

Her life was hers to live. No one could declare themselves her owner any longer. And while she would never stop loving the twins as her own, there was no longer the call to live her life in their service.

It was with surprise that she found herself whistling a tuneless melody as she walked the mare to the river’s edge for a long, refreshing drink. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt free.

For she had already escaped the Reid escorts. The difficult part of her journey was over, and she had succeeded beyond all reckoning.

She needed only to continue.

A splash in the water downstream shook her from the images of freedom which teased at the corners of her mind. She turned, both curious and on the alert for danger.

The animal able to splash so loudly was large, indeed.

She pulled the mare along with her, taking refuge behind a copse of saplings just far enough from the bank to take root without being washed away.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes bulged, unable to dart away though modesty urged her to avert her gaze.

He was swimming. Fergus. He had stripped down to nothing but a pair of thin, knee-length breeches which tied at his waist with a drawstring and left nothing to the imagination when soaked through.

The river’s current had eased considerably after the previous day’s deluge, allowing him to float on his back as he drifted slowly away from her. He then turned and swam back to where he’d started, his thick arms cutting through the water with ease in long, sure strokes.

It was a moment before she realized the sharp pain in her bottom lip was the result of her teeth biting down. Hard.

Yes, he had worked without his tunic while digging her from the cave, but the mud had caked him so, and she had been so relieved and furious at all once that he was the one to save her, she had not noticed his impressive build.

Now, there was nothing to do but notice.

Look away, look away, no good will come of this.

She could not. Her eyes feasted on him, marveling at the broadness of his shoulders and chest. When he rolled onto his back, floating with arms extended at his sides, the carved muscle of his abdomen made her mouth go as dry and hot as sunbaked sand.

He stood then, his back to her, the water barely waist-high. His fists rested on his hips, narrow and firm. She swallowed, wishing with all her might that she had never seen this.

And that she might never stop watching him, as he gazed out over the river. What was he thinking of? What kept him in place for such a long time?

He shook his head before turning, walking from the river to the bank. Every step revealed more of him as the river retreated and he emerged.

Her knees shook so, but she managed to back away as swiftly and soundlessly as she might, while still staring at him. Why was it so unimaginably difficult to look away?

It was both a blessing and a crushing disappointment when he disappeared into the pines.

Her face burned fiercely—she reminded herself this was to be expected, as she had behaved shamefully by spying on his private moments. She had every reason to be ashamed of her actions.

Yet there was a deeper understanding which had suddenly bloomed in her, one which she had never known the fullness of before then. A knowing she had only guessed at, of which she had only the vaguest awareness.

It was not shame which made her cheeks burn or caused her heart to race sickeningly fast.

Rather, the awareness of him as a man and of herself as a woman.

She went to the water again, this time kneeling to splash her face and the back of her neck, drawing her hair up on top of her head to do so. Dense waves, tending toward curls, which carried pine needles after a night spent sleeping on them.

She had never so wished for smooth, lovely hair which did not pick up every bit of refuse which drifted its way.

She had never given much thought to her hair at all—or, in fact, to any part of herself. Her body was an instrument, something to be used for survival of herself and her brothers.

Any thought of herself as a woman had come with regret, bitterness, as being a woman had always served as a disadvantage. Would that she were a man, she’d always wished.

Now?

She sat back on her calves, hands folded in her lap. Staring out over the river as he had.

Now she questioned what it would have meant to be his bride.