It was a strange sensation.

The way everything suddenly made sense.

It took no longer than the snap of Fergus’s fingers for everything he’d questioned, everything he’d wondered about her, to come together in a single, solid whole.

She had not run away from home.

She had run away from her escorts.

She had only been in the woods as long as she’d been running from them.

Little wonder why she had not wished to be forthcoming about herself, for it would mean revealing her identity.

“Moira Reid,” he repeated, not a question this time.

“She told ye she was someone else?” The redheaded man staggered to his feet, still winded and perhaps bruised from the blow he’d received to his midsection.

“Aye. For I am Fergus MacDougal.” He swallowed. “Her betrothed.”

The man’s mouth fell open.

Then, he laughed, throwing his head back.

Fergus snarled. He ought to have killed the bastard. It would have taken nothing more than a bit of extra pressure on the windpipe.

“So she tried her tricks on ye, as well!” This was the most amusing thing the man had ever seen or heard of, judging by his hearty laughter.

“Aye, I suppose it makes ye feel less of a failure for losing her,” Fergus muttered.

“Fergus—”

He glared at her. “If ye know what’s good for ye, lass, you’ll hold yer tongue.”

Her mouth snapped shut. The lying, deceitful wretch.

He would deal with her once they were alone.

There was still the matter of the Reid standing there. He would wish to take her for himself, to complete the mission he’d been tasked with. That simply could not be.

“Thank ye for helping me see clearly what I’ve not understood.” He held out a hand for the man to shake. “I owe ye a debt of gratitude.”

“You might be certain to extend this to Luthais Campbell,” the man suggested with a laugh not nearly as light as he took pains to sound. He wished for a reward for having performed the task set forth to him.

Fergus forced a smile. “Aye. I will that. When I bring her to him, I shall certainly make it plain that ye told me of her true name.”

The man’s smile faltered. The light left his eyes. “When ye what?”

“When I bring her to my uncle.”

“But—‘tis our task—”

“And you’ve been away from home for far too long,” Fergus reminded him. “If I am already due to visit my uncle, there is no reason for all of us to make the journey. Your clan resides in Aberdeenshire, does it not? Quite a long ride from here.”

The man blinked. He was evidently not much for thinking.

He looked to Moira, still in the water.

“She is to be my wife,” Fergus reminded him, the friendliness in his voice now nothing more than a memory. This man needed to be brought to heel. “She thought she could escape marriage to me. I do not take such slights lightly.”

“There is only one of ye,” the man argued.

“Aye, and four of ye allowed her to escape,” Fergus was quick to remind him. “I know of her trickery. Worry not. I will see to it we’re married, and our clans united. As it should be.”

It became a silent battle of wills, the two of them staring at each other. Fergus dared the man to offer further protest—nearly wished he would, for it would provide a reason to kill him.

“Fine, then.” The redheaded Reid glared at Moira. “It will be enough to know ye couldna make a fool of our clan for long.”

She did not reply. Perhaps she could not, half-frozen as she likely was.

Fergus waited for the intruder to leave, listened for the sound of hoofbeats to signal departure. Only when he was certain of their being thoroughly alone, did he turn to Elspeth.

Not Elspeth.

Moira.

“Dress yourself,” he snarled to the shivering lass. “And meet me at the fire. You will need to warm yourself thoroughly before we set out.”

“S—set out?” she whispered over chattering teeth.

“Aye. It will no longer do for us to spend the night here.” He left her there but did not stray far, standing with his back to the shrubs that he might listen for her movement.

Splashing meant she left the water, teeth still chattering in the cold. Would that she might freeze to death, damn her soul.

Now there was a witness who could tell all who might listen that Fergus MacDougal had found his betrothed. There would be no getting out of marriage with her unless he allowed her to slip away from him, as he knew well enough by now, to never underestimate the speed with which her mind worked.

What was he to do?

“Are ye dressed, lass?”

“Almost,” she whispered.

He was no longer certain whether it was cold or fear which caused her whisper to break as it did.

“Be faster. We have ground to cover.”

She emerged from behind the shrub, eyes downcast. For once, she had nothing to say. No quick remarks, no smirking, just the shame she deservedly suffered.

“We’ll want to eat.” He led the way to the fire, and the venison which had more than likely burned by then. It would be better than nothing.

She sat, eyes still trained on the ground, and accepted the meat which he offered her. He kept one eye trained on her as he ate. When it was clear she would merely pick at it with her fingers, he growled.

“Eat, woman. We shall need our strength.” He chewed hard, needing some way to release his rage. The meat may as well have been tree bark for all he enjoyed it, but there was a point to be made.

“Might I speak?”

“Nay.”

“I did not wish to lie.”

“Ye are lying now, deceitful wench.”

“That is untrue.” She jumped to her feet which she spread shoulder-width apart. “You know nothing of what I’ve done—but it was what I had to do.”

“Ye had to lie to me.”

“How was I to know you would not take me to your uncle? I went to the trouble of escaping those fools; was I to deliver myself into your hands?”

“Ye all but did just that, lass, as ye tracked me that very evening and the day after!” He stood as well, tossing what remained of his meal aside. It was barely edible, and thus no great loss.

To this, she had no reply.

They stood that way for a long time, staring at each other. She had not braided her hair, and it hung in wet waves about her shoulders and over her chest. Her skin had not dried before she’d dressed, either, and the kirtle clung to her as a result.

He ought not to look at her in such a manner, but it was likely a better option than killing her for having made a fool of him.

“How many times have ye laughed at me?” he murmured, most of the fight gone, leaving weariness in its place. For he was weary, down to his bones.

Her eyes widened. “I never laughed.”

“Liar.”

“That is the last thing I would have done. Why would I? This was not all a matter of trickery, of playing a prank on you. This was my life.” She crossed her hands over her bosom. “Nothing less than my life. There was nothing to laugh at.”

“Ye made a fool of me.”

“Just like a man,” she sneered, her lip curling. “Caring about nothing but his pride. As if that were all that mattered.”

“I am sick of the sound of your complaints about men, as though we were a scourge ye had to rid yourself of. When ye are merely a woman and nothing more.”

A shadow moved across her face, the fire in her eyes dimming.

“Now, thanks to ye,” he continued, curling his hands into fists to spare himself the pang of guilt at her reaction, “we must move. Tonight. We cannot let those Reids find us.”

Did her chin truly quiver? Or was it merely a trick of the fire, the flickering flames casting shadow on her face?

Did her eyes shine with unshed tears, or was it indignation which shone from them?

Was she truly heartbroken at the thought of wedded life with him?

That mattered not, as he still harbored no intention of ever marrying her. In fact, knowing the lass personally made him even less willing than ever to take her as his bride.

He glanced around the campsite. It was preferable to looking at her. “Get everything together. We must ride out.”

“Is your uncle in such a rush, then?” A bit of the old fire had returned to her voice, though it was barely loud enough to hear.

He did not offer reply. Instead, he set about preparing the horses.

She had lied. He had ridden with her all along, and she had lied.

He had all but begged her to come along with him, fool that he was. Even if the Reids had found her, they would not have found him. He might have avoided them.

Damn her lying soul.