Fergus was rather pleasant when he made an effort to be so. Not that it mattered, as Moira had humiliated herself by behaving as she had.

Jumping at the slightest noise, drawing her dirk. All the more reason for him to think her a daft, frightened woman.

And now, the way he smiled. The way he tried to draw her into conversation.

He pitied her. Not much in the world infuriated her more than the feeling of another’s pity.

Even as a child, she had resented the pity of the few neighbors who lived close enough to the farm to offer assistance after her mother’s death. She had refused much of their help, aside from that which might be of use to the twins.

So, she’d learned to care for them thanks to instruction from the older women, but she’d refused to allow more than that.

In time, they had stopped darkening her threshold.

Leaving her alone.

Never an easy decision to be made, between one’s pride and one’s survival. There were times when she’d cursed the loneliness, but then the twins had grown and proven likely company.

It did not come naturally, then, conversation with Fergus. Exchanging pleasantries when her embarrassment was still fresh.

Perhaps he only wished to ease her mind.

Even that irritated her more than she could explain to herself.

In some ways, then, it was fortunate of her to notice their change in direction. She had something to which she might turn her attention.

“Where are we going?” Between the previous day and that morning, riding abreast in the bright, early sunshine, the Grampians had gone from sitting in front of them to sitting at their left.

The sun, meanwhile, rose at her right, rather than behind her.

“We are riding north.”

This caught him by surprise, making him stutter in reply. “Aye. Aye, lass, we are that.”

“You told me the village was to the southwest.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I am never wrong about such matters.” She pulled the mare to a stop. “I will not allow the horse to take another step until you tell me why we’ve suddenly begun riding north.”

“The village is not the place for ye, lass.” He kept his eyes trained on the road ahead.

Her chest tightened, as did her hands around the reins. It was a matter of supreme self-control, keeping her voice level. “Would you pay me the respect of looking me in the eye when you decide what is and is not the right place for me?”

He did, though grudgingly.

She steadied herself, but barely. “Why are you leading me north? What have you taken in your head to do now?”

“Ye need to be somewhere safe.”

“Why do you believe you are the one to decide that for me? You have no say in anything I do!”

“Nay, but the least I can do for ye, as ye did me a good turn by making your escape, is help make your life easier. Why is it so difficult for ye to understand?”

She dismounted for fear of harming her mare, holding fast to the reins as she stomped her foot on the dusty road. “Why is it so difficult for you to understand that I did not ask for your help? I did not ask for you to decide these things for me, either. I have made my own way quite well for the last twelve years, and I intend to do so for many more. You cannot stop me!”

“I can at least see to it that ye live more comfortably, lass. I can take ye home—”

“Home!” She’d never known such fury, had never been quite so sickened by the sensation of hot blood racing through her body until it made her head ring. “You’ll not be taking me home, now or ever, Fergus MacDougal! I would rather drown myself this very morning than allow that to happen!”

He rolled his eyes, a heavy sigh blowing from his mouth. “If ye would only allow me to explain—”

“There is nothing to explain!” She realized she shrieked when the mare cringed away from her, but there seemed no calming herself.

Panic had touched her rage, turning it into something entirely its own. Panic at the thought of seeing that terrible man again, at the idea of facing him in the morning and cleaning up after him in the evening. At the notion of enduring another beating.

“I swore to myself I would never do it again, and I will not break that vow. I will kill any man who defies me, even if that man happens to be you, Fergus MacDougal.”

Fergus dismounted, his brow deeply lined as he drew near. “Will never do what again, lass? What is it that has ye so frightened?”

“I am not frightened.” She threw back her head, peering at him over the bridge of her nose. “I am not frightened of anything.”

“Nay, only of the slightest noise in the dark.”

Her hand shot out and struck him across the face before she’d had time to think it through. If his cheek stung half as much as her palm, he was in a great deal of pain. And rightly so.

“How dare you?” she demanded, her voice trembling terribly and betraying her aching heart. To think, she’d considered him handsome and worthy of her admiration.

She had even asked herself what it might have been like to marry him.

Now, she knew. He was as cruel as all other men.

When he did not respond or so much as flinch, which inflamed her further, she raised her hand again to provide relief from her pain, but he was quick enough this time to catch her wrist before she could strike.

His hand easily ringed her wrist along with half of her hand, yet he did not squeeze. He did not try to cause her pain.

“I deserved the first one,” he muttered, the shape of her hand a red splash on his cheek. “I will not allow ye to deliver another.”

“Just as I will not allow you to tell me where I ought to live, or how.” When she wrenched her wrist free, he did not strive to hold her fast.

“I had intended to see to your comfort and safety upon your return.”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“Ye do not know me well, lass.”

“And you do not know my father.” She took him by the hand. “Come. I want to show you something.”

He walked beside her without argument, leading his horse and she led hers into the trees beyond the road.

She had never shown anyone. Not even the twins. Sometimes, if she twisted herself a certain way and stretched her arms, she could feel the raise scars he’d left behind.

“What are ye on about?” Fergus asked, tying off the gelding when they came to a stop in a place with enough of an opening in the branches overhead to allow sunlight through.

She did not say a word, merely turning away from him and bending at the waist with her arms crossed. When she lifted the kirtle over her head, he sputtered.

“What are ye doin’?” he demanded.

“Wait.” She tossed the kirtle aside, now in nothing but a thin chemise. Though the sun shone warmly on her skin, goosebumps ran over her shoulders and arms.

She pulled her braid over one shoulder before easing the garment over her shoulders, down her arms.

“What…?” His feet crunched on fallen pinecones, twigs, as he approached.

“This is what I need you to know,” she whispered, arms wrapped around her middle. “This is what he did to me. I’ve never seen it, myself, but I know it’s there. I feel them when I lie on my back—which is why I try to avoid doing so.”

“Och, Moira…” His voice, so heavy. “Do ye want me to show ye?”

“Show me?”

She did not feel the pressure from his fingers at first. Only when he began drawing them from her left ribs to her right did she know what he meant to do.

He stopped at her right ribs, then moved up and repeated the left-to-right motion. Another slash, longer, this time from right shoulder blade to the middle of her back.

Each measure of every scar. He touched all of it, tenderly, as though tracing a trail on a map. He might as well have been tracing the path of her life.

She felt no shame at the man’s hands on her scarred skin. In fact, he was the first man ever to touch her so sweetly. She closed her eyes against fat, hot tears which welled up from her broken heart.

“Lass. I never thought.” Finally, once every scar was traced, he rested the palm of one hand against her back. “Ye never said.”

“I brought home a stag one night,” she explained in spite of the quaver in her voice. Now that she had started, it seemed only right for the entire story to pour forth. “It took hours to drag it through the woods and the fields surrounding the cottage. I was alone, of course. I normally hunt alone.”

Fergus’s hand found the chemise’s shoulders and eased them up until they were in place once again.

“I had the strange idea that he might take pride in me—just the smallest bit, as I had not only felled the great thing, but had brought it home on my own. Oh, my shoulders ached. And my back. I thought I knew pain.” She snorted, bitter.

Fergus was silent.

“He took a look at me, up and down. I must have looked a fright,” she recounted, a rueful smile drawing up the corners of her lips. “Oh, he was so cold. I may as well have been a rodent beneath his feet. He asked who killed the stag and called me so many filthy things when I insisted I’d been the one to do it. Before I knew what was happening, he’d taken me by the arm and pulled me into the house and after that…”

Tears dripped from her chin to her chest. “After that, I do not remember much. Perhaps it is for the best.”

“He beat ye because ye did something good?”

“He beat me because I did something he could not. He was in his cups, hardly able to stand up straight when I arrived at the door. Never much of a hunter even on his best days. That was why I had no choice but to learn to do the hunting for the family.” She hung her head.

Fergus’s hands on her shoulders were warm, strong, and she did not protest when he turned her to face him. Rather than ask her to look him in the eye—something she knew she could not manage, not with tears flowing down her cheeks as they were—he thoroughly surprised her by wrapping her in his arms and drawing her to his chest.

“He would be so angry if you told him you know what he’s done to me,” she wept, shaking in spite of the comfort of his chest beneath her cheek and the arms which held her fast. “You must see it. The worse you made it for him, the worse it would be when you were gone.”

“Hush, lass,” he whispered in her ear. “I know that now. I would never do it to ye. Dinna ye worry your head on it now.”

The relief washed over her like warm rain. She allowed him to hold her until the tears subsided. His tunic was wet with them by the time he released her and allowed her to dress again.

There was no mistaking the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders and arms as he waited. His nostrils flared. His eyes were narrow, dark. She could only guess at the manner of thoughts going through his head.

None of them were pleasant, she would wager.

Once she’d finished and had taken the mare’s reins in her hand, Fergus muttered, “I suppose this means we must devise a new plan for ye. I canna take ye back to your home. I little like the notion of leaving ye in the village to fend for yourself there.”

She cleared her throat. Would it work? His mood toward her had softened quite a bit in light of her honesty; if there was ever a time when he might accept such an idea, it was just then.

“I had a thought of my own which I would like to share with you,” she ventured.

He raised an eyebrow.

Her spine stiffened. Her shoulders rolled back. Her chin lifted. This was it.

“I want to join your group. I want to ride with you and your friends.”