The morning dawned bright and clear, and Fergus could hardly wait to start out again.

The sooner Moira understood the difficulty of life on the road for a woman, the sooner she would forget the entire daft notion.

It seemed she harbored a great many daft notions. What was on her mind the previous evening? He had only wished to inquire as to her comfort, and she’d all but slammed the door in his face.

Not that he had expected much better.

But he’d talked himself into believing there was a new warmth between them. Tenderness which had not existed before then.

Ever since she’d shown him her scars.

He was not a man for much deep thinking; he spent his life riding and hunting and sometimes struggling to keep body and soul together when it seemed nature worked against him. Yet he’d spent more time than he cared to sum up thinking about her.

How difficult it must have been to bare her back to him.

How shameful the memory of the beating.

How she must have hated her father for it, for Fergus hated him as he’d never hated another. A total stranger, and he would gladly see the man dead were it not for the sons who depended upon what little he could offer them.

Somewhere along the journey, Moira had captured his attention. His admiration. His curiosity.

But then she behaved as she had last night, and he wished he’d never set eyes upon her.

She rapped at the door not long after he’d finished washing his face in the bedside basin. He knew it was her. Only she would rap with such precision and so loudly at such an early hour.

Sure enough, she stood outside his door, looking somewhat more pleasant than she had when last he saw her.

“Good morning,” he muttered, turning away.

“Good morning to you. How did you sleep?”

“Wonderfully well,” he scowled.

“You do not sound as though you did.”

“I had quite a lot on my mind, thank ye.”

“What was the matter?”

What truly amused him was how sincere she appeared. How earnest. She knew nothing of the way he’d tossed about on the lumpy tick, wishing he might get her out of his head.

“Nothing worth discussing now.” He slung his packs onto his back before holding his hand out to take hers. “Come now, let us go downstairs. I’m certain Murphy knows I’ve brought a lass to the inn and is all but dying to meet ye.”

Sure enough, the old man waited at his customary corner table, already deep into a mug of wine at just past sunrise.

The moment old Murphy’s shrewd eye fell upon Moira and her fresh, clean kirtle, her shining hair, Fergus knew he was in for quite a time.

“My, my.” The old man leaned back in his seat, taking the lass in from head to toe. “What have we here?”

For her part, Moira looked neither surprised nor impressed by the man. She hardly batted an eye at his unseemly appearance, or at his leering.

Fergus, on the other hand, took no little offense at the man’s behavior. “She isn’t for ye, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He sat with a decided thud, elbows on the table. “You need pay her no mind.”

“My name is Moira.” She folded her arms, sitting back the way Murphy did.

“Lass…” Fergus warned. Would that she hadn’t shared her real name. He hadn’t thought to warn against it, to suggest she use the name she first gave him.

Murphy knew all, and he would know who she was right off.

Sure enough, the old man laughed heartily. “Ye don’t say! Well, this is quite a treat for me, as I have heard quite a bit about ye. No one mentioned how lovely ye are.”

“Because I am not, and we both know it,” she returned with a wry smile. “Perhaps your kind words would soften the heart of another lass, but I am not another lass. I am myself. And I trust you will not be sharing our meeting with any who might find interest in it.”

Fergus could only watch as Murphy’s face revealed his surprise—and, soon after, his admiration. “Aye, lass. I shall keep ye to myself. With pleasure.” He winked, a lewd gesture which caused Fergus’s fists to clench.

“Ye found one another, after all,” he observed, turning to Fergus with one corner of his mouth quirked up in a knowing smile. “Seems quite a coincidence, does it not?”

“Aye, aye, let us get on with it,” Fergus grunted. He had no desire to speak of coincidence or any other such thing. “Did Quinn or Rodric warn ye I would be meetin’ ye here?”

Murphy set his mug down on the table, some of the ale sloshing over the sides and onto the wood. “Aye, they did, and I do have word of a mission ye might like to take on. Though I dinna know if it is quite the sort of thing a lass is suited to—not to insult ye,” he was quick to add when Moira’s mouth opened to protest, color coming to her cheeks while her eyes flashed.

Fergus knew that expression all too well, and knew it was a prelude to something dangerous.

“What is it? Get on with it, man,” Fergus grumbled.

Murphy leaned in, which Fergus wished he would not do as it only made his stench more difficult to bear. “A lad trained in the army, as ye were. He beat a man to death over some small matter, claims it was the other man’s fault, as is normally the case in such matters. He lives to the north of Gairlochy, along the River Lochy, and wishes to get away from there before he’s strung up for the crime. The only thing which has saved him from a neck stretching til now is the man he killed is a stranger to all. But once some weeping widow or grieving mother comes calling, it will all be over for him.”

“Where does he wish to go?” Moira whispered.

Fergus groaned inwardly at the sight of her bright, eager eyes.

“He has family up in Kiliwhimin, at the southern point of Loch Ness. Believes they’ll keep him safe up there. But he does not wish to travel alone.”

“Fair enough. We ought to start out.” He pushed back his chair. “I merely need the specifics as to where he can be found, as always.”

“Not so fast, why so hasty?” Murphy grinned at Moira. “The pair of ye have not yet eaten, and ‘tis quite a ride to Gairlochy.”

“A matter of miles.”

“Everything is a matter of miles,” Murphy snapped. He’d never taken a sharp tone with Fergus before.

It would be best to keep the man happy, he decided, as Murphy’s connections stretched all over Scotland and into England. He kept Fergus and the others busy. To have him for an enemy would mean losing much of the work they did.

“All right, then.” He pulled his chair back to the table and suffered through Murphy’s tale telling for far longer than he felt was necessary.

When they left, once the old man saw fit to grant them their leave, Fergus swore to find the day had turned dark and foreboding, as the sky had been cloudless when they’d first started out.

“Damn the man,” he muttered, spitting on the ground before mounting his horse. “If we lost valuable time because of him, he’ll hear it from me.”

“He seems an interesting one,” Moira smirked as they rode away from the inn, heading north.

“Aye, that’s a word for him. I can think of a few more at the moment.”

“He is lonely,” she decided. “He wants for the company of a woman, and I’m certain few would have him in his condition.”

There was true feeling in her voice—compassion, sympathy. He marveled at her ability to see things as she did. Just when he considered her beyond such womanly emotions.

He decided he liked her better for it.

“At any rate, we shall have to make haste before the rain comes.” He swore again under his breath. “These spring storms. So sudden.”

“No more so than summer storms. It’s glad I am we aren’t riding in summer.”

“Do ye think we do not ride in summer?” Fergus laughed. “We ride until the snow falls—and even then, there are times we ride through that.”

“I only meant I am glad the lightning storms are fewer in spring than in summer. I can handle anything.” She looked away. “I do not have to like it, is all.”

He managed to keep his laughter to himself.

To his surprise, the rain held off until it was well past midday and they’d been riding for many hours straight. Once the drops began pattering on the leaves, and the wind picked up, it was clear they’d have to leave the road.

“I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait,” Moira mused, taking shelter under a pine, reins in hand.

Fergus scowled as he dismounted. “I suppose not. Perhaps if ye weren’t so keen on lingering at the inn—”

“Will you please stop going on about that?” she shouted. “You have been the most unpleasant man as of late, and I do not care for it!”

“I’ve been unpleasant?” he laughed. “Ye happen to be the one who shut the door in my face last night when all I wished to do was wish ye a pleasant evening.”

Her gaze shifted to the ground. “I was still drying from my bath. I felt embarrassed.”

“Lass, I’ve spent the better part of a week with ye, and ye still feel shame around me?”

She was unmoved. “Leave it alone, please.”

“I’ve seen your hair wet, I’ve seen it dry. I’ve seen ye covered in mud. You’ve seen me covered in mud…”

“I said, leave it alone.” She did not shout. She did not snarl. She simply spoke the words in a low, clear voice.

Somehow, this had a greater effect than a shout. He fell silent. but only for a moment, as he’d never been one to allow another the last word.

“Ye only had to say so at the time.”

Her head snapped around, hand raised to slap him before he had time to blink.

As before, he caught her wrist in time. but now, with the rain falling around them and the memory of each look, each smile, each time they’d laughed together, each time he’d studied her from across the campfire, and the night he’d spent tossing and turning and wishing she were with him, he did not hold her in place.

This time, he pulled her to him.

Took the back of her neck in one hand.

Pressed his mouth to hers, crushing her lips beneath his at first before easing the pressure when he tasted the sweetness of her. Wishing to make the kiss last forever.

Especially since she kissed him back.

The hand she’d raised to slap him now curled in a fist at his shoulder, bunching up his tunic before releasing it and moving to his head. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he held her by the neck.

A sigh escaped her throat when his fingers moved round to her throat, stroking the slim column and feeling the rapid beat of her pulse beneath the smooth skin. His heart beat the same, racing faster the longer the kiss went on.

Until she jumped back.

And slapped him. Hard.

“What was that for?” he breathed, fighting what she’d stirred in him while fighting to control his temper. The last thing he’d expected after such a kiss was such a strike—or any strike at all.

Her face was red, her eyes wide and unfocused, her breathing heavier than his. She pushed her way past him, still holding onto the mare’s reins.

“Where are ye going?” he asked as she led the horse deeper into the woods.

“Can I not have a moment’s privacy?” she snapped, the sounds of her walking through the brush fading the further she went.

“Ye had better not be thinking about running away!”

She did not answer, but he did not hear the sound of a horse taking off, either, so he thought better of following her.

He ought not have kissed her. It was the act of a rogue, pure and simple. She like as not had no past experience with men, especially not men such as himself. He had taken what he wanted—which was not half of what he wished he could have taken, but that was not within his code. He did not force himself on women nor did he take advantage of them.

Even so, as pleasurable as the kiss had been and as certain as he was that she felt the same, it was no excuse.

He cursed himself as he waited for her to return so that he might apologize.

“Fergus!”

A single scream.

Footsteps behind him.

A blow to his head.

Darkness.