Their camp was silent, the rest of the men sleeping in a circle around the dying fire.

Fergus knew he ought to be sleeping as well, but he’d already slept more than enough over the five days they’d spent together while he recovered.

Not that his healing was complete by any means, but he was able to bear weight on his wounded leg after Rodric’s ministrations.

Och, the agony of having the burn opened, the wound cleaned and sewn. He’d already drunk heartily of a strong tincture Moira had prepared and yet he’d still nearly lost consciousness.

But there had been no infection, and the wound already looked to be healing.

Quinn had ridden out to Padraig’s that morning, once it was clear Fergus was well enough to be moved. The hope was for him to return with a wagon in which Fergus could ride back to the house. Traveling on horseback was out of the question, but so was spending another week or more in the woods.

Moira slept beside him, her head near his hip. She rarely left his side. He lifted his hand and stroked her hair.

How had it happened? How had he come to love her?

It wasn’t that she’d saved his life—no, earlier than that. When he’d feared she was gone forever, at the mercy of those cutthroats.

Such a situation tended to make things clear. Anything which did not matter fell away, revealing the truth at the heart of a matter.

The truth was, he’d loved her for quite a while. Perhaps it had started that first night, when she’d nearly attacked him.

A wry smile tugged at his mouth. Just the sort of tale one told their grandchildren around a fire. How grandfather fell in love with grandmother when she touched the point of a blade to his throat.

She stirred, lifting her head to look up at him. “Are you well?” she whispered, keen to let the others sleep.

“Aye,” he mouthed, smiling at her sleepy eyes. “Rest, now.”

Instead of doing as he advised, she worked her way up to a sitting position. Naturally. Why would she start listening to him?

He realized it was the first time they had been anything close to alone since she’d brought Brice to him. Ever since, at least one of the men had been with them.

Strange, that, as he’d become accustomed to having her to himself.

She glanced around with a smile. “Do you think I’ve earned their trust?”

He grinned at the memory of his protestations when she’d suggested joining them. “I believe so.” She’d done better than that, having hunted, skinned and roasted the meat for the lot of them.

It was her nature to care for others. Perhaps the sudden loss of her mother had made it necessary for her to take on the role of caregiver, but she’d borne it well thanks to her possession of strength and grit.

And a warm heart which she’d tried so valiantly to hide.

She could not hide it from him. Not any longer.

It occurred to him that they had not discussed what she wished to do once the wagon arrived from Padraig’s. He had assumed she’d be coming with them, but to assume anything of Moira Reid was pure folly.

He cast an eye over the others to assure himself they slept. “Will ye come with us when Quinn returns?”

She pressed her lips together in a firm line. “Do you think I ought to?”

Damn the woman for never offering a simple answer. “If ye wish to. I’m certain Padraig would be glad to have ye. You are a heroine, after all.”

She did not blush. Did not even smile. “Do you think I ought to?” she asked again, her eyes hard, unblinking as they stared into his.

Another glanced around the fire. “Must ye make everything difficult, woman?” he whispered.

“What is so difficult? All you have to do is answer yes, or no. Simple words.”

He rolled his eyes. Very simple. “I want ye to,” he admitted. “There. I’ve said it. I want ye to come along.”

She grimaced. “Are you quite well? Do you need a tincture for the pain after admitting you want me to come along?”

“Lass, I swear—”

She smiled. “All right, then. I will. Because you wish it so.”

“But…” He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. So small, especially when compared to his. So easily hurt. Yet so strong, capable.

Much like the rest of her.

“But?” she asked.

“I want ye to want to. Och, this is all wrong.” He closed his eyes, wishing he might start over. Perhaps alone, to begin with.

“It isn’t.” She touched his face, then placed her hand over his heart. “Go on.”

“I want ye to come with me because…” He opened his eyes to find her inches from him, holding her breath. He could fairly feel her anticipation, the way she waited for what she wished to hear. It gave him the courage to say, “…because I love ye most terribly, Moira.”

She sighed, the tension leaving her all at once, her eyes softening as tears filled them. “Did it hurt so badly to say it?”

He smiled, taking her by the back of the neck to draw her closer. “It pained me terribly, in fact.”

She curled her fingers in his hair. “And if I were to confess my love for you? Would it pain you further?”

“I suppose we could find out.” His mouth closed over hers, sealing their love.

“At last!” Quinn’s voice rang out in the stillness. “We might be able to sleep now.”

“Aye,” Rodric muttered. “I thought ye would never get up the courage, lad.”

“All of ye, be quiet,” Brice grumbled. “’Twas bad enough I had to listen to that, but now that it’s over…”

“Enough,” Moira laughed, wiping tears from her cheeks. “I would wager none of you knew the words to say when it was your time. And none of you had to say it while in the presence of the others.”

“The lass speaks truth,” Brice admitted, getting up to move his things further from the pair of them. Rodric and Quinn followed suit pleasantly enough, only casting a few knowing glances over their shoulders as they offered what privacy they might.

The moment he was able, he took Moira in his arms. “Where were we?”

She melted against him, warm and tender, so unlike the fierce, argumentative thing he’d first known her to be.

“Right here,” she whispered before kissing him with a sweetness that belied the passion he knew was just beneath.