Fergus had come back for her.

Why had he come back?

Moira had certainly given him no reason to, as short-tempered and dismissive as she’d been.

And yet he had returned.

Perhaps she had not given him the chance he deserved.

Get a hold of yourself.

It was best that they stay away from each other. What if one of the Campbell clansmen met him on the road while she was somewhere nearby? That would mean the end of her freedom.

And yet…

He interested her. She found him very interesting, indeed.

He’d asked for nothing but her thanks, which she could admit to herself she’d offered grudgingly and with poorly disguised resentment. Why should she resent the man who’d freed her?

She would still be in the cave, clawing at the mud, were it not for him. No telling how long it would have taken for her to clear a hole as he had, with his strong, capable body.

Very strong. Very capable.

His bare back was the last thing she saw before he disappeared between a pair of ash trees, their new, bright green leaves still sodden and dripping, weighing down the branches. She thought she saw glimpses of him now and again as he made his way down the hillside.

Where would he go?

He did not appear to travel east, in the direction of Ben Macdui and the Campbells.

Perhaps there would be no harm in trailing him.

At a safe distance, naturally, for she had no desire to walk into a trap.

“Come now,” she whispered to the mare, leading her down the hill by the reins.

Moira’s ankle smarted terribly, and she feared it had begun to swell, but little there was to be done about it until she’d reached a place to set up camp.

She would need to wash away the mud caked under her nails, coating her hands and arms. A stream would suffice, unless she reached the River Dee first.

Did she wish to reveal herself to the casual passerby, however? For the river was where riders would stop to refresh themselves and their horses. She had taken note of fishermen there, as well, and understood the likelihood of Luthais’s men patrolling the land under Campbell protection.

Yet that was where Fergus would most likely go, as he would need to bathe thoroughly after his exertion.

That made up her mind. She followed the trail he left in the mud, his feet having slipped and slid as he worked his way down the hill.

The road was nothing more than a series of deep puddles which she and the mare splashed through in order to cross to the other side, where she could make out glimpses of flowing water between the trees. There were pines on this side of the road, great, towering beasts which had sheltered the ground beneath from much of the deluge.

It was nearly a delight to trod somewhat dry ground after the unfortunate incident in the cave. She might have been swept up in the slide, and she knew it. If she had made a move to leave only three seconds sooner…

Rather than spend time thinking about what had not come to pass, she turned her attention to the trail Fergus had left. He made it easy to follow him. Then again, he had no reason to guard his trail.

He considered her beneath his concern. She was merely a woman, after all.

It was enough to make her want to trail him all the way to his destination, just to have the satisfaction of knowing she had followed him while he was unaware.

It wasn’t as though she had a destination in mind.

Perhaps this interest in a stranger who was not truly a stranger was her way of avoiding the nature of her situation.

She growled to herself while continuing to lead the mare slowly, quietly through the dense woods. It was never in her nature to lie to herself—if anything, she was too honest at times.

A fearful temper often got the best of her, the same temper her father possessed. While she loathed it in him, it seemed there was little controlling it in herself once someone had stirred her blood.

She knew this and knew she ought to control herself, and her lack of control was a disappointment.

She knew, too, that her temper had often clashed with her father’s and resulted in many of her beatings. One would think that so many such beatings would have impressed upon her the need to hold her tongue, but that was not so. Still, she could admit to having goaded him more than once—even if she could not excuse a man striking a woman for any reason, especially a daughter.

It was no surprise, then, that she understood it was easier to think about Fergus than to think about where she would spend the rest of her life. There were no answers as of yet. She might always live in the woods, moving from one place to the next, and if it were not for the threat of enemies searching for her, she could be perfectly happy in such an existence.

Living outdoors had always been her preference.

Yet how could one feel satisfied when they could never truly rest? She could not imagine a life spent looking over her shoulder for the next threat.

It was better to follow her would-be husband, to learn about him and his ways.

The first thing she’d learned; how right she’d been about his being unable to find a wife on his own. Pity the poor woman who wished to become his bride—Moira guessed anyone with such intentions would also be the victim of a bad fall, perhaps a hit on the head she had never recovered from.

Otherwise, they would have to be plainly daft.

Who could live with such a man? Always puffing out his chest, reminding his woman how manly he was. How weak and fragile she was in comparison.

She’d just as soon take a pan upside his head, than put up with such nonsense.

His male pride would likely have been destroyed by her hunting ability, much like her father’s had been. She smirked at the memory of besting him time and again, once bringing home the carcass of a full-grown stag for his benefit.

She supposed her back still bore the scars of that beating. One of the most severe she had ever received.

Never would a man beat her again. Not for a slight, not for a coarse remark, not because he knew what a foolish, pathetic, useless man he was and wished to take his pain out upon her flesh.

Not ever again.

Foreign tears sprang to her eyes, which she told herself were the result of placing too much weight on her swollen ankle.

Sometimes she allowed herself to lie.