Day turned to night not long after Fergus finished bathing in the River Dee, taking pains to avoid stepping into deep, rain-swelled water.

Even so, the current pulled at his legs, reminding him there were things far more powerful than himself.

There were times when such reminders were necessary, he supposed. They kept men from thinking too highly of themselves and believing they were the most powerful force in the world.

Those who chose to ignore the reminders were like as not the men who fell dead as the result of accidents, careless and foolish. Easily avoidable.

He’d been through too many truly dangerous situations and lived to tell the tale. To die as the result of mere carelessness would seem the height of stupidity. Once the grief he hoped his friends would express at his loss had worn off, they would more than likely laugh at him.

Just as he would have done if it were any of them.

They were a strange lot.

He chuckled to himself as he washed the mud and grime from his skin, wondering whether Rodric and Quinn had found shelter before the worst of the storm had set in. Rodric had long been possessed of a talent for telling when the weather was about to take a nasty turn; he believed it to be the result of a wound he’d taken to the shoulder while in battle, as he’d never felt the change in weather so acutely before.

Would that Fergus might have possessed even a bit of his ability. He may have avoided the entire awkward, frustrating mess with the lass who’d tracked him ever since leaving the cave.

She wished to prove herself to him, he sensed.

Let her believe she had, then. It was far better to do so than to go on bickering. If he were to spend his life in such pursuits, why not get married?

He had no desire to engage in behavior he had only just avoided being dragged into.

Moira Reid had done him a favor by escaping her escorts, no doubt, wherever she was. Would that he might repay her someday.

Within the hour after his bath, crouching before a fresh fire, he skinned a pair of hares he’d caught in a snare and prepared them for roasting. The woods were fairly overflowing with the creatures. While he had never been over fond of them as a meal, he did not take fresh meat for granted. Starvation was nothing to take lightly.

He thought again of Elspeth, who must have been somewhere nearby. She would not have left him alone so easily, the stubborn thing.

The memory of their exchange in the cave brought a rueful smile. For one so small, she had true spirit. He’d always admired a woman with spirit, one who spoke her mind in spite of her size and gender.

It did not hurt that she was rather comely in her way—not the sort of lass he would typically have looked over while riding through a village or enjoying a feast at Padraig’s or the Duncan manor house, but she had her charms. Would that her wild hair did not hold bits of pine needle and twigs, or her face not be so drawn and dirty, she might even have proven lovely.

She had lived in the wilderness a while, he suspected, and did not deign to understand why. Perhaps she’d never had a family or was ill-treated by her parents. Perhaps she had a husband who beat her, or one who had disappeared with the money and left her broken and alone.

Regardless of the reason why, the woman was wild. He knew she was nearby. Knew it.

And while she had set up camp downwind from him—a clever lass, to be sure—it did not conceal the smell of her fire, nor did it hide the scent of roasting duck.

Duck! His mouth watered at the thought. So, she had caught and killed a duck on the riverbank. He’d seen a flock of them during his bath, wandering the stony shore.

He had not heard a commotion, however. Was she that stealthy a hunter?

Regardless of how she’d come into possession of the bird, she was roasting it over her fire and causing no end of jealous hunger pangs at Fergus’s camp. Mere hare would no longer do, no matter how plump both of them were.

Was this the way the rest of his journey to meet with Murphy would proceed? Every night, a new and tantalizing aroma from Elspeth’s fire? How did she expect to avoid notice this way?

Unless she did not.

Unless she wished for him to know of her presence.

Unless she deliberately taunted him in an attempt to draw him out.

Was this so?

Leave her be. Ignore her. Do not engage in this childishness. Yet there was little else to do when one traveled alone.

He enjoyed his solitude, but what he enjoyed more was a game pitting two worthy adversaries against one another. While he did not consider her an adversary in the strictest sense, and while she was merely a woman and therefore not quite on the same footing as he, she was a strong hunter who had sustained herself up until then.

Even he could admit that and give credit where deserved.

If he stood upon a boulder close to where he’d set up camp, just at the base of a pine tree, he could make out the glow of her fire. She knelt on the ground, turning the duck using the branch running through it.

A slight thing like her, all alone. It made no sense to him.

He had made his early career in the army as a scout, skilled at slipping through enemy territory without capture. He’d learned to see through the darkness—it was the only way he’d ever been able to explain how his missions were successful even in darkest night.

In fact, he had preferred moving through darkness. The less light, the better, as it gave his enemies less chance of spotting him.

As for movement, he did not make a sound as he picked his careful way through the trees. He stepped over branches, pinecones, sidestepped low-hanging twigs which might have given him away by their rustling.

He even held his breath as he drew closer, Elspeth’s back now in plain view. She sat still, hunched over in that way of hers—he’d seen it in the cave, knees drawn close to her chest as though she protected herself. The easy rhythm of her breathing, the relaxed line of her shoulders told him she suspected nothing.

He would not harm her. He only wished to remind her of the danger the woods held. It would wound only her pride to know he had so easily overtaken her.

When he was near enough to catch the scent of her skin and hear her slow, measured breaths, he lifted his right arm and reached for her. He wished only to grab at her, nothing more.

When he was mere inches from her shoulder, she grasped his wrist in her right hand and twisted, bringing her left hand up to his throat.

Along with the dirk which she held in her fist.

He froze, eyes bulging, his heart ceasing to beat.

The tip of the blade touched his skin but went no further.

She was smiling. The most surprising bit of all.

When he found his breath, he whispered, “What the—”

“You thought you could frighten me,” she growled through her smile—the smile of a predator, he decided, or of a dangerous enemy. “Because I am merely a woman and silly and weak and unable to defend myself. Is that right?”

He was afraid to swallow. How had she gotten the better of him?

She did not move, did not tire even in such an awkward position, twisted as she was. “I asked you a question.”

“Aye, aye, ye know that’s what I was about,” he hissed.

“And now you know what a foolish idea it was. Do you not?”

That tip had not moved, still firmly pressed against his skin but not with enough force to draw blood. How had she learned to handle herself so well?

“I do,” he admitted, torn between embarrassment and fascination with this strange woman.

“Then all is well.” She was quick to tuck the dirk into her belt before standing, turning to him. “I hope you have learned a lesson. It is pure devilishness, what you had planned.”

What was it about her tone of voice that left him feeling like a child in the throes of punishment by an unhappy mother?

“Do ye have children?” he asked.

Her head jerked back. “Do I what?”

“Have children.” He realized what a silly question it was, as the lass could not hear his thoughts. “Ye seem skilled at putting a naughty lad in his place, is why I ask.”

She let out a breathy laugh, then turned her face away. “Perhaps I am.” Though she did not answer his question.

Who was she?

“Would ye like to share one of the hares I snared today?” he asked, gesturing with his thumb to the fire he’d left behind. “Tis true they are not so tasty as duck, but I feel it the least I can do after trying to frighten ye.”

“You have already done quite enough for me today, thank you.” She went about turning the duck, the dripping fat sizzling as it hit the burning wood.

Saliva flooded his mouth.

“Please,” he insisted, now speaking more out of self-interest. “I must repay ye in some way, or my shameful actions will weigh heavy on my mind. I might not be able to sleep, which will make tomorrow’s ride all the more arduous.” He added a smile in hopes it would sway her.

She rolled her eyes. “As I asked before, why does a man believe his charm is enough to earn what he wants?”

At the same time, she agreed to share her supper with him.

He put out his fire and untied the gelding, leading with one hand while carrying the hares with the other. She placed them over her fire and waited while he secured the horse once again.

“A beautiful creature,” she observed with a genuine smile.

“One which has served me well.” It spoke well of the lass that she appreciated such beauty. She was not as coarse at heart as she was in appearance.

She’d changed into a clean kirtle, and a quick look about the camp revealed the garment she’d worn in the cave, now hanging over a branch to dry. So she had bathed and washed her clothing as well.

Would that he had not missed the event.

The thought flashed through his mind before he could put a stop to it. What a thing to think about a lass such as she, who wielded a dirk with more skill than some men he knew.

His eyes fell on something else as he inspected the camp, something he had not noticed in the cave. “An archer, too?” Her bow and quiver sat propped against a tree, and he understood how she had so quickly and quietly killed the duck.

She raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised. Have you not learned by now not to underestimate me?”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at her from across the fire. “Who are ye? How do ye know these skills? I’ve never met a lass who could hunt, shoot, all but slice a man’s throat as quickly and quietly as an assassin. How did ye come to possess these abilities?”

She swallowed, her eyes finding the fire. “There was little choice. I was… quite young when my mother died while bearing my twin brothers.”

“Ah.” He felt ashamed for having asked, though there had been no way of knowing.

“My father was—is—a cruel man. Lazy, to boot. In his cups more often than not. Someone had to do the hunting, the cleaning of the animals, the cooking.” She let out a long sigh. “The housework. The raising of the children.”

“I truly am sorry,” he murmured, wishing he might crawl out of his skin. He’d never known it was possible to answer so many questions with a single answer.

How many times had she wished to do to her father what she’d nearly done to him?

She did not speak for the rest of the evening, the two of them eating in silence that was not exactly smothering, but not easy.

If she did not wish to speak, he would not force her to.

He would not wear out his welcome, either. Once the business of eating had ended, he stood.

The lass merely nodded in reply to his thanking her for her company.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.