Still half asleep, Murine was slower to stir, but did straighten after a moment and peer about trying to get her bearings. The moment she was off his chest, Dougall crossed his arms and scowled at Conran, who was still grinning like a fool.
"Is the food done?" he demanded impatiently. That was what they'd been waiting for when his lack of sleep had caught up to him and he'd dozed off leaning against the log by the fire. The men had returned to camp by then, Geordie with three plump pheasants, Conran with two rabbits, and Alick with wood and a third rabbit he'd managed to scare up. Their arrival had woken Murine from her rest and she'd sat up to congratulate them on their fine catch.
Dougall had watched idly, stifling yawns as the men had cleaned and skewered the birds and beasts to set over the fire. They'd all then settled in to wait for them to cook, the men talking quietly. Murine had started out seated on the log beside him, but then had shifted to settle on the grass so that she could lean back against the log. Tired after his restless night, he'd thought it a good idea and had shifted to sit on the ground next to her . . . and that's the last thing Dougall recalled, except that Murine had begun to nod off beside him just before his own eyes had begun to droop. He had no recollection of how they'd ended up cuddled together with his arm around her. That must have happened after he'd fallen asleep, Dougall decided.
"Aye. It should be ready now, I'd think," Conran announced, still looking damned amused.
Dougall glowered at the man, and then turned that expression on Murine and ordered, "Eat."
Much to his satisfaction, she didn't have to be told twice, but shifted closer to the fire as Conran removed the skewered pheasant from the flames and offered it to her. His satisfaction began to fade though when he saw how tiny a serving of meat she took. Before he could comment, however, Conran said kindly, "Ye'd best take more than that, lass."
"Oh no. This is enough fer me," she assured him with a smile.
Conran stared at her with bemusement for a minute, and then shook his head. "Nonsense, ye've no eaten since yester morn. Take more."
"Oh, nay, I . . ." Murine let her voice trail away in resignation as Conran piled more meat on the scrap of cloth she'd been given to use for a trencher. It had been Geordie's idea. After starting the fire, he'd retrieved the cloth from his bag and given it to her to use when the food was ready. It was just a clean spare bit of linen, yet Murine had reacted as if she'd been presented with the finest jewels, beaming with pleasure and thanking him profusely for his thoughtfulness.
Her reaction had made Dougall angry. Little things like that were telling, and what that had told him was that wee, brave Murine was not used to even the smallest consideration. It made him wonder about her past and what life had been like for her before her father had died and her brother had gained guardianship over her.
"Dougall?"
Drawn from his thoughts, he saw that Conran had turned the skewer his way, offering him food. Dougall shook his head. He wasn't much for eating in the mornings. None of them was. Usually they'd have risen, taken care of personal matters, and mounted up to head out. They might have an apple or something else in the saddle mid-morning, but none of them tended to eat first thing, so he wasn't surprised when Conran next offered the meat to Geordie and Alick and they both refused. Bypassing the chance to eat as well, Conran set the skewer to the side of the fire before resettling himself. They all then simply sat to watch Murine eat.
She was very slow about it, pinching off the tiniest bit of meat and then ducking her head as she popped it in her mouth. It seemed to take forever for her to finish the small serving she'd accepted.
Dougall wasn't surprised when the moment she did, Alick immediately took a skewer and offered it to her, saying, "Rabbit?"
"Oh, nay, thank ye," she said, softening the refusal with a smile as she finished the last bite of the small bit of food she'd taken.
"Some more pheasant then?" Geordie suggested, lifting it to offer to her with an encouraging smile.
"It was lovely, but nay. Thank ye," she murmured, neatly folding the used linen.
"Would ye prefer an apple then?" Alick suggested, tugging one from the bag that dangled from his belt. "I've one left. Ye can ha'e it."
"Thank ye, that's verra sweet," Murine's smile was beginning to look a bit forced. "But I've had me fill."
All three men stared at her blankly and then turned to Dougall as if he had the answer to some puzzle that confounded them.
He remained silent for a moment, considering all that Saidh had told them of Murine and what he'd seen so far and then said quietly, "I'm thinking mayhap 'tis no' a tincture ye need so much as to eat more, m'lady. Ye ha'e no' eaten enough to fill a bird and that after going a full day and night without. 'Tis no wonder ye tend to faint."
Murine blinked in surprise at the suggestion, apparently never having considered it before, and then she straightened her shoulders and turned back to glance at the meat cooling at the side of the fire. "Mayhap I will ha'e a bit more then."
Dougall nodded with satisfaction, but didn't stay to see how much she would have. Instead, he stood and left her with his brothers while he went to find a spot to relieve himself.
Once she had finished this serving, they would have to head out. Everything but the meat was packed away and ready to go, so they would just have to stow the meat in the cloth bag they carried for that purpose and they could be on their way. He'd already decided that Murine would be riding with him again today. And it was not just because he did not want to have to explain to Saidh how they'd let her friend and savior die on the journey to Buchanan. He wouldn't see that happen to her either. Despite knowing she was brave enough to take on a murderer on her own, and flee her brother on her ridiculous cow, there was just something about the lass that brought out the protective side of him. The problem was it appeared to be doing the same with his brothers, at least it was with Geordie and Alick. Conran didn't seem quite as affected, but their two younger brothers appeared to be very taken with Murine . . . which was a shame, because if the situation called for it and one of them had to marry her to save her from her brother, Dougall didn't think he could stand to see her with one of his brothers. He was coming around to the knowledge that he might want her for himself.
"So, m'lady, tell us . . . how did yer mother end up first married to an English laird, and then to the Carmichael?"
Dougall glanced down at the top of Murine's head in front of him as she turned to peer at Conran, who rode beside them. Much to his relief, the question distracted her and she stopped shifting about in front of him. Despite her protests, he had made her ride with him again today. It had seemed the sensible thing to do. The way the woman constantly lost consciousness at the least upset, Dougall hadn't been willing to risk her toppling off that damned cow of hers should a squirrel run across her path. With the way things had been going, one of his brothers' horses would have trampled her under their hooves before they realized she'd fallen.
They had set out only moments ago, and yet Dougall was already regretting that decision. Riding with the woman awake was an entirely different prospect than riding with her asleep in his lap. Asleep, she'd snuggled up to him, warm and soft as a cuddly kitten. Awake, she had so far sat as stiff as a plank and constantly shifted about against him as if she couldn't find a comfortable spot. It was making it damned uncomfortable for him. There was nothing like a woman's body bouncing about against a man's groin to make sure he didn't relax and enjoy the ride.
"Well, I gather me mother's father and Lord Danvries's father were friends when younger and arranged the betrothal shortly after me mother was born. They were married when she was still quite young, fourteen I think."
"Aye, 'tis young." Conran nodded, and then added, "But I've heard o' younger lasses b
eing married off and 'tis legal at twelve."
Murine merely nodded.
"Was her marriage to Danvries a happy one?" Geordie asked curiously, and Dougall scowled as he noted that his brother had crowded his horse up on his left to better hear. His mood was not improved when Murine shifted in front of him to turn to peer at him. He would not mind except that every time she moved, her sweet bottom rubbed against his--
"Mother ne'er spoke o' her first husband," Murine admitted quietly. "But Old Megs said Lord Danvries was a cruel, spoiled boy who treated me ma most shabbily."
"Old Megs?" Alick asked from behind them and Murine shifted again, this time turning sideways in his lap and clasping his shoulders to lift herself up enough to see behind them and smile at the other man.
Dougall ground his teeth together and tried to ignore how sweet her scent was, and the fact that she was climbing him like a tree . . . or a lover.
"She was me mother's lady's maid," Murine explained. "She went with Mother when she married Danvries and then returned to Scotland with her when she married me father."
"Ah. She would ken then," Conran said and Murine moved about again to peer at the man and nod.
"So she was married to the Englishman, had Montrose . . . and then what happened?" Geordie asked and Murine began to shift again even as Alick added, "Aye, how did she end up married to the Carmichael?"
Dougall clenched his hands on the reins as she moved about in his lap to peer at the other two men.
"Actually, she had two sons by Danvries. Montrose was the younger son. We had an older brother named William too, but he died shortly after me betrothed three years ago."
Dougall frowned at this news. To his mind, this Old Megs's description of the father as cruel and spoiled and treating her mother most shabbily, could also be applied as descriptions to Montrose Danvries and his treatment of Murine. He doubted the other brother had been any better. Apples rarely fell far from the tree they spawned from. Still, the bodies were beginning to add up. Her mother, her father, and her betrothed as well as her half brother in three years? 'Twas a lot of death in one family.