She lifted her head until she could see his expression. He looked stern and distant, even as his arm clasped her close. “Why did you come for me?”
“Whisht, lassie. No’ now. We’ll talk when we stop for the night. Right now, I need to concentrate on getting us to safety.”
Safety. What a glorious word.
Although when they stopped, he’d expect her to tell him everything, and she was so used to keeping secrets. But the jut of that impressive jaw hinted that she’d wheedle nothing more out of him until he was ready. So she rested her head on his chest and let weariness wash over her.
After following the bank for about half a mile, they turned off onto a trail so faint Fiona wouldn’t have known it was there. A sheep track, she supposed. Since leaving the inn, they hadn’t met any people or passed any houses. This was like fleeing into an endless wilderness.
As the ground firmed, Sigurn settled into a smooth canter. Fiona soon lost any idea of which direction they went. The trail twisted and turned, but as they wended through the treeless hills, Mr. Mactavish seemed to know his way with unerring exactitude. From the first, she’d noted and admired his air of easy competence. She started to believe him when he said they’d evade pursuit. At least for tonight.
They were pressed so close together that his rich scent invaded her nostrils. Strangely pleasant. She was used to the musty smell of old men. Sitting much as she did now, she’d ridden north on Thomas Grant’s horse, trapped in the miasma of his dry, unpleasant stench. She’d come close to gagging, dreading the fact that soon he’d be even closer, if he got his way.
But Diarmid Mactavish didn’t smell anything like Thomas Grant. He smelled of open air and health. She sucked in a great gulp of air, relishing that fresh scent. The shirt beneath her cheek was clean, with a hint of lavender and fresh sweat. The combination was surprisingly heady. As they rode into the night, she drifted into a pleasant doze, where the scent of Diarmid Mactavish’s skin became the scent of paradise.
When the horse stopped, she stirred. “What is it?”
Groggy, Fiona struggled to sit up straight. She cuddled up to Mr. Mactavish, as though they were eloping lovers instead of reluctant allies. If they were even that.
His grip tightened. “Dinna be afraid.”
She bit back a snort of disbelieving laughter. Of course she was afraid. She was always afraid. Fear was the air she’d breathed for ten lonely years. As if the Grants might rise out of the ground
like the dead at the Last Judgment, she cast a wary glance around the small glen with its stand of spindly scotch pines and narrow burn.
All was calm and peaceful. The sky was lighter, as the early summer dawn approached. Birds chirped from the trees, and she saw a fox slink up the brae on his way home from a night’s hunting.
Fiona felt a pang of compassion for his prey. She knew what it was like to be hunted.
“Are they coming for us?”
“I’m sure they’ll try, but they’ll never follow us this far into the hills.”
“Then why have we stopped?” She realized her arms were still looped around Mr. Mactavish’s waist. With a blush, she pulled free.
“Sigurn needs a spell. I thought ye might, too.”
He dismounted and reached for Fiona. He’d been holding her close for hours so she shouldn’t tremble when he touched her. But she was shaking as he set her on the ground.
“Are ye cold?” He helped her across to the hillock. Sitting on the horse for so long left her stiff and clumsy.
“No.” With a sigh of relief, she sat. Her legs felt like rubber.
The laird slid off his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. “Wait there, and I’ll get us something to eat.”
She wrapped the coat around her. More of that delicious smell. She’d never imagined she’d enjoy a man’s scent, but Diarmid Mactavish’s was a tonic. So was the fresh summer air. The light wasn’t bright as day, but she could see well enough. “Where are we going?”
He crossed to where Sigurn nosed at the grass and untied a saddlebag. Sweat streaked the horse’s glossy sides, proof of the long ride with a double burden.
With an easy kindness that made Fiona want to weep, he patted the horse’s neck. “Good girl, Sigurn. You’re a bonny wee lassie.”
Until she’d met the Grants, kindness had seemed such a humble virtue. After ten years of brutality, she’d come to view kindness as the greatest gift one human could give another.
She’d found kindness at Invertavey House, and repaid it with lies and theft. Shame coiled in her empty belly. When she and Mr. Mactavish finally talked, it promised to be a humiliating experience.
“There’s an abandoned crofter’s cottage a few glens away.” The laird left his horse and walked toward Fiona. “Hopefully we’ll reach it before the rain starts.”
Surprised she looked around, noting the cloudless sky and Venus winking at her over the horizon. “Rain?”