Page 8 of Bound to a Highland Beast
Perhapsdelicateisnae the right word fer her.
“Miss MacGregor,” he called, and she came to a halt, looking at him over her shoulder. He said nothing else as he approachedher, removing his belt and grabbing the knife he had strapped around his calf. She watched him in silence as he carved a few leather strips, making sure they were thin enough to not hurt her, before he fell to one knee and reached for her, hesitating just before he touched her. “May I?”
The entire time, Isabeau had been staring at him with a confused frown, until she realized what he was doing. She hesitated, too, looking at him dubiously, but then she nodded. The pain must have been strong enough for her to let go of any fear in favor of receiving help.
With a gentle hand, Tiernan touched Isabeau’s calf, his fingers wrapping around it. Even there, she felt delicate. She was tall, especially for a woman, and it gave her a willowy frame, fragile compared to most of the women Tiernan knew. When he had first seen her, he had thought her sickly, perhaps suffering from some affliction, but he had soon come to find out she was deceptively healthy, if not particularly strong.
All she does is paint an’ embroider, she must be very tired.
That hadn’t occurred to him, either, but now he had to find some shelter for them. It was almost dark anyway and they would soon need to find a place to spend the night, even if it was nothing more than a clearing where he could light a fire for them. He didn’t want her to be entirely exhausted; they still had a long way to go.
With slow movements, as though he feared she would be frightened if he moved too fast, he brought her foot to his knee,resting it there. Isabeau swayed a little, losing some of her balance as she stood on one foot, and Tiernan steadied her with a hand on her hip before he realized what he was doing. For a moment, their gazes met, both of them shocked by the gesture, before Tiernan snatched his hand back and lowered his gaze, busying himself with the straps.
Neither of them said anything about it.
“Ye can hold on tae me shoulder,” he said quietly, and at first, Isabeau made no attempt to move. But then, he felt her hand on his shoulder, touching him just as hesitantly as he was touching her.
Tiernan worked quickly, wrapping the leather binds around her slippers to keep them in place. Once he was done, he dusted his knee and stood, giving Isabeau a smile.
“There,” he said. “That should help with the pain.”
Isabeau stared at him in surprise, blinking a few times. “Thank ye,” she said, and with that, Tiernan turned around and kept walking, Isabeau following close behind.
“Thank the Lord,” said Tiernan as they came upon a small hut at the very edges of the woods. They had managed to cover a large distance and had come through the other side of them. They had been walking in darkness for a while. That, too, had slowed themdown. Even with the makeshift torch Tiernan had managed to make after wrapping a bit of torn cloth from his shirt around a large stick, the deep darkness of the woods had made it difficult for them to find their way.
He was certain they had moved in circles for a while. But now, that hut could shelter them for the night and they could work on finding food and a nearby village the following morning.
“Come,” he said, picking up the pace. Behind him, Isabeau followed him but moved slower, exhausted and in pain as she was.
The hut was barely standing. Its walls crumbled with every gust of the wind, the roof caving in on itself in several places. Inside, it was just as cold, but at least the walls stopped the wind, which had turned relentless in the past hour or so, whipping their cheeks. Just as Tiernan had expected, there was little in the hut. A single cot with a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket bunched over it, a few empty cupboards, an old bottle of wine that surely now resembled vinegar. To his surprise, there were a few strewn logs near a small fireplace and when he touched them, they were dry.
Small blessings.
All of his focus was on lighting a fire and he was only distantly aware of Isabeau sitting on the edge of the cot with a sigh of relief. He worked on arranging the logs and then started the fire, the wood catching instantly much to his relief.
“Is this yer first time sleepin’ outside the castle?” he asked as he sat close to the fire. When he glanced at Isabeau, he saw her staring longingly at the flames, but she made no move to approach.
“Nay,” she said. “I’ve travelled.”
“But it’s yer first time sleepin’ in a place like this.”
She neither confirmed nor denied it, but she didn’t need to. A woman like her had no reason to sleep in a place like that, unless she was stranded, just like she was now. He couldn’t deny that he felt a terribly guilty for it. Even though he hadn’t been the one to drag her out there, in the middle of nowhere, he had been the one Beag was after. Had he not been in that forge, had Laird MacGregor employed another blacksmith, none of this would have happened to her.
Every now and then, something happened to Tiernan that reminded him he didn’t deserve a good life. He was a brigand to the bone and the past would always chase him. It was atonement for everything he had done, all the souls he had hurt.
This was one of those times.
To top it all off, Isabeau was still frightened of him. He could tell by the way she kept herself away, never once nearing the fire to warm herself, even if she must have been terribly cold. No matter what he did, he would always be the terrifying brigand in her eyes, and now what he had to do to appease Beag would only reinforce this belief.
He didn’t want her to witness all the violence. He didn’t want her to be sucked into it and lose her innocence so suddenly and so ruthlessly, but what other choice did he have? If he wanted to keep her safe, then he had to do as Beag said. Tiernan didn’t doubt for a minute that if he disobeyed, the man would exact his revenge with no hesitation, killing Isabeau just to motivate him.
“Go tae sleep,” he said gruffly, his mood suddenly souring. He just wanted the day to end. He was exhausted, ravenous, and in need of a good sleep and a bath, neither of which he would get that night. Behind him, he heard Isabeau shuffle on the cot until it was once again silent, nothing in the hut but the sound of the wind howling through the openings.
Tiernan lay back, resting his head on his folded arms. He let his eyes slip shut, but he was still entirely aware of everything around him—especially the creaking of the cot as Isabeau tossed and turned. She was nervous, he could tell, and not only physically uncomfortable, but mentally, too. He wished there was something he could tell her to reassure her that he wouldn’t hurt her, but he doubted his words would make any difference.
Besides, it couldn’t be just him that unsettled her. The entire situation was unsettling and if he couldn’t sleep, then he doubted she would be able to. Perhaps he would manage to get a few hours, but he could imagine Isabeau tossing and turning just like this all night and never once getting any rest.
With a sigh, he moved a little closer to the cot and heard her still. He kept plenty of distance between them so that she wouldn’t think of him as a threat, but was also close enough toreassure her that he wouldn’t let anything else harm her, either. He reached for his knife for good measure, laying it right next to him, and then kept listening only to find that, though she had finally stilled, her breathing was fast and uneven—not the soft, steady one of a sleeping person.
