Page 31 of The Highlander's Illicit Bride
“Aye. ‘Tis what I think.”
“And when he daes come, we can finish the Camerons once and fer all.”
“And once the Camerons are wiped out, we’ll divide the land as we agreed.”
Murdoch mulled the idea over for a moment, searching for flaws in the plan, then nodded. Struan would not be able to stay away from that meeting.
“I’ll draft the message,” MacPherson said.
Murdoch waved him off. “I’ll dae it. ‘Tis better if it comes from me.”
“’Tis a good plan,” MacPherson said and signaled to a soldier to bring them paper and ink.
“Aye. I ken it is.”
Murdoch stared into the flames. Common cause between them or not, he was quickly growing tired of the man’s attitude. But Murdoch vowed that he would bear it. For now. Once they’d erased Clan Cameron and had divided up the land, Murdoch very well might need to rethink the nature of their relationship.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“We should stop here fer the night,” Struan said.
“Here? On the moor?” Isolde asked. “There’s nay cover.”
Struan pointed to a pile of standing, craggy stone. “We can shelter behind those.”
“But willnae people see us out here?”
“Aye. But plenty of travelers take their rest on the moors,” he said. “Plus, it gives us the advantage of bein’ able tae see them comin’ too.”
They had ridden most of the day, stopping at a small open-air market to have something to eat and pick up some supplies before pushing on. Struan guided the horse toward the pile of tall standing stones, then slipped off the back. A small creek ran beside the sheltered area and the dark, craggy rocks kept thewind that was gently blowing across the moor off them. It was the perfect area to shelter for the night.
He lifted Isolde out of the saddle and set her down. As he set up a line to tie the horse to, Isolde stretched her back and legs. They had ridden a tremendous distance since fleeing Moy Castle and despite spending most of the day in the saddle, Isolde had not complained once. He was impressed.
After setting the horse to graze and take water from the creek, Struan walked around and gathered up whatever he could find that might burn. When he returned, Isolde was already getting things together for their evening meal. It wasn’t long before he had a fire going and they both settled in close to the flames, soaking in the warmth.
Struan gazed at her from across the fire, savoring the way the orange, flickering light made her blue eyes sparkle like chips of sapphire and made her skin seem to glow with an inner light. She was beautiful, there was no denying that. But in that moment, in the glow of the fire, she was ethereal. Struan couldn’t help but gasp at her sight.
“Wine?”
Her voice snapped him out of his reverie for a moment, and he reached out, taking the skin from her. Their fingers brushed and Struan felt a tendril of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire, spread through his body, making his heart stutter. She held his gaze for a moment, her full lips curling upward softly, before she turned away. The wine quenched his suddenly dry mouthbut when he met her eyes over the fire again, a lump rose in his throat.
“Thank ye,” he said and handed the skin back to her.
“’Tis nae a feast, but this should fill our bellies fer the night,” she said. “Come. Eat.”
Struan walked around the fire and sat down beside her. Between them, she had laid out some of the goods they’d purchased at the market. Dried meats, cheese, crusty bread, and a couple jars of pickled vegetables.
“Looks like a feast tae me,” he said.
She smiled and they tucked into their food. For a while, they said nothing as they ate. They simply stared into the flames, each of them lost in their own thoughts.
Out on the moors, it was darker than pitch and Struan could not see much beyond the glow of their fire. It was a good spot to take their ease. Though they had no real cover, the open stretch of the moors would allow them to see anybody riding through the night with torches or oil lamps miles before they reached them.
“’Tis a beautiful night,” Isolde said.
“Aye. ‘Tis beautiful,” he replied, though he was looking at her and not at the sky. “And ‘twas a fine meal ye made, Mrs. MacTavish.”
“Why thank ye, Mr. MacTavish.”
