Page 39 of The Warrior
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Moira threw herself into Duncan’s arms, and he held her tight. His heart flipped over in his chest as he thought about how close he had come to seeing her ripped apart before his eyes.
“Are ye all right?” he asked.
When she nodded, Duncan picked her up and whistled to Sàr. He was anxious to get her out of the wood before the wolves decided to return. He was relieved when the dog ran ahead, showing no sign of serious injury.
“I can walk now,” Moira said after they left the ravine, and he was carrying her across the grassy hillside.
“I saw the cliff ye fell down, and you’re not walking anywhere until I have a good look at ye.”
When he judged they were a safe distance, Duncan unfastened his mantle, spread it on the ground, and set her down on it. He knelt on one knee beside her, while Sàr lay down on her other side. The dog had survived his battle with nary a scratch.
Moira, however, looked like hell. He could hardly see the bruises on her face for the mud, and she had twigs in her hair.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Moira said. “I’ve nothing worse than a scratch or two.”
Duncan snorted.
“What could ye possibly find amusing about this?” she demanded.
“’Tis just that ye don’t look much like a princess at the moment.”
Moira leaned forward and glared at him. “I know that’s what you lads used to call me.”
Duncan fought a smile as he ran his hands over her ankles.
“What are ye doing?” She slapped at his hands as he started up her legs.
“Checking to be sure nothing is broken.”
“Nothing is broken.” As if to prove it, she started to hoist herself up, but gasped, “Aah.”
“If it hurts, I’ll carry ye,” Duncan said as he helped her to her feet. “We’d best get started back.”
“Thank ye for coming to my aid,” Moira said. “But I’m continuing on to Dunvegan.”
Duncan grabbed her arm before she took a single step. His humor was gone.
“Have ye no sense at all, woman?” he said. “It was only by the grace of God that ye didn’t kill yourself already.”
“I did ask ye to come with me,” Moira said. “’Tis not my fault ye didn’t.”
“Ye can’t just do what ye please, every time the notion strikes ye,” Duncan said. “The last thing Connor needs is to have his closest relation held by his worst enemy. Don’t ye see what that would do?”
“I do,” Moira said, her eyes spitting fire. “The MacLeods would learn what I already know—that Connor doesn’t give a damn what happens to me.”
“Of course he does.”
“Connor didn’t trouble himself to visit me and his only nephew in the two years since he returned from France.”
“Can ye not see beyond yourself when there is so much at stake?” Duncan asked. “Ye don’t understand the danger to both Connor and the clan.”
“Then perhaps ye should explain it to me,” she said, putting her hand on her hip, “instead of shouting at me.”
“I don’t shout at women,” he said.
“Ye were shouting,” she said.
