His intentions had been heartfelt, Moirra knew that. Under different circ.u.mstances, she would have leapt at the opportunity. Images of that ugly night six months ago made her heart slam against her chest. Her palms turned clammy whilst her mouth had gone horribly dry. If he only kent the truth.

Mariote had the look of a girl about to faint. Moirra stood beside her and placed hands on her shoulders. "'Tis a n.o.ble intention ye have, but me daughters do ken how to defend themselves, John."

Mariote trembled slightly, her eyes transfixed on the table. Moirra gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze while she tried to get her own trepidation under control.

"Verra well, then," John said as he pushed away from the table.

Moirra was thankful that he had dropped the subject, though it did nothing to help her pounding heart. If he only kent the truth. Thankfully, he didn't, for if he had, he would not be standing in her cottage at this very moment. The thought of him leaving left a heavy feeling in her stomach.

"As ye wish, Moirra," his smile seemed forced. "Shall we go to gather wood now?"

Moments pa.s.sed before Moirra nodded her head in agreement. "Mariote," she said, trying to sound as if the conversation that had just pa.s.sed had never happened. "Go now, with John and Orabilis."

Mariote didn't move. Moirra bent down and whispered into her ear. "All will be well, child."

After a long moment, Mariote gave a barely perceptible nod and stood. Without saying a word, she left the cottage.

John watched as Mariote left the cottage. With sagging shoulders, she shuffled along. He thought she more resembled someone heading to the gallows than a young la.s.s heading out to do ch.o.r.es.

Any lingering doubts he may have had about why this la.s.s behaved so oddly vanished. Something had happened to Mariote, of that, he was certain. He also had a very good suspicion as to what that something was. Someone had hurt her. The details were of no import to him. Just knowing that someone had hurt any of these women made his blood boil. Even he, a renowned drunkard and ne'er-do-well had boundaries he would not cross. But the world was filled with men who thought nothing of taking what they wanted with no regard to rightness or wrongness.

There was more happening here in this tiny cottage than what Moirra was willing to share with him. Why she refused to allow him to teach either her or her daughters the proper way to use a sgian dubh in self-defense baffled him. One would think that she would have been grateful for the opportunity, especially in light of what he was certain had happened to Mariote.

The urge to demand to know the whole truth of the matter was close to overwhelming. He decided to leave things alone for now. Later, when he and Moirra were alone, he would somehow get the truth from her.

The forest from which they gathered wood was at least a half mile from the cottage, beyond a small hill to their west. Though Mariote's eyes were open, John doubted she truly saw anything. Her mind was elsewhere. Were he a lesser man, he would have been thankful for her silence. Instead, he found himself wishing to do nothing more than to make her feel better.

Without knowing the full extent of what had exactly happened prior to his arrival, he was at a loss as to what to do. Something heavy weighed on her heart and made the otherwise blunt and acerbic girl, quiet and withdrawn.

John found himself wishing for the return of the blunt Mariote. Growing up without a mother and being the third son to a less than cheerful father, John had learned early how to deal with anger, biting words, insults and the like. Those kinds of people, the angry, harsh people, were far easier to deal with. He knew what to expect from people of that ilk.

But what to do with a wee girl of ten and four? One who had been injured, more likely than not by a wh.o.r.eson of a man. He was at a loss.

He searched his mind and tried to remember what it was like to be that young. An immense sense of loneliness washed over him. Aye, he had been a very lonely child, left to his own devices, and in general, simply ignored. It was not so long ago that he could not remember wishing that his mother still lived. A mother, he had concluded, would have been someone he could have confided in, someone who would have come to his defense when his father was in one of his particularly angry moods. Mayhap Mariote missed her father and longed for the same things John had longed for in his youth.

While John mulled the situation over and thought of a way to speak to Mariote, Orabilis skipped along the path. The child was oblivious to her sister's pain as she chattered on about a mongrel dog that oft visited their little farm. John figured it was probably best the child was unaware. They certainly didn't need two la.s.ses keeping everyone up at night with bad dreams.

"Mariote and Esa do no' believe me about the dog," Orabilis said as she stopped before a rock. She hopped over the pebble as if it were the size of a boulder. "But me and Muriale have seen it."

Mariote remained silent, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Tell me, Orabilis," John said with a cheerful voice. "What does this mongrel dog of yers look like?"

"He's verra big!" she exclaimed happily. "He is taller than me and Muriale. At first, we were ascared of him, but we fed him a rabbit we caught in our snares and he wasna so mean lookin' anymore."

John doubted the dog was as big as the child declared. He also didn't like the sound of two little girls feeding a strange dog. What if they happened upon it again without any food? "Orabilis, do ye always feed the dog?"

She shook her head and leapt over another imaginary boulder. "Nay, but he likes us anyway."

The revelation did nothing to quell his worry. "And where do ye see this dog? Does he come to the cottage?"

Orabilis shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes. But usually we see him near the glen."

"Where the sheep are?"

She nodded her head in affirmation. "Aye, but he doesna hurt the sheep. He just sits and watches them."

The last bit of information caught Mariote's attention. She came to an abrupt halt and asked, "Orabilis, what color is this dog?"

John had the sense that Mariote was thinking along the same lines as he.

Orabilis continued to skip a long. "Black," she said. "And he has one white foot."

"Does he have a long snout or a short, smushed in sort of face?" John asked.

"Long," Orabilis said.

Mariote stood taller and cast a look at John. "Does he have long hair or short?"

"Sort of in between."

The hair on the back of John's neck stood up while Mariote turned as white as a sheet. With a tilt of her head, she mouthed the word that John had been thinking. Wolf?

John couldn't be certain without seeing it, but his gut told him the chances were it was in fact a wolf.

"Orabilis," John said as he rushed to catch up to her. "If ye see the dog again, la.s.s, please, come get me, or your mum or one of yer sisters." He was doing his best to keep the worry out of his voice.

Orabilis' brow knitted together. "Why? Ye won't hurt him, will ye?"

John forced a chuckle. "Of course no'. I happen to love dogs. I even had one of me own when I was a wee lad yer age. I merely want to see this big dog of yers to see if he be worthy of bein' yer pet."

Orabilis' eyes lit up at the prospect as she smiled. "Ye mean it? I could keep him as me own?"

"Aye. If he be worthy of ye. Some dogs though, do no' want to be owned, so he might no' want to be yers. But I'll know when I see him if he'd make a good pet or no'."

Orabilis clapped her hands together and squealed with delight. "He is!" she told him. "He's a verra good dog. We named him Wulver, after Cailleach Bheur," Orabilis explained. Cailleach Bheur, the Dark Mother or Harvest G.o.ddess of Highland folklore. 'Twas believed that she turned into a giant gray boulder at the end of winter, on Beltane eve, and remained that way until Samhain, when she springs back to life. Many believed she was also the bringer of storms. Legend had it that she rode the back of a large wolf while swinging a hammer made of human flesh. The wolf's name was Wulver.

How befitting, John thought to himself.

They made their way into the small thicket of trees that Orabilis claimed to be the biggest forest in all the land. From a six-year old perspective, it was. John had no desire to tell her it wasn't so, that there were many bigger and denser woods in this big world. His father would have done just that, quashed the dreams of a little boy, so John decided to do the exact opposite of whatever he felt his father might have done in any given situation.

"Aye, I agree, Orabilis," he said with a smile. "I do no' think I've ever seen anythin' so big in all me life."

For once, Mariote did not humph or snarl with derision. "John be right, Orabilis. 'Tis the biggest forest in all the land."

John had to smile at Mariote. She didn't hate everyone, just him, or men in general. The love and adoration she showed her little sister was admirable. Mayhap there would come a time when she hates me less, he mused. Then he remembered he'd only be here until harvest time. He was surprised by the unexpected sense of sadness that thought brought to him. He pushed the sensation down and tried to focus on the task of gathering wood.

Before leaving the cottage, Moirra had given each of them large pieces of cloth and bits of string. John spread his cloth out on the ground and began looking for larger branches and limbs that would be good for burning.

Mariote walked the outer boundary of the forest while Orabilis stayed close to John, asking him questions about his sword.

"Can I have a sword of me own someday?"

"Mayhap, when yer older," John told her as he pulled a large limb out into the clearing. "As long as it be all right with yer mum, that is."

"Me da had a sword," she told him as she picked up a stick and placed it on the cloth. "But I do no' remember him. I think he would have let me have a sword had he lived."

Och! He thought. The cunning mind of a child. He smiled at her and patted her on the head. "I imagine he would have, la.s.s."

Orabilis smiled up at him, glad, he supposed, that he hadn't argued the point. "They say I look like me da," she said. "Mariote says I'm prettier than he was."

John smiled down at her. "I would imagine so, la.s.s."

"Do ye look like yer da? Or yer mum?"

John's smile evaporated. He looked very much like his father, minus the permanent scowl, the scar that ran across his father's cheek and his beard. They had the same dark hair and dark eyes, but that was where any similarities ended. "Me da," he told her without going into any great detail.

"Do ye miss them? Yer mum and da?" Orabilis asked as she placed another stick on the cloth.

He had absolutely no desire to discuss his family with this sweet child. "Aye, I do." 'Twas a half truth. He missed his mum and his brothers. His father was an altogether different story. "Step away, Orabilis," he said as he pulled the small axe from the back of his belt. "I need to chop this up to make it easier to carry."

Orabilis stepped away and watched as he hacked away at the large limb. With little effort, he cut away the long branches, setting them aside for now. He paused long enough to size up the limb and the best places to cut it. In thirds seemed the most logical choice. They would be easy enough to carry, but not so small that they'd burn far too quickly. In no time, he had the limb cut into thirds and placed onto the cloth.

It hadn't taken much time to repeat the process on another felled limb. Soon, John's bundle was sufficiently full, the ends tied with the bits of string. He tied the ends of the cloth off, making a sling of sorts, so that he could carry it on his back.

Orabilis had been helping him, instead of filling her own sack so he set about to help her fill it. 'Twas then that he began to look around for Mariote. "Wheest," he told Orabilis as he scanned the woods for some sign of Mariote. "Where be yer sister?"

Orabilis looked around for a moment, then faced John. With a shrug of her shoulders, she said, "I dunnae."

The forest was quiet, far too quiet. He strained his ears to listen as he continued to search for Mariote. Orabilis broke the silence by calling out for her sister. A few birds scattered from the trees overhead, then a deathly silence filled the air as they waited for Mariote to call back. Nothing.

John's blood ran cold as a shiver went down his spine.

The wolf.

Mariote shook with fear, her feet frozen firmly in place as she stood with her back pressed against a large tree. She would not call out for help, even if she could dislodge the lump from her throat. There was too good a chance that John would come running and the two men who stood before her would kill him. If that happened, the risk that she and Orabilis would fall victim to these men was too great. She'd not risk calling out for help, no matter how strong her desire for rescue.

Memories of a night not long ago flashed before her eyes. She'd been in the barn, alone, when she was attacked from behind... She couldn't think of that moment or what happened after. Pushing the memory aside, she forced herself to focus on the situation before her.

The two men walking toward her were not strangers. They worked for the sheriff and Mariote had met them months ago when they came with the sheriff to inquire as to the whereabouts of his brother, Delmar Wilgart, who happened to have been handfasting with her mother at the time. She'd been just as terrified of them then as she was now, but for entirely different reasons.

Now, they approached not as underlings for the sheriff, but as men. Men much like Delmar, who looked at her like a wolf about to pounce on innocent prey. Except this time, Mariote wasn't as innocent and unknowing as she had been when Delmar had made his advances. No, this time she knew what could happen, what might happen if she weren't careful.

"Leave me be," she stammered. "I want no quarrel with ye."

The larger of the two men laughed at her but did not halt his advance. The shorter man paused only long enough to gauge what the larger man would do. He was but a few steps behind his friend. Mariote could smell their foul body odor even with the ten feet of distance between them.

"Quarrel?" the larger man said, feigning innocence. "La.s.sie, we want no quarrel with ye, either."

From the look in his eyes, Mariote knew he lied.

"Just a wee kiss is all."

Her stomach roiled at the idea of either of these foul smelling, filthy men touching her with their hands, let alone their lips. "Be gone with ye," she ground out, trying to sound unafraid.

The larger man stopped, stood to his full height and looked offended. "Now, is that any way to be? I mean, me and Harry here were just worried about a pretty la.s.s like ye bein' out here all alone. We were goin' to offer ye our protection in exchange fer a wee kiss, and ye go tellin' us to leave ye be. What kind of men would we be if we did that? Leave a bonny la.s.s like ye all alone?"

Ever so slowly, Mariote slipped her hand into the pocket of her ap.r.o.n and wrapped her trembling fingers around her sgian dubh. "I do no' want or need yer protection," she told them firmly. "And I will no' be lettin' ye touch me." I'll kill ye both before I let that happen.

For a brief moment, he looked hurt, though she knew he was not. Then she saw the anger flicker in his eyes. "Ye be a right mouthy thing when ye consider ye be here all alone," he said angrily.

The two men took quick steps toward her, making vile threats as they drew nearer. "Ye'll soon regret bein' so rude to us, la.s.sie."

A firm voice came from behind the two men and it stopped their forward advance. "Ye won't live to regret anythin' if ye take one more step toward me daughter."

'Twas John and he looked ready to kill. One hand held his sword, which he now had firmly pressed against Harry's back. In his other hand, he held his axe against the larger man's neck. Wisely, and without being ordered to, both men raised their arms.

Mariote had been so focused on the two men that she hadn't seen John approaching them from behind. Irrepressible relief washed over her and she nearly fell to her knees. No matter her relief, she couldn't move. Not until these men were either dead or on their way back to the village from whence they came.

"Drop your weapons," John ordered. "And do no' think to do anythin' foolish."

The men complied, loosening their belts and allowing them to fall to the ground. "Slowly, I want ye to take five steps to yer right."

The men did as they were told, but not without comment. "We were just havin' a bit of fun," the larger man said. He tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. But the tremor in his voice gave his fear away.

"We was no' goin' to hurt her," Harry quickly added.

John knew better. He ignored their protests. "Who are ye?" John preferred to know the names of men he killed.

"I be George and this be Harry," the taller man said. "We work for the sheriff."

"Is it the sheriff who sends ye this day, to hurt an innocent la.s.s?" John asked through gritted teeth. He suddenly found himself in an awkward position. Were they simply just men of the criminal sort, he'd have no problem justifying killing them in Mariote's defense.

"Nay," Harry answered quickly. "We were on our way to see Thomas McGregor. He be George's cousin."

He was barely able to contain the rage that built. "And ye happen upon a defenseless, innocent la.s.s and thought ye could do what ye wished with her?"

The men stammered, unable to answer John's question in a manner that would put them in a better light.

"'Tis what I thought," John said. "How do men like ye earn the privilege of working for the sheriff or anyone else? Does he, too, take what he wishes without regard?"

More nonsensical answers and stammering ensued.

"Enough!" John barked. "Ye have terrified me daughter and sorely angered me." He took a deep breath before continuing. "While I would love nothin' more than to slice yer throats this day for the way ye've treated me daughter, I will let ye live."

Harry came close to falling to the ground with relief. "Thank ye!"

"Do no' thank me," John said. "Were it no' for the fact that ye work for the sheriff and the fact that I want no' trouble with him, ye'd already be dead."