Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (26 page)

“Can you crawl backwards?”
Zander asked.

“I can do whatever you can,” she replied.

“
With one exception, please,” he answered, cupping her buttocks as she
reached a leg down to the turf.

“Zander!”

“Quick! Before someone gets bright enough to come check for us. Follow
me!”

“My quiver never emptied, Zander. How is such a thing possible?”

“
Because I was putting them in as fast as you took them out, that’s why.
’Tis a good thing you have me about every time you wish to show off, isn’t it?”

“Zander
—”

“
No time. Now, move!”

“
What about our mounts?”

“You d
oona’ know how to disappear very well, do you, Squire Morgan?
I let them off. They’re at camp by now. Now, run! Now!”

He had her hand in his and they were leaping dead-fall, downed trees and
rocks, sliding in and around trees and she held to him the entire way. Her
heartbeat was louder, stronger and more rapid than ever, and her lungs felt like they’d run for hours before he slowed, then stopped, bending forward to gasp for
breath. Morgan did the same, dropping her hands onto her thighs for support.

Then the gap in the clouds sealed over, and heavy drops pelted them,
before becoming a full deluge. Moments later, Morgan’s sleeves were soaked
through, her kilt was getting heavy with moisture and her hair was helping the
rivulets find her eyes.

Zander threw back his head and roared with laughter. “God, I love
Scotland!” he shouted, opening his mouth to catch as much rain as he could.

Then, he was hauling her into his arms and holding her against him, and
showing her that his heart was just as loud and fast and hard as hers. The rain
was stealing what breath Zander let her have as he took her mouth, sealing them together, and Morgan jumped up, opened her legs to straddle his hips, and linked
her ankles together at his back.

She felt him move, it would have been impossible not to in that position,
and then they were beneath a large pine, sheltered from the majority of the rain, and finding out that kilts were wonderful for that position, too. And, he gave her
his seed, again.

~ ~ ~

Exactly a month after they’d left Argylle’s castle, they turned north. It was
what Morgan had been waiting for. She kept it secret from Zander, though. She had to reach FitzHugh land, and she had to finish it. Then, she could see what
life was going to hold for her. It wasn’t going to be with Zander, though. What
man would want her after she’d taken his brother, his blood, his laird?

She already knew the answer, so she never asked the question of herself. She wasn’t going to tell Zander any of it, but she was feeling on edge the longer they stayed in the lowlands, meeting with clan after clan, while the Highlands
they seemed to ignore. Her role was shrinking, too. That was fine with her. It
seemed to have Zander’s approval, too. All that was required of her anymore
was that she make an appearance, show off her talents, get everyone’s attention,
and then disappear, while rumors of her mysticism grew. No one knew
what she and Zander really did all those afternoons when they were out of sight.

It was as special and wonderful as the nights were, and night after night,
Zander plied her with kisses, love talk and his body, always giving, always
making certain of it. Zander had his own plan, and getting her with a bairn was
it. He wasn’t even subtle about it. He made certain there were at least two times
a night and once a day that he gave her his seed. He was starting to look
peaked and exhausted some mornings, although he was still the most handsome,
virile man anywhere in any clan.

Even The Bruce had commented on it, and told Zander he’d better take
an afternoon off, and stay away from the wenches. He advised him to stay in his
tent, with his squire at his side to serve him. If the king had looked toward
Morgan when he’d said that, he’d have suspicioned the squire was sickening, too,
since she was flaming red with the flush.

The followers filtered away bit by bit as they went f
arther north. That
was expected. It was less costly to find food for them, hunt game for them, and
their progress was faster. It also got colder. More than once, Morgan had to lift
her own shawl over her head and to her nose while atop Morgan, the horse.

During t
he nights, however, she was in Zander’s arms, and no place was as
warm, or as loving, or starting to feel as desperate.

One such night, when they’d been followers of The Bruce for the full
season and a month, Morgan lifted her head on her elbow and asked how close
they were to FitzHugh land, and then she waited.

“
Why?” Zander replied, rolling onto his back with a grumble of sound
she could hear through the chest she was lying atop.

“’T
is said it’s a spacious, beautiful place, with not one, but four lochs. Is
that true?”

“Aye. FitzHughs have been atop it for centuries, too. We claim ancestry
back to the Norsemen, too.”

“Vikings?” Morgan asked, eyes wide.

“Aye. How else do you explain the blue eyes we all have? And Caesar has
a full head of sunniest yellow hair you ever saw.”

“You have a brother named Caesar
?”

“Aye. I’m terribly tired, Morgan. I cann
a’ stay up verra late tonight.”

“I know. You did verra well. I am completely satisfied and very much
content with your loving. I won’t be requiring your services again before dawn,
and you do need your rest.”

He groaned. “You are insatiable, Morganna.”

She giggled. “You just want to make certain to get me with a bairn,
although I already told you ‘tis na’ possible. Nor would it be a good idea.”

“I just want you to get you with a bairn? What sprite stole your wits? I
find you extremely tempting, Morganna, my love. I nearly went crazed over it,
remember? I canna’ deny I doona’ wish a bairn with you. ’Tis no secret, now is it? But, you are a verra desirable woman, too, and I am no
auld
man. I canna’
ride my horse without thinking of your supple thighs. I canna’ take a step
without recollection of your thirsty body devouring mine, and I canna’ sleep
without making certain you know how loved you are. I must have failed this eve, however.”

“You never fail at
...that, Zander.”

“I must have. You’re still talking
.”

She giggled. “So tell me then, and I’ll let you sleep. What is your other
brother’s name?”

“Ari,” he replied.

“Is that short for something?”

“Probably was meant to be
,” he answered, “but that’s the entire name.”
He yawned. “Ari. Second born.”

“
Who’s the other one?”

He started his deep, grunting
breathing that was the beginning of snoring.
Morgan jabbed him in the ribs. “Zander!”

“
What now?”

“
Who it the other brother?”

“Oh. Third born is Caesar. I just told you of him.”

“And…?”

“There’s Plato. Second youngest. Two years of age on myself. You know him
. You spent some time in his arms atop his horse, now that I recollect. I am rapidly awakening, Morganna, if that is your game.”

“You’re not about to be jealous, are you?”

“If you were apart from me, and in another’s arms, then aye, I’m damned jealous, among other things. Plato had best watch his back.

Morganna
giggled again. “I am na’ interested in Plato, Zander. Never was.”

Zander stilled
. “’Tis a verra lucky thing for my brother, I would say.”

“You are very good at changing the
subject, Zander. Very.”

“I seek to answer her questions, so she’ll leave me sleep, and she calls it other than what it is. Changing the subject
? What subject are we on?”

“Your brothers.”

“Oh. Them. Trust me, Morganna, when I tell you you’ve latched on to the finest FitzHugh, and losing another moment of rest over the rest of them is a waste of good sleep.”

“Zander FitzHugh!” she whispered, giving it the emphasis it deserved.

“What now?”

“You haven’t told me the middle one’s name.”

“Oh. Cae…sar,” he replied, splitting the name with a yawn.

She poked his rib, receiving a grunt for her trouble. “M
organna, ’tis a lucky think you are the squire, and I the lord. With the schedule you place on me, I’d na’ survive your service.”

“Zander…I’m warning you
,” she said in a playful rumble of voice.

“Oh very well
. I would live to die in your service. What is it you asked of me again?”

“I already know about
Plato, and Ari, and now I know about Caesar. I also met up with the eldest, your laird, Phineas…so who is the sixth FitzHugh?”
Her voice caught on Phineas’ name, but he seemed not to notice.

“Oh. The one between Plato and Caesar is William.”

Morgan’s eyes widened, even in the dark of the tent. “You have a
brother named William?”

“Aye,” he responded, sleepily.
“Morganna, we reach Old Aberdeen
burgh tomorrow, early. We’ll have a long day. We really need our rest.”

“Why do you have a brother named William?
’Tis too normal a name for
your family. Zander!” She had to nudge him again.

“What?” he replied. “You are a slave driver, Morganna. Did I leave you
wanting? Is that it?”

She giggled again.
“Nay, never that. You are every inch a man, Zander
FitzHugh. Every inch.” She ran a fingernail over a thigh and under his kilt and
then she was stroking, loving, enjoying. “Every, glorious, hard—”

“All right, love, all right. That’s verra nice. What is the question again?”

She huffed the sigh out with an exasperated sound. “
Why do you have a brother named William?”

“
William? Well...I think my da was home when he was whelped. He had a say in it. My mum was annoyed with him, she was. She never ceased to harangue him over it, either. Remind me to tell you of it some day.”

She couldn’t restrain the laughter that time, and had to choke with it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Morgan came to the horrid, sickening realization that Zander’s plotting had
worked the exact moment that she rode her horse, Morgan, into Old Aberdeen’s
marketplace, Castlegate. The Bruce had been regaling anyone who would listen about how important the burghs of Old and New Aberdeen were to him. They
were a blend of new, such as the trading and fishing village on the Dee, known as
New Aberdeen, and of old. The home of the Celtic bishopric of Aberdeen, Old
Aberdeen had been there for centuries, as had the historic Cathedral of St.
Machar. He had also spoke in a long-winded fashion about the construction Aberdeen was experiencing. He pointed out the bridge they were building to
span the Don, that was going to be named the Brig o’Balgownie. He talked
about the residences that were being built to house single families. He talked of
the commerce and trade that was available for this booming city in the Highlands.

He was very proud of the city, and he should be. It had more stone-built buildings, more streets, and more people than any settlement they’d yet gone
through. There was also a bustling marketplace, known as Castlegate, and he
cautioned them to keep their horses in rows of two abreast, in order
to keep from upsetting the order of business. Then, he led what looked like hundreds of men on horseback through the streets, causing just about everyone to stop what they were doing and gape.

Morgan and Zander were the seventh pair behind their sovereign and liege, and had just ridden beneath a large wooden archway, when her belly
literally moved. She put both hands to it and waited. When it did it again, she
looked down to herself and saw her hands were shaking.

It cou
ldn’t be.
While it was true her belly had a slight bulge to it, she’d thought that due to lack of exercise. Except for her daily and nightly lovemaking
with Zander, she hadn’t gotten in any serious push-ups or lunges or squats in
weeks. She had also been eating more than she was used to. All of which had
combined to make her gain a bit of depth to her, but not enough to mean
anything.

Her belly twinged a third time, and her eyes widened in shock,
amazement, and horrendous guilt, in all the same moment.

Dear God, I’m carrying a FitzHugh bastar
d!
she thought. She didn’t question it, either. She knew. She couldn’t afford anyone else to know,
however. Especially the man riding at her side and looking at all the wares
spread before them, his eyes alert and watchful, and the strangest quirk to his lips
as he did so. Morgan moved her hands back to the horse’s mane, amazed she
still had the reins in them, and that Morgan, the horse, had continued walking
with the reins pulled like they had been.

“
Morgan?”

Zander sidled his horse closer to hers, until their ankles brushed with each
step of either horse.

She tightened her jaw, looked straight ahead and ignored him.

“I
know you can hear me. The Bruce is setting up a show tonight that will be
talked of for years.”

She turned her head slightly, but she refused to look at him.
You’ve given
me a bairn!
She knew her face would be shouting it.
Worse, you made me take
it! You’ve given one of the last KilCreggars on earth a FitzHugh bastard to
carry!

Her hands were still shaking, and she rested them on the front of her
saddle to hide it.

“
What is it?” Zander spoke again.

“This show...it will not be difficult?”

“
Difficult? For me, aye. For you...nothing is difficult. It will be like play
for you. He’s using fire.”

She glanced over at him then, but couldn’t hold his look. It was too
immense, too loving, and too inescapable.

Her hands tightened.
“Fire?” she asked, because Zander seemed to be
waiting.

“
More in the way of flaming arrows, dirks with fire-lit fishing twine, that
sort of thing.”

“I have no dirks like that.”

“I know. He ordered them made.”

Morgan forced herself to concentrate.
“Why would he do such a thing?”

“B
ecause Scotland isna’ just a country. It is a thing of immensity, beauty,
contradiction, and pride. The Bruce wants to stir their senses, inflame their
pride, and fill them with the possibilities of all a Scotsman can and will be. He
wants you to set the stage, so he can say the words.”

“
What is a Scotswoman, then?” she asked.

He took a couple of loud breaths. She heard them. “All
that and more,
of course. She is the vessel that holds and delivers the future, with each bairn she
carries. Look about you, Morgan. You see the future?”

She saw the future all right. It was grim. There was a FitzHugh bastard
being birthed to a KilCreggar lass, who was portraying the legendary Squire
Morgan. The Bruce would be reviled, mocked and vilified all over the face of the
British Isles, not just Scotland. She shifted on her saddle. “Aye,” she replied
finally. “I see it.”

“
How about the emotion that is here? Do you feel it? I do, and it’s right
here in this beautiful city. Like a pulse of Scotland, itself. Hard and fast. Strong
and virile. Fresh and pure. Canna’ you feel any of that, too?”

The emotion?
he asked. What did she feel? Dread. Hate. Sadness. Anger. Fear. Shock. Wonder.
Which of those am I supposed to say I feel,
Zander FitzHugh?
she wondered. It wasn’t the last-born of the FitzHughs that
would deal with the mortifying results of their coupling. Nay, he’d be strutting
around like a peacock, with his chest puffed out, and with his pride intact. It was going to be the last-born of the KilCreggars who would live with the humiliation and shame, which would grow and become more apparent as the baby did.

God, how she hated being a woman! Especially right at the moment. She
didn’t want anything to do with this bairn. She had a mission to accomplish, and
then she was ready for what life held. Carrying a FitzHugh in her belly while she
killed another was not part of her plan. She didn’t know if she could handle it.
She knew it wasn’t right that she had to handle it, and it was Zander FitzHugh’s
fault, damn and blast him, anyway!

“Are you all right?” Zander asked from right beside her.

“Get away from me, FitzHugh!” she snarled, shifting her horse a good
yard’s distance from his.

Midnight
-blue eyes blazed at her for as long as she could hold the gaze, then she moved it ahead. He always could see too much with that intense look of
his. She wasn’t going to let him see this. She was going to deal with this the way she dealt with everything: by herself. She didn’t think she would ever
speak to Zander FitzHugh again.

The Bruce’s camp was already well under way and nearly set up by the time the procession reached it. They were encamped in the valley connecting the
two burghs, and as far as the eye could see there were tents, making a huge
circle about an epicenter that held a large conical affair. Morgan sat atop the
horse, Morgan, and looked at the small hill they were constructing of logs and
sod.

“
What is that, Zander?” she asked.

He was grinning when she glanced his way. Probably because she’d been forced to forget her own vow of silence with the curiosity. There was something
else in his look, too, and she was afraid to decipher it. It was too loving and
gentle.

“Off-hand,
I’d say it’s your stage. Since I already helped envision and
design it, I’d have to say it definitely is your stage. Come. I have a lot to do today.”

He led into the camp, wending his way through tents until they reached
his. He didn’t ask Morgan to follow, either. He just reached over, plucked the
reins from her hands and led them. Morgan didn’t mind. She was looking over
at the scaffolding they had put together, and noting that it was at least three
stories from the ground.

“Doona’
fash yourself, Morgan. That there is Scots pine, good Scots damp to the inside and heavy Scots peat atop the whole. There’s nae stronger wood and nae better materials on the earth. It could hold a dozen men if need
be, na’ just your slight weight.” He paused for the briefest moment before
continuing, “...combined with mine, of course, as it should be.”

Morgan jerked her head to his.
“What did you just say?” she asked.

“Only that I’ll be in there with you. Holding to you. Getting the pitch on your arrows lit, handing them to you. I’ll be making certain nothing save the
arrow shafts catch fire. I’ll be there, Morgan, just like always. Are you certain
you’ve not caught an illness?”

She swallowed the instant moisture he always
conjured in her
mouth. For a moment when he’d mentioned their combined weights, she’d
thought he’d guessed about the bairn. She’d go to her grave before admitting it,
and it was his fault that now it would have to be happening sooner, rather than
later.

She sucked in on all emotion that thought caused her. She was not afraid
of dying. She was more afraid of living. At least, she always had been before.

“
You look flushed, Squire Morgan. You have a fever? Chills? Sickness
to your belly?”

She opened her eyes and glared at him. “I am never ill.”

“True. We’re here. Come, Squire Morgan. Get your raiment on for the
show. You, there!” He hailed a clansman. “Send Scribe Martin to me! Tell him I need a message sent to my brother, Plato.”

“P
lato? Why send for him? He stays with his winsome Gwynneth in
Argylle,” Morgan remarked to herself as she entered their tent. “She has a
fiefdom to secure for the Argylle clan, and legitimate bairns to create to do so.”

Morgan’s voice was very soft and bitter when she ended. She could only
hope he hadn’t heard. She went cross-legged on the floor and flattened out a
dirk that had rolled in her sock and was chaffing at her ankle. Then she looked
up.

Zander stood at the door, holding the flap on his head and looking at her with such warmth in those eyes, the hand holding to the dirk trembled.
“Plato is na’ with his bride. He, and FitzHugh clan, ride two days ahead
of the king. He always has been. ’Tis he who marks the campsites, and ’tis his
responsibility to regale all who will listen about the king and the squire who rides at his side.”

“He does?” she asked.

“Aye. I am not the lone FitzHugh gifted with this big voice you have
noticed. Plato has one just as large. He uses it to tell all, who will listen, of the
arrival of Scotland’s future, and to watch for it. Have you never wondered at the
crowds awaiting us everywhere we go?”

“I thought word of mouth was bringing them
.” For some reason, she felt even more
deflated by this news, if there was such a thing. She was delaying her clan’s justice for the glory of a unified Scotland, something that had seemed forced on her by the fates, and
now
she finds out it was being orchestrated?

“Word of mouth? True enough. Plato’s mouth. It may be larger than
mine. That is a surprise, I think.”

“Zander—” she began.

He grinned, dropped the door flap and stepped in. “He also has the chore
of making certain there is enough foodstuffs ready and enough game downed to
feed everyone before we arrive. We haven’t time to do all that. We have to
speak to the masses.”

She lowered her head and lifted her eyebrows.

“Very well, The Bruce has to speak. We have to get their attention.”

She set her jaw next.

“All right, stop giving me that look. ’Tis Squire Morgan that has to get
their attention, but his lord, Zander FitzHugh, is at his side. A squire canna’ be a
squire without a master, you know.”

Morgan looked at him for another moment, and it was difficult to ignore
the wide smile, and teasing glint to his eye. She looked back down. There was
nothing teasing or amusing left in the world. There never had been.
Damn Zander FitzHugh and his notions of play!
she thought.