Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (7 page)

“What did you do?
” he asked. “Make lightning with your blade?”

He felt it, too? Morgan swallowed the increased moisture in her mouth.
It always happened when she was close to him, and it wasn’t pleasant. Well,
maybe it was, but it was dangerous.

“I did naught. It was the blade,
” she whispered.

“Your blade has the touch of a blacksmith’s hammer to it, then. How did
you do that?”

‘Will you hush, and feel like I’ve asked?”

“What am I feeling for now?”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “The weight! Feel the difference? My blade is of an exact weight all along the shaft. No end is heavier, no end lighter. You
feel it?”

“The shaft?” His fingers were rolling the blade between th
em,
keeping it flat to avoid slicing, and his voice had lowered.

Morgan lowered her
chin waited for him to open his eyes. When he did, she kept her gaze steady. “Are you finished playing with me?” she asked.

“Playing?”

“You turn everything into a discussion of lust, and it’s nothing but play.
You need to be serious if you wish to learn this.”

“Not lust,” he answered, and his voice got so soft, she could barely hear
it, “…but love.”

Morgan picked up the blade before he could gain another breath, spun
around and put both knives into the dead center of his target, where they quivered,
making a clicking sound of blade against blade. She turned back to him. “I can
put all twelve of my dirks any place I want them. I didn’t learn that by playing at
lust...or at love.”

“You make it sound a filthy word.”

“It is,” she retorted.

“
Who could have hurt you so, Morgan lad?”

The most horrible thing in the world was happening, and Morgan turned
before Zander spotted it. His talk of love brought tears so close to the surface, she was
caught up in an agony of stifling them so severe, she could hear the blood pumping through her body. Tears were for women to cry; they certainly weren’t
for Morganna KilCreggar. They never had been. She’d lived her entire life, it seemed, just to kill the FitzHugh laird, and then she was ready to die. There
wasn’t a speck of room in that plan for anything feminine.

She walked stiffly over to pull the knives from the tree. “When you’re ready to learn, I’ll teach you,” she replied.

“Fair enough. I may even gift you with another of your precious,
balanced dirks, too. You show the same concentration when you learned
stoning?”

“I taught myself stoning. I found out it was easier to tilt the sling to the
side rather than arc it. It probably looks strange, but it’s more accurate.”

“Do
you never take time to play, Morgan? Never?”

“I’m so deadly with an arrow, no one will challenge me. I can place it in an animal’s eye from almost any distance, any season.”

“I
suppose that’s my answer?” he asked.

“You asked me once how I was with a hand-ax. I wasn’t truthful. Well, I was truthful, but I wasn’t accurate.”

“P
lay, Morgan?” he tried again.

“I said I rarely held them. That is true. I haven’t much use for them.
They’re a difficult tool for hunting. Makes a blood spill second only to a
claymore.”

“
Morgan,” he said, in what he probably thought was a threatening tone.

“I’m deadly with a hand-ax. I’m capable of
dueling the English way. They call it fencing, although my
swordsmanship is geared more for ending a battle, rather than dancing about and
prolonging it, as they seem to wish. Spectacle. That’s all they want. That, and blood.”

He sighed, and this time it was loud. “I get the message, Morgan. You
don’t know how to play. You’ve spent your entire life turning yourself into a
killing machine, and that doesn’t leave much room for teasing, taunting or
playing. I begin to see why I chose you to be my squire.”

“You choose many to be your squire, it sounds. I was just the first on this journey. Martin the second. I assume we’ll have more before we return to your structureless home, too.”

“Didn’t you figure it out, yet?” he asked.

She snorted. “Of
course I did. You earn, take or force the poor crofter’s
children to come with you, serve you, become a part of your household and your
life, and in so doing, you are gaining supporters throughout the countryside.”

“Very good,” he replied.

“Do you ever return them like you promise?”

“
Most of the time, they won’t go. I swear.”

“They won’t?” she asked.

“Do
n’t act so surprised, Morgan. I’m not an ogre. I’m a very lenient
master. I’ve a large, warm house with no dearth of foodstuffs and other
amenities, like tapestries and furniture. Most of those who serve me find it a comfortable lifestyle, unlike the one they had at their village. I can’t get them to
leave. I send messages to their folk to retrieve them, and when they come, they stay too, giving me
more servants.”

“
No wonder your mother thinks you need structure. You do.”

“I think I was needing someone like you, Morgan.”

Her heart stopped. If the sun had been shedding any amount of light, everything she was forcing herself not to think about was probably written all
over her face. She couldn’t even speak.

“I
mean, it just occurred to me. I don’t know why. You’re different, and
I can’t fathom it. I know I want you near me, Morgan. I forced you to be with
me because I somehow knew I needed you. I felt it the moment you touched me on that battlefield, and I feel it now. Stranger still, I’m not alone. You need me, too, if only to show you a little play.”

The moisture in her mouth choked her when she tried to swallow. Then,
she was coughing it out. He smacked her on the back and almost
sent her to her knees with the force of his blows.

All of which brought the rest of his entourage into the clearing. Morgan responded to Sheila’s barely-clad form with the most male reaction she could
manage. She ran from it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Less than two weeks later, Zander’s band had grown by six lasses and nine lads, and Morgan had to use more arrows and consequently, more time to pull down enough meat to feed them and have leftover to barter with. She took
four arrows this time, nodded to the grouping of young, sullen-looking men and
started out. It gave her pause when one gestured toward her and turned to the
others.

“You’re going to have trouble with that one,” she told Zander since he’d
accompanied her, striding loudly enough to alert any game.

“You see into the future, too?” he asked.

Morgan slid an eye sideways at him. He was wearing a kilt today, no shawl, and
no
feile-breacan.
His upper body was clothed in thin, woven flax, and with the mounting rain, it was plastered to every bit of his physique. She
looked up and caught his eye.

“
He angers at my expertise and the fact that Sheila turned him down last
eve.” she replied.

“She turns everyone down, Morgan. She only has eyes for you. When
are you going to do something about it?”

Morgan stopped and held up her hand. “You gaming or talking? We
can’t do both.”

Zander dropped to a whisper. “Sheila offered herself to me not two nights hence, you ken?”

Morgan’s eyes flared before she could hide them, and she felt, rather than
saw, his amusement. “You dinna’ take her?” she asked.

“I told her I’d been warned away by you.”

Morgan frowned. “That explains my sweet cakes,” she said finally.

“She’s trying an age-old recipe, lad.”

“Sweet cakes?”

“Nay, food. No lad your age can resist good cooking. I’m not the only one to notice. You’ve put on a stone of size since we met. It’s improved you,
although you fill out in the face much farther, and I’ll not be able to keep the wench, Bonnie, away from you.”

He was referring to his latest maiden, who had been named in a fit of optimism. Her face resembled a flat pancake with a berry for a nose. Morgan smirked
. “Bonnie?” she asked.

“Aye,
Bonnie. All the lasses would welcome you to their beds, and how do you repay their
yearnings? Ignore them. Nothing whets the appetite more, lad. Should you
unbend your morals enough to take one to your bed, you’ll have a right wild romp, if I doona’ miss my guess.”

Morgan decided to ignore him. It was easier than bantering about what
he called love play. She also perked her ears. There was a sow and two of her
yearlings within sighting distance, although if Zander continued his teasing,
they’d not root about so calmly, awaiting death.

She held up her hand.

“You wish boar or elk today?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her. “Serious?” he whispered
.

“
Pick,” Morgan returned.

“Both.” He grinned.

Morgan had four arrows. There was a huge elk behind them and atop
the ridge. She’d sensed it more than seen it, by the reaction of the sow. She
fitted an arrow, and pointed to the pigs. Zander
followed her line of sight, squinting his eyes at it.

Morgan spun and had the elk before another breath. She had another
arrow in place and pulled it on the bigger sow with her return spin. The reaction
was immediate, as the pig went down, grunting and squealing, while her yearlings
took off in opposite directions. Morgan drew bead and had the farthest first. Beside her Zander was stiffening, and she’d meant him to. She’d left the boar
that was intent on charging them for last. And, she didn’t use her arrow. She
had the six dirks he’d given back to her in her hands. Methodically, she put
them into his snout and eyes, until he came to an abrasively loud, squealing stop less than a body length from Zander.

Morgan was astride the pig,
pulling her dirks and slitting its throat before his hooves finished thrashing. Then, she was after the sow. Death throes had already finished in this one, and Morgan slit its throat, too, to bleed it. Then, she was on the farthest one.

Her tongue clicked as she saw the broken arrow shaft
. She wasn’t that careless, usually. She generally brought all the arrows back to him. She reached to break it off. Zander stopped her by doing it himself. Then he rotated the arrow shaft in his fingers.

“You broke a shaft,” he said, shaking his head at it.

“Sloppy aim,” she replied with a shrug.

“I was beginning to think you perfect, Morgan.”

He gave her a lopsided grin and she gulped. The slice on this pig’s throat went deeper than she wanted, and she received a spurt of blood to her chest as a result, and more of it pumping onto her boots.

“’Tis a good thing it’s raining,” Zander commented. “I’d hate to have to force you to bathe again.”

“Only a fool thinks a burn is wetter than a good Scots day,” she replied. “The rain washes me fine. Besides, I bathed last eve.”

“I know.”

“You…know?” Her voice caught and she only hoped he wouldn’t notice it, or if he did, not comment on it. She’d been lax with everything, but it had been a moonless, rain-filled eve, and she could bathe naked, let her hair fan out about her, and pretend to be the nymph he claimed Sheila was. She could also leisurely paddle about the surface, experiencing the change in her breasts as they bobbed in the water, and wonder at why they sensitized with the change in size.

She could also stiffen with dread when he claimed that he knew about it. Her breathing was so shallow, it was painful.

‘‘Everyone knows when you leave, Morgan, although none of us are
brave enough to seek you out. I knew why, when you returned with a wet braid.”

“
No one knows anything about me,” she answered, feeling the fear slide
out of her spine and leave her trembling.

He shrugged. “True enough. Tell me something to change that. Tell me
your surname, your clan, your lineage, why you’re so damned good at
everything. Anything.”

“I’
ve no hand for cooking,” she replied.

He laughed. “True enough, but we’ve lasses a-plenty competing at that
skill.”

“They want you to notice them,
” Morgan said. She knew very well why.
All the new girls mooned at Zander, to the point it was embarrassing. He also
knew, if his wearing less and less clothing and making all the lads participate in
sports like wrestling was any indication.

“
Nay lad, they want you to notice them.”

“Me?” she asked.

“You bested me at push-ups last eve. I dinna’ think a man existed that
could do two-hundred-fifty of them, and you probably had more in you. And I
called you scrawny.”

Morgan beamed before she could help it.

I’ll
not live that one down soon. If my brothers find out, I’ll ne’er hear the end of it, either.”

‘‘Brothers?” She asked, careful to keep any emotion from her voice.
He
has more than one brother?

“Aye, my brothers. A heartier band you’ll be hard-pressed to find, too.”

“You’ve many of them, do you?”

“Aye. Five.”

He has five brothers?
Morgan closed her eyes. It was a good thing she
hadn’t vowed to kill all the FitzHughs, she decided.

“Tell me something, lad. How can you have such strength in such slender
limbs that you best me?” For demonstration purposes, he rolled up his sleeve,
giving her a very good look at well-hardened muscle and sinew. He had strength
evident all along him. She looked aside. He had acquitted himself well. Her
arms had trembled for hours afterward when he hadn’t ceased until they reached two-hundred, twenty push-ups.

“Appearances can be deceptive
,” she answered in a whisper.

“I agree there. Take that Sophie lass we picked up not two days
ago.”

“We picked up nothing. I won her. You touch her, and....” She let the
threat lie unfinished as she wiped her dirk on the wet grass and stood beside the
pig to glare the intent.

Zander was unrolling his sleeve back into place
. His hair was plastered to his head, and his midnight-blue eyes were sparkling like the surface of a
starlight-dressed loch. Morgan had to look away.

“And you wonder at the havoc you create,” he remarked.

She snorted the disbelief. “I create nothing of the sort.”

“You warn me from every lass, and then leave them be, yourself? You
don’t call that havoc?”

“I call it ravishment.”

Zander was trying to keep the smile from his lips, but wasn’t succeeding
well. “Lasses have lusts, too,” he said, laying an arm across her shoulder like
he had Martin’s.

Morgan side-stepped from it. She knew her face was flaming. “I’ve not
said they don’t. And I’ve not stopped any of them.”

He considered her. She knew he was, for the smile left his face and
he had the frown lines across his forehead again. “’Tis true enough. You
haven’t threatened any of the lads. You’d probably allow any of my new servants to bed
with any lass, except perhaps Sheila. ’Tis only me you warn off. Why is that?”

“I’d warn all. The others have na’ pushed it, though.”

“And you sleep too soundly,” was his answer.

Morgan stared at him. She’d taken a spot in the midst of each camp,
lying beside the fire so she could defend virtue should it be warranted, and now he was telling her it was for naught?

Then, he was laughing and gave her a shove. “You’re always so serious,
Morgan lad. My horse has more humor.”

Morgan glared across at him.

“And we’d best not be gone too long. The camp needs its leader.”

“Leader? You?”

“I bested you last eve, didn’t I?”

“At arm wrestle only, and that because I’d just taken down Martin. I can take you at every other contest,” she declared.

“
What if I declare the contest one of love?”

Morgan gasped. “I’ll not take that contest,” she replied finally.

“
No courage?” he asked.

“
Nay,” she replied, stepping back as he walked toward her. “No
experience. I would na’ know the first thing about it.”

“You know more than the first thing, Morgan. I would venture a guess
you’d be expert at it, too.”

She gasped. “You
jest, and I doona’ like it.”

“I am serious, Morgan lad, and if you wish to take me up on it, I’ll be
ready.”

“I’ll not accept a challenge like that!”

“Why not? Faint of heart?”

“Nay. Only thinking it stupid. And you forget too easily. I canna’ take you at arm-wrestle. You proved that last eve.”

“Only because, as you already pointed out, you’d already wrestled Martin, and before that Seth and Dugan and even big Ira. You forced the issue.”

“Fo
rced it?” she gasped again.

“I had to best you, lad. You took down all the other lads. You were
gaining a swelled head and creating havoc in my camp.”

“
If there’s any havoc in your camp, ’tis not of my doing, but your own.”
The havoc he kept referring to was merely leaving lusty young men and women
together with no structure. No wonder his mother moaned about it to him. They
needed a leader, and he left them to their own devices. That was his havoc. “I’ve nothing to do with it.”

“You best every other male there and then refuse to toss a wench who
lays it in your lap. That is havoc of the worst kind. It’s lust-borne havoc. I’ve
suffered it myself.”

Morgan
blushed as pink as the rain-diluted blood on her blouse and band of plaid across her chest. She hadn’t asked Sophie to plant herself on her lap and plaster a wet kiss to her face, nor had she desired the feel of the girl’s breasts
rubbing along her shoulder. That was the last thing she’d asked for. In
fact, Morgan still felt complete mortification at the recollection. Sophie was a brazen lass. She was also experienced, and had hands that wanted to go too many places. Morgan had just finished besting Zander at push-ups and had to find the strength to hold the girl off her and it hadn’t been the least bit amusing. None of the others looked like they thought so, either. Now, Zander
was claiming that Morgan created lust-borne havoc, and he suffered it, too? It
was ridiculous. The entire conversation was beginning to be so.