The McKinnon (8 page)

Nic gracefully swung up onto Demon’s back, the beast protesting to the added weight of the unfamiliar rider. As Demon settled, bowing to the superior rider, Nic paused to give Morgan an opportunity to protest. Instead, she awarded him with a single nod of consent and a small uncertain wave of good bye. Wheeling Demon around without a backward glimpse, he headed back to the main road and into the late morning sun.

“Blast it all! What is taking that man so long?” Morgan wondered aloud.

She could have bartered a dozen horses, secured all the necessary supplies to support a yearlong siege, and baked bread in the time it was taking him.

Morgan was growing restless. 

Not always a good thing, she thought. Her apprehension was a big part of that restlessness. 

She was alone, but that did not bother her. It was a natural state. Yet, somehow this time it felt different, and she was growing concerned for Nic's safety. It never occurred to her that she was in any danger.

Nic's company was not so bad now that she was beginning to become accustom to him. As long as she kept her distance thinking of him as protection, she was in truth very comfortable. Only when she thought of him as a man did her uneasiness resurface, and that was not because she felt he would abuse her. She was his responsibility, and she knew he would take that responsibility seriously.

They had ridden in silence talking little. Well, she was supposed to be mute after all and he was a man of few words, and even fewer words spoken about him. She knew that he was extremely confident in whom he was as a man and soldier. That being the case, he probably did not feel the need to secure her approval. She was his squire and even if he treated her with respect, she was still no one of importance in standing of his rank.

Most everything Morgan knew of Nic was what he had shared the first day. He was from the far north, and she would have picked that up from his accent. His burr was unmistakably a bastardized mix of Scotland, Ireland, and the King's English. He told her he was heading north after he finished taking care of some business at Seabridge. That corresponded with his accent. She knew it was
nasty business, 
but obviously, it was not urgent business or currently they would not be heading back to London.  

She knew he was King Henry’s knight and in high standing. No doubts there.

"That's obvious," she said to Trojan.

Morgan watched him practice the previous day prior to turning in for the evening. With his fighting skill, she could see him being high on the king’s list of favorites. With his dark, good looks, it would not surprise her if he were a top favorite of the ladies, too. He was one of the most devastatingly handsome men she had ever seen, which was even more reason for her to keep her distance. Her survival instincts were telling her to stay close enough for the protection that he was offering, but preserve enough distance between them to never touch.

Coming back to her surrounding and out of her thoughts, Morgan realized she could not see the clearing where Nic had left her with clear instructions to stay put. Thank heavens she had brought Nic’s prized horse with her.

“Leave me behind, but not his horse.” She made a most undignified sound at her mental musings of Nic and what he could do with his horse. "Although he is beautiful," Morgan said as she patted the beast, lovingly running her hand over his neck. "You, not him."

She cleared up that distinction in her mind. Trojan snorted.

"Oh, alright. I confess. Nic is, too," she said to Trojan's nudging her arm and calling her bluff. "I always was a bad liar. There happy now?" Trojan bobbed his head.

Morgan continued to wander seeing no rush. The day was mild.

After an hour, Morgan had to admit she was lost.

"Oh, boy, Trojan, Nic is going to be pretty mad if he returns and finds you gone," she said stroking his velvety nose. Trojan bobbed his head in agreement. "Can you back me up that this was really not intentional?"

He shook his head sending his bridle to jingling. 

"No, huh? Are you sure that's your final answer?" Morgan asked as she hugged his neck in comfort.

He pawed at the ground once as if to put his foot down.

"Well, see if I pull the burs out of that tail of yours ever again."

Trojan blew softly.

"Right, I just confessed that I am a bad liar. Ok, fine. So, I'll pick the burs, but you have to confess that Nic's concern and affection for you is almost unnatural."

The horse was the man’s main concern, she was certain, and she could not blame him. Trojan was a fine piece of horseflesh. Gentle when necessary, but he would tear your face off if the need presented itself. That training was reserved for only the finest, and she would love to breed him to some of her stable stock. The outcome would be fantastic.

Taking a deep breath, she reasoned that she had time to find her way back.

After another half hour, she was more than a little nervous. She was walking in circles, remembering that same fallen log from an hour past.

"Yep, I should have listened."

Why had she not listened to him? Taking a couple deep breaths to calm her heart rate, Morgan looked around to take her bearings. She had remembered the morning sun rising to her back as she set off in search of the roots and berries she had bundled in her shirttail.

She needed to be back before Nic even knew she had wandered off.

"There is time, right boy?"

Trojan bobbed his head in agreement just as if he understood her. 

"Now, who's the bad liar?"

Little did she know that Nic was already aware of her
little
disobedience and was oscillating back and forth between frantic and furious. Where could she have wandered off? Fearful to call out, Nic kept his control. If the search party had not cleared the area and he suspected they had not, he could place her into greater danger.

Nic knew from the news in the town tavern the party sent by Lord Brentwood had just left the inn that morning. The best he could discover from the information he gathered was they were continuing to head east. The word was they were looking for the Duchess, and there was a sizable reward for her return.

What worried Nic most was the lack of stipulation of her condition upon return; she only needed to be alive. That said a great deal to him about the uncle who was claiming to want her back. Not to place stipulations on her condition of return all but insured she might come back, but not in one-piece.

The claim was unknown assailants had kidnapped her, plucking her from the tender arms of her distraught and loving uncle. He guessed it would never do for word to get out that Morgan was running of her own free will.

Nic smiled despite himself. It had been a smart move on Morgan’s part to dress the part of a young boy.

What surprised him was her age. She was twenty, not looking a day over fifteen.

"Where the hell is she," he cursed, continuing to track her, and wondering how in heaven and hell one slip of a girl could be so much trouble.

“And by God, where is my horse!” he cursed her further for not following his instructions.

Thankful for the distinctive pattern of the shoe Trojan was wearing, he finally picked up the tracks, all the while, telling himself that she was fine and it would just be a matter of minutes before he found her. Nic was fighting a rising concern, a feeling foreign to him. Surely, it was just fear and concern of losing his horse, he reasoned.

Morgan was more confident. She knew where she was and continued her trek back toward the clearing. As she walked she picked early ripened nuts and berries along the way. Relieved of the fear of being lost, allowed her to become absorbed in the day and the beauty of this forest.

She did not hear the noise behind her.

Once she did there was no time to react.

The men were on her before she could scream, and one placed a filthy hand over her mouth and nose. Holding his blade tightly to her throat, his rank mouth, full of rotting teeth, hovered only inches from her own. She gagged from his breath.

Oh, yes, she should have listened to Nic.

They are going to steal his horse and then Nic is going to kill me for sure, she thought.

It never occurred to her these three men might save him the trouble.

Morgan heard a sharp whistle. And then she heard one of the men scream in pain as Trojan reared and came down sharply, ripping his face off and stomping him repeatedly.  Trojan reared again. His hooves flaying at the second man foolish enough to try and steal him. Neither of the two remaining men gave the dead man any attention. And by some miracle, the man got Trojan calm enough to grab his bridle. 

“’Ey, Gunter look what we ‘ave ‘ere. It must be our lucky day, ol boy. We just found us a fine piece of ‘orse flesh and a sweet young boy to boot. I found ‘im so, I get ‘im first.”

His partner grunted a reply and began to go through Nic’s bags having somehow calmed Trojan to the point of being docile. He was not looking at her, the dead man to his left or her assailant.

The man holding her squeezed her tighter, pulling the blade lightly across her skin. “Open you mouth and make one sound, and I will cut your bloody throat, I will. Be a good boy and it will be over quickly.”

Realization dawned on her, and Morgan began to fight in earnest, realizing his intent was to rape her, even though they thought she was a boy. She was not about to let that happen and certainly not without a fight. She had not managed to escape her uncle just to die in some forest at the hands of this mote scum.

Suddenly Morgan felt her attacker go limp as his body toppled and pinned her under the dead weight. She heard Nic’s voice through the haze and pounding of her blood coursing through the veins.

“Continue to touch what belongs to me and you will die. Just ask either of your friends.”

The statement delivered with no inflection left little doubt in the mind of the would-be thief. This boy was not worth the wrath of a full-blown knight; the horse was another story. In a split second the thug weighed it out and felt the horse was not worth the trouble, either. He dropped the reins of the warhorse and ran.

“Smart man,” Nic said as he watched the thief run back toward town.

“Morgan, are you alright?" Nic rolled the filthy dead man off Morgan and saw what she had yet to feel. "Oh, Sweet Mother of God!”

The blade must have cut her as the thug fell. To him, Morgan looked to be losing blood.

Feeling the weight lifted from her, Morgan began to kick and claw her way past the dead body. Once she was free on her feet, she kicked him repeatedly before Nic could pull her away.

"Morgan, stop! He's dead! Easy, easy," Nic said as she began to fight him. "Easy. Just breathe."

Once Morgan realized it was Nic, she collapsed against him in an adrenalin crash. "Oh, God, he was going to rape me." Her words were muffled into his chest as her knees gave way.

Nic was not about to tell her that after the man raped her he would have killed her. 

Cursing himself, he wondered what the devil he could possibly have been thinking to leave her alone. He should have protected her. There was blood everywhere. He picked her up as if she were a rag doll weighing less than his saddle blanket and took her a few feet away from the filthy corpse. Gently, he set her down on the ground knowing she was in shock. She would feel the pain soon enough as he began to search for the potentially fatal wounds. Discovering the mashed roots and berries in her shirt, Nic realized she was unhurt and just covered in juice.

His concern turned to fury for her disobeying a direct order.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he yelled. And that was just the beginning. He was fierce in his tirade, and Morgan closed down, having no way of knowing that this was his standard release valve after battle. The reaction was not very pretty, but effective in releasing any unused energy not spent on an enemy.

He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration, turning his back to her. He hung his head in an effort to collect himself and regain control. Then realization struck him full force.

“Oh, God, she could have died,” he said softly in stark contract to the rest of his monologue.

He wheeled around to her. “Morgan, those men not only would have raped you, but would have killed you." His heart softened and he got down on one knee. "Morgan, look at me.”

Her eyes were vacant, her mind having fled to a safer place. She did not hear him. It was a safety mechanism perfected over the years, and one Nic had seen often in the untrained soldiers who wer in the grip of shock and denial.

Again he demanded pulling her back to him, “Look at me!”

She finally blinked and raised her eyes to meet his, beginning to hear his words through the haze of the aftermath.

“You are mine to protect. Do not think for one minute to ever defy me again, or I will beat you within an inch of your life!”

He said it knowing he did not mean it. She took the flats of her hands and pushed him away, scrambling back to her feet.

"Go to hell, you sorry bastard!" Morgan said, coming back to reality quickly. She was not taking that from him or anyone else ever again.  Morgan didn't realize she had spoken as she stomped off to find her new horse.

He sighed heavily, following close behind. “Morgan, I’m sorry. I did not mean that. I wouldn't hurt you. I promise, Morgan on my Honor. However, could you not do as I asked? Not even for a few hours? All I asked of you was to stay put."

She looked at him, not knowing what to feel. "They nearly killed you and almost stole my horse.”

 Nic looked at Morgan, knowing had they succeeded on either count, it would have been, indeed, a tragedy. 

He turned to go recover the object of his affection. 

Morgan barely noticed the scenery as they continued to eat up ground. She had not put up a fight as Nic placed her behind him on Trojan.

He had picked up two horses in exchange for Demon. In her mind, that was not a fair trade. She decided not to argue. She had agreed and an agreement was her word. Her newly-acquired mount, which she would soon ride, was pure white and aptly named Salt. The docile and easy going Bay’s name was Vernon. The name fit him because he was a very good boy.