Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (2 page)

She was as annoyed with her body’s reaction as she was embarrassed by
it. She wasn’t interested in female things. She hadn’t been in almost a decade.
She was interested in besting everyone at sling-shot, archery and knife throwing.
She was also competent at hunting, and usually had a daily offering for the hag’s
pot. That was the only reason Elspeth tolerated her. Morgan hadn’t said but fifty
words to her sister since the family’s demise. As far as she was concerned, Elspeth wasn’t a KilCreggar. She was a slut, welcoming any man between her
thighs, before stealing whatever she could from them.
Elspeth wasn’t a very likable sort, but she was definitely feminine. Morgan was
the opposite: proud, terse and hardened. Even Elspeth called her a lad, although of all the villagers, she
knew the truth. She’d ceased teasing Morgan over it, years earlier. It didn’t make them any closer,
because there wasn’t any part of Morgan that she claimed as
female. She wasn’t interested in a man.

She certainly wasn’t interested in this man because he was a handsome man, and a sturdy, brawny one. She was interested in him because he was
the man who was her
sworn enemy.

“Give me your hand.” He brought the horse over to her, and reached
down.

“Why?”

“A good squire never questions his master.”

“
I’ve na’ said I’ll be your squire,” Morgan answered.

“I’ve not asked, either. Your hand? Or would you prefer it hacked off as
a penalty for robbing the dead?”

She gave him her hand. She had to use her own muscles to straddle his
horse’s flank, since all the FitzHugh man did was lift her and fling her over his
shoulder, and then command the animal to be on its way. Morgan didn’t know
how he did it, either. She was keeping her attention on finding a hold to prevent
herself from slipping off.

She had to settle with latching onto the saddle at the sides of his hips. Morgan had never been this close to a man in her life, and never with a live
animal between her legs. She concentrated on keeping the material at her loins
from rubbing her in any fashion. She did it by tensing her thigh muscles and
raising herself above the animal’s flank. It wasn’t easy.
She realized it as the night darkened further, stars came out to litter the sky, and
her leg muscles started complaining.

She was grateful for her size, as her legs were almost the length of
his, and it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been to be splayed wide over
a horse’s backside.

“You might want to seek sleep while you can,” the man said.

“Sleep? Where?”

“
Lean against my back. It works.”

“
You’ll not stop?”

“I’ve enemies. Why would I want to give them another chance at me?”

“Another one?”

“Yonder battle ground was na’ a social call, and I did na’ leave it unscathed.”

“You’ve not a mark on you,” Morgan replied.

He chuckled. “So...you’ve been looking, have you?”

“
Nay, only remarking that you move too fast for an injured man,” she
replied.

“I took a bash to the noggin’. I’ve yet to clear my head. Traveling
through the night is na’ it, though. Take my word.”

“Then, why are we?”

“Enemies abroad, lad. Everywhere.”

Morgan raised her brows at that, and eased herself down to the horse’s
flank with as little ceremony as possible. Her thigh muscles were complaining
with what felt like warm coals inside them, and she realized the futility of it. The
roll of the horse would just have to be tolerated.

She sti
ffened, told herself to ignore the movement, and then she yawned.
It wasn’t as difficult as she’d been thinking it would be. It was sort of nice actually, if
one wasn’t bothered by the masculinity of the man in front of her.

She yawned again.

“Name’s Zander. Zander FitzHugh.”

“Zander?” she asked.

“As in Alexander. Alexander, the Great. Short version. My mother
loves her history. She just has a problem spelling.”

“Zander,” Morgan repeated.
His name is Zander.
She nearly giggled
before she could prevent it.

“You got a name?”

“Aye,” she answered.

“What is it?”

“It is na’ Zander,” she replied with a hoot.

“You want me to make one up for you?”

“Go ahead,” she replied.

“Morgan.”

She started up in shock. “How did you—”

“Your name truly is Morgan?” he asked.
“Fancy that. I’ve a vassal named the same as my horse. Morgan.”

“I’ve na’ said I’ll be your squire.”

“You will. You’ve na’ got a choice. I’ve got many servants of my own.
I have so many it’s becoming something of a problem. There’s few that obey, f
ew who pay attention. I’ve been told I need structure. I don’t know
structure. My mum always tells me I need structure, though.”

“Structure?” She was more than a little mystified.

“I’ve a house to myself, more of an old building no one else wanted. I’ve household serfs to clean, spread rushes and light fires. I’ve bonny serfs to take to my bed. I’ve serfs to fetch and carry, serfs to make my food, and serfs to play
me music. I’ve no serf to see to my horse and my person. Well, I had one.
Yonder battlefield took him. You robbed from the dead, you take his place.”

“This is structure?”

“I probably need a wife. I doona’ want to be shackled to a wife. You know what that would do?”

“
Nay,” Morgan replied.

“
End my play. Wives are na’ tolerant of such.”

“Things like bonny serfs to warm your bed, you mean?”

“You’ve a bonny face, for a lad. They’ll take to yours, too. At least, I
think they will. You ever have a woman?”

“Nay
.” Morgan didn’t giggle, and she was absolutely amazed that she
didn’t. “But, my name is na’ Zander, either.”

“Structure is the death to play. I don’t need structure.” He was starting
to slur his words a bit. Morgan lifted an eyebrow. It wasn’t hard to find his
weakness. He sounded like he had a household full of them. “Do you need
structure, Morgan?”

“I don’t need anything or anyone,” Morgan replied.

He swiveled his head to look at her. “It’s late, I’ve a lump on my head,
and we’re talking structure. You’re a strange squire, Morgan. You got a last
name?”

“Nay,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“My parents lost interest,” she replied.

He chuckled. “Lean on me, lad.”

“I’ll
not need it,” she replied, trying to find a comfortable spot for her chin against her collar.

“I’m not asking for you
r comfort.”

“What?” Her mind must be as fogged as the landscape, because that
made no sense. Morgan scrunched her face.

“I
t’ll create a backrest for me, too. Try it, lad.”

She leaned forward and touched her forehead into the space right below
his shoulder blade. He immediately put so much pressure on her, she rocked
backward with it. He snapped back forward.

“
Try again. This time, put some strength into it. I know you’ve got your
share, albeit your bony appearance. Lean into me.”

This time Morgan
hunched forward against his back, and made a brace for both of them. She didn’t find his weight an issue this time as he leaned back. She simply closed her eyes and slept.

CHAPTER TWO

Dawn cold evidenced itself as dew
on every hair she had on her legs.
Morgan shivered for a moment, and then opened her eyes. She was stiff from the top of her neck to the bottom of her spine, aching
along both thighs clear to her knees, and staring at where her kilt had slid up, showing all and sundry that if she was a male, she wasn’t a very well-endowed
one. She blinked at the sight. Blinked again. Closed her eyes and rubbed them
.

The view didn’t change.

She pushed with her forehead at the same time she pulled the tartan into
her lap, piling it between her and the saddle. The large male body, that had been blocking the dawn, simply stirred forward, then rocked back, right into her abdomen.

His eyes
are blue.

The thought took over as he focused on her with a frown. His
eyes weren’t just blue, they were deep, dark blue, as deep as midnight, and as vast as Creggar’s Loch.

“
You a skelpie?”
he asked softly.

“
Nay. I’m your new squire, my lord,” she answered with a haughty tone.

His frown deepened. “Wha’ happened to the old one?”

“
Battle took him. He fought well.” she replied.

She watched him scrunch his face further.
“What battle?”

It would be easier to answer, if he wasn’t
leaning on her an
d pushing her closer to the horse’s tail at the same
time.

“As near as I could tell, it was reavers being punished.”

“Reavers?”

“
Thieves. Highlanders. Name of Killoren. They any relation?”

“Reavers?” he repeated again.

“I guess they was na’ satisfied with stealing cattle. They had to avenge a taking.”

“Taking?”

“Kill
oren had a lovely daughter. She is na’ more.”

His frown deepened. “They took her?”

“Took her and took her, if you ken my words.”

“Who?”

“Mactarvat. Lowlanders. Large clan. Not much on riches and land, but clan a-plenty they do have.”

“Why?”

“The Mactarvats brew whiskey. Best in the land. They don’t take well to having their whiskey stolen. They did
na’ know it was the Killoren lass they took.”

“That’s the problem with this country. Too many clans fighting amongst
themselves. What we really need is to—” He stopped his words and glared at
her. “You a loyalist?”

Morgan blew the disgust through her upper lip. The horse replied
with his own snort.
“I look like a loyalist?”

“You
rs is the boniest frame I’ve ever set myself against, and with
not an ounce of spare, either.”

“
When you finish with your compliments, you mind setting away from me
for a spell? You’re numbing my legs.”

His gaze sharpened on her.
“Where are we?”

“Atop your horse,” she answered.

“My horse,” he repeated, stating it without question. “We near a tent?”

Morgan looked around. They were not only near a tent, they were
stomping it into the ground. She looked down at the wreckage of poles, cloth,
cooking utensils and smiled wryly. “Aye,” she answered.

“Good. He’s
well trained.” She watched as he pulled himself up with the
saddle horn. “You lie, lad. We’re...not near....”
His voice faded as he seemed to poise for a dive, before toppling full-out
into the remnants of his own cook-fire.

Morgan nearly gave vent to the first dose of amusement she’d felt in
years, then stilled it. They were too close to English soil at present, and she had
a FitzHugh to torment. It was enough for the moment that he was covering
himself with soot at her feet.

Morgan slid clumsily off the back end of horse, told it
not to move, and slid into the trees to take care of her business. When she returned, not only had the horse stayed, but Zander FitzHugh
was still lying atop the pile of ashes, a smile on his handsome face, and a litany of snores
coming from his mouth. Morgan rolled her eyes, thought for half a moment of leaving him, and then sighed. She wasn’t going to toss this gift aside. She’d lost
count of how many times she’d prayed to have the mighty FitzHugh in her power. She wasn’t going to waste any of it running from him.

She was going to enjoy making his life as short and miserable as they’d
made the KilCreggars’. She searched for his bow, took one arrow, and left. Someone was going to have to see them fed, and it wasn’t going to be him.

She had another cook-fire going, a hare roasting and a good dram of
whiskey beneath her belt when Zander FitzHugh next favored her with his midnight-blue gaze. She didn’t even see it; she felt his attention on her, by a shift of the elements, a flare from the fire, or perhaps it was a shake of the leaves
above them. She looked across at him from her perch atop a log, where a small
pile of shavings showed what she’d been doing and met his stare. She didn’t
know it would feel as warming as the whiskey.

Morgan didn’t say a word as he blinked, widened his eyes, and then lifted
his head from the ash-pile, snorting a nose full of the stuff, before coughing
like he had the ague. He had to arch his back in order to wheeze it out. Morgan watched him for a bit, before resuming the carving. She had to suck in on her cheeks to keep quiet, though.

“By
all that’s holy! What the hell happened to me?”

“You’ve been eating ash,” she
said.

“Ash?”

“Ash,” she replied, looking up. The amusement in her voice made his
gaze sharpen on her. Morgan swallowed the bubble of mirth in her throat. It took every bit of her composure not to react to the dark
streaks down his cheeks from his tears, though.

“
How did I get here?”

“You fell.”

“F
ell?”

“Fr
om yonder great beast,” she gestured with her carved icicle. “He’s
well-trained, you said. I don’t know for what.”

He swore, raised himself to his hands and knees, and then stumbled to his feet, wiping uselessly at the gray dust all over him.

“I fell into a fire-pit, and you left me lay there?”

“I could na’ move you. You should’ve found yourself a stouter squire.
Either that, or eat less.”

He glared at her, his eyes blazing from that ash-white face, and Morgan
controlled the shiver. She wasn’t about to be frightened of him.

“
Make yourself useful, and find me another tartan.”

“I already made myself useful. I hunted a hare for your sup, started a
completely new fire pit to roast it in, and carved you a toy to bribe the next bonny
lass into your bed.”

He had his hands on his hips now. He didn’t look amused. Morgan felt
the rush of hair at her neckline warning her of it. She didn’t care. She looked at
him with complete indifference.

“I’ve a tartan for you, too.”

“I like my own fine,” she replied, “and I’ve not said I’ll change just to
please you.”

“You’ll change, and you’ll assist me to do the same, and you’re going to
do it a sight faster than you are right now.”

“You don’t say,” she answered, and had to ignore where he’d moved and
the way he did it. For a large man, he wasn’t easy to follow when he shifted to another spot.
Morgan narrowed her eyes and considered him. He was trained to move quickly
and without attracting notice, just as she was. She just hadn’t seen him do it.

“Get
fresh plaids. I’ll not have KilCreggar sett in my camp. My own clan will string me
up by my thumbs.”

“Why?”

“Are you going to get the kilts, or am I going to have to make you do it?”

“Now, how do you plan on doing that?” She lifted her icicle for
inspection, spinning it this way and that before moving her gaze back to him. It
wasn’t pleasant when she couldn’t find him.

“Brute force,” he replied from behind her left ear, before gripping her about the belt and hurling her to the ground. She skidded along dirt and through the ash he’d been in, her knees taking the brunt of it, then she was rolling to her feet, pulling the nine hidden dirks from her socks. She had them by the blades
when she faced him again, crouching slightly.

“That
’s your response? Toothpicks?”  He motioned to the knife hilts
protruding from between her fingers.

She sang one right to the center of his FitzHugh brooch, and he pulled
back a fraction as it trembled on the dragon’s eye it had speared.

“
Lucky shot,” he taunted, taking a step toward her.

She sent two more to the exact same spot, where he now had three,
looking like a pin cushion sprouting from his chest. He had a bit more respect showing in him now as he lowered to semi-crouch, although it was far shy of the one she was in.

“Y
ou’ll need a bigger blade to stop a FitzHugh, boy. Your prior
master should have learned you that much.”

Her answer was three quick tosses, leaving all three knives embedded into
the hilts of those at his belt. The next one went into his sporran, where a dark
trickle started up.

“That’s good whiskey you’ve hit, now,” he replied. “The punishment is na’ going to be as lenient as a bath and a change of clothing. I may have to take
a strap to that scrawny body of yours.”

“
Back away, FitzHugh,” she said, rotating the final two blades through her
fingers, one in each hand.

“
Why? You’ve not shown me one reason. A fool can toss a knife and
miss even scratching their opponent. You’ve got but two left. You planning on
barbering me next?”

“If I wanted to draw your blood, you’d be bleedin’
,” she said.

“And sows will be flying
,” he answered.

The knife he got for that one sliced the inside tassel off his sock. Her
next one took off the other one.

Zander looked down at himself, and when he looked up, she watched his eyes widen at the three dirks she’d pulled from the back of her belt. She twirled
them, one in her right hand, two in her left. She watched him watch her hands.

She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to draw blood. Not yet.
She knew as well as any that the dirks wouldn’t stop a man his size, unless she
hit something vital, or had some time for him to bleed to death. He’d strangle her before that happened.

She’d always received plenty of respect for her throwing aim before. It had never taken all nine dirks she kept in her socks. She’d never had to resort to using the last three from her belt. She and the FitzHugh started circling, the roasting hare between them. He wasn’t as nonchalant as he was
feigning,
either, for a fine sheen of sweat was starting to make the ash coarse
down his face.

“You ready to cease this, and get my kilt?” he asked.

The knife sliced through the hair beside his ear, taking off a lock. He
didn’t even flinch. Morgan was the one with sweaty palms.

“And yours?” he continued. “I’ve a hankerin’ to see you clad decently, in my own green and blue.
’Tis a bold combination, not one you need hide yourself
from. The lasses like it, too.”

The hair beside his other ear received the same shaving. Morgan began
sweating, herself. She was down to the last one. She’d never been tested this far. The blade was slick with moisture from her palm and hard to hold. None of that
showed, however.

He smiled, and amid the streaked ash
, his face was horrible-looking.
Morgan swallowed.

“I’ve been looking for a good barber, myself. If you’d told me your
leanings, I’d have had a nice trim a-fore this.”

“You have that much a-tween your legs, FitzHugh, that ye laugh at me?”

“
Laugh at you? You’re not worth the time it would take. You’ve one
chance left, lad. I would na’ miss again if I were you. I’ve a slew of ash to wash
off, a fresh kilt to don, a nicely roasted rabbit to eat, and half, nay....” He looked
down at the sporran that was still leaking down his ash-covered clothing, leaving
a dark trail. Then he looked back up at her. His eyes might as well have been black holes, for all the emotion they showed in that ash-white face. “...I’d better
make that a third of a sporran left of me whiskey. Lay aside your blade and assist
me. I’ll give you that one bit of mercy. You won’t like the alternative. Put
down your toothpick.”