Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (5 page)

“A fair? You woke this early to attend a fair?”

“’Tis as good a reason as any. Besides, who needs a reason to attend a
fair? Hurry along.” He walked at a pace that had her jogging, and kept the cord
short to keep her near. “Yonder MacPhee lasses are fair of face, although a bit stodgy for
my taste, but with the proper flirting, they’ll cook you some eggs, too, and not
burn them overmuch. They’ve a dearth of menfolk, too. Lost most of them to
another useless clan skirmish. We’ve got to stop that. We’ve got to combine
our energies to fight our real enemy.”

“The FitzHughs?” she asked.

He stopped and turned, and she plowed into him. She already knew how
solid he was. Her face now knew it, as she hit the side of his jaw. She rubbed
her nose to keep it from bleeding while he looked at her with a look of surprise, and not one bit of pain.

“You follow too close.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve the end of my bond,” she replied.

“You behave yourself, and I’ll take it off.”

“Oh, I live to serve,” she retorted too quickly.

“If I cut this bond, I do it for my own reason. You test me, you’ll not
enjoy it.”

‘‘Nothing about serving you is enjoyable,” she replied.

He grinned. “You’ve a bit of learning to do, but you are quick. I’ll give
you that. Curb your tongue at the MacPhee croft. A squire does na’ toss barbs
at his master.”

“Cut this bond, I’ll curb it.”

He pulled a dirk out and held it to the braided rawhide on her wrist. “I hope I don’t regret this, Morgan, but I’d not like the MacPhee lasses to think us
joined for a reason.”

She shrugged. “Tell them I’m your prisoner. It’s truth.”

“A prisoner wearing my own sett? God, grant me patience!”

“I’ll not test you.” She waited until he raised his head and favored her
with that midnight-blue gaze again. Her entire torso was afire with ache, from
walking at too brisk a pace and not having the chance to relieve herself. She’d
do whatever he required.

“Your word?”

“You have it,” she replied.

He nodded, slit the cord on her wrist, and then his own. She was
r
ubbing hers where it was red and angry-looking before he finished and looped
the cord through his belt.

“Come along, then, and watch yourself. The lass named Lacy likes to use
her hands. Oft.”

He set off at the same pace, and Morgan kept at his heels until he pulled down and halved her deer. He was concentrating on his task, although she knew
he was listening for her. She didn’t go far, but she knew he’d hear her taking nature’s call. He wouldn’t know how she used the time to put the small swath of kilt against her heart and bind herself. S
he was surprised at how much confidence it gained her when the band was in place,
and she no longer bounced and had to endure every rub of her tunic material. She didn’t think she liked anything about being a woman. The restrictive feeling
of her binding reassured her of it. She didn’t want anything to do with Zander
FitzHugh as a male, either. He was merely troubling her because she wasn’t used
to being around a handsome, virile, full-grown man. That was it.

She didn’t care a fig for Zander FitzHugh, other than a means to get to the laird. She didn’t even care if he thought her shy, and she did her best to f
uss
with the front of her kilt as she rejoined him, although she had to ignore his smile.
She had worse things to worry over.
This Lacy likes to use her hands? What
does that mean?
she wondered.

The croft was
not large, but everything about the MacPhee lasses was.
Zander called them a bit stodgy? They looked capable of competing with the cows for girth. There were four of them, too. Four lasses that each outweighed
Zander. They had favorable faces, though. On that, he hadn’t lied. They
looked like competing copies from the same mold, although the fat of their bodies detracted from the green slant of their eyes, the flaming red of their hair
and the fact that they seemed to have all their teeth. She’d never consider
them comely enough for a tumble, if she were really a lad and interested in such
things.

Zander probably hadn’t the same discrimination. She looked to him and
caught his grin. ‘‘We’re going to pay for our breakfast now, boy. Prepare
yourself.”

“
Lasses!” Zander’s voice was loud and full of admiration as he hailed them, and tossed the deer carcass outside their front stoop. “I’ve come to repay
your hospitality, and beg for more of the same.”

They twittered at that, sounding like a gaggle of giggling geese. Morgan
winced. She’d thought the way the hag acted was embarrassing.

One stepped forward, linking her arms through Zander’s. “For
you, Zander FitzHugh, I’ll fry the best scrambled skillet you’ve ever tasted.
Come along. I’ve just the spot to set you.”

“
Oh, Lace. I’ve barely recovered from the last you made for me. There’s not a cook to compete for leagues.”

She giggled at that, and Morgan felt a little of her trepidation leave her. Zander had Lacy, then?

“And who is this? Who have you brought to us, Zander?”

It was asked as the other three ascended from the bowels of their croft to
swarm about her. Morgan’s eyes were wide as she sought Zander, but the great
oaf had already disappeared inside.

“
What is your name?” one asked.

“He’s terribly young.” One of them pinched her upper arm, and then
immediately moved away, like it had been unintentional.

“But he’s handsome. Very handsome. Or, he will be with some meat to
him. What’s your name, boy?”

Morgan stumbled forward as what had to be fingers fondled her backside.
“M
or...gan,” she stammered, and then had to endure a frontal assault, as she was
pulled her into a very large bosom, and then let go before she could react.

“He’s a bit thin. Come laddie, we’ve a hankering to see you well-fed and
satisfied.”

“Very satisfied,” another whispered.

Morgan gasped, and then she was running, easily beating them to their
croft. She stumbled down the three steps into it. Peat smoke blinded her for a
moment, and then her mouth fell open at where the woman named Lacy had her hands. The woman
had more breast than Morgan had ever seen, and Zander wasn’t immune to
holding to one. He also was enjoying Lacy’s hands on the upward tilt of his kilt
from his lap.

And I thought him large last eve,
was her first thought. Then she was propelled forward by another of the girls, forcing her into Lacy, who side-stepped. Morgan slid right atop Zander’s lap, taking the brunt of him in her belly. Stunned shock was what kept her immobile before she reacted, jumping to
her feet like a reaver caught in the act. Then, she was backing into a wall, keeping her eyes anywhere but at him, or any of them. She knew her face was
flaming.

“Behave yourself, Zander. My sisters are about
,” Lacy demurred.

“Aye, forgive me lassie. It’s just the sight of your fair face, coupled with
the delights of your frame, make me dizzy. I’m just a weak man, darlin’.”

He was arranging his kilt, flattening the lump of him as he said it,
while
Lacy put her bodice back in place. Morgan didn’t say a word as they
rearranged their clothing. The room seemed to fill with twittering, giggling girls,
all vying for attention. Then, came the sounds of cooking, a bit of lard sizzling
before a slice of black bread was toasting in it, a slew of feminine whispers.
Morgan couldn’t think beyond listening to each and every sound.

Her eyes moved to Zander. He was looking for it and gestured with his
eyes toward the women. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

Morgan curled her lip.

“He’s young, but he’ll grow,” one of them whispered loudly.

“He’s tall enough already, just needs some fattening. I think he’s sweet.”

“You should feel the strength in his....”

Morgan’s eyes were wide, her pulse was erratic. She had her own array
of muscles in her belly, so Zander wouldn’t have any clue of her gender from the contact they’d experienced, but every single nerve ending she had was aware and
tingling. And the MacPhee lasses were discussing
her?

“You like my new squire, ladies?” Zander spoke over his shoulder, his
eyes never leaving hers.

“He’s your new squire? Oh please, don’t say you’re going to take him
with you, too!”

“His
name’s Morgan. You’ll have to pardon the lad, he’s a bit shy. You
know,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “...untouched.”

“U
ntouched? Truly?”

Morgan panted with the fright as they all looked at her. The smell of
burning gruel on the fire’s log was what stopped them. He was doing this on
purpose, too! She knew by his smile.

“He’s very handsome, Zander. Where did you find such a handsome lad
to squire for you?”

He was still watching her, and she tried to control every reaction. They
were calling her handsome? She’d never gone beyond an occasional glimpse in a
creek. She had no idea what she looked like.
But handsome?
she wondered.

“The same place I find all my squires, ladies. A battlefield. Is na’ that so, Morgan?”

“A battlefield? Truly? How exciting, and how brave.”

Morgan’s eyes were wide as they all looked to her. She knew she was
hot with the flush
and filled with hate at the man causing it. The MacPhee lasses really should have been paying attention to their cooking, though, as the
croft filled with smoke.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Thank the lasses, Morgan, and assure your return.
’Tis the only way we’ll be leaving.”

Morgan stuffed another bite of milk-soaked toast into her mouth and nodded at all of them, without looking at any. She hadn’t any idea food could
taste so good, nor that she could eat so much.

“
My squire is properly thankful, ladies, and I’m certain he’d tell it to you,
if he could keep his mouth empty long enough. As I’ve said before, the greatest
cooks in leagues. Morgan?”

“Aye,” she said, after swallowing, “my thanks.”

“Come along then, lad. We’ve a fair piece to walk.”

Morgan beat him out of the croft. She wasn’t going to be left alone with
those women. It was some moments before Zander joined her, and he had a girl
linked through each arm when he did. She kept backing and waving until Zander could catch up.

“That was uncalled for, lad.”

She had already told herself she wasn’t ever speaking to him again, and
then he had to go and remonstrate her.
Her!
Her back stiffened. She reached
with a fingernail and pulled a wheat piece from her front teeth and spat it out. “Do you have another of those loin-things?” she asked.

His eyebrows raised. “Aye.”

“I’ll be needin’ it.”

“You will?”

“I’ll not have lasses poking and prodding where they’ve no business.”

He hooted at that. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“
You could sit back and enjoy it, too, you ken.”

“You were na’ enjoying Lacy. Otherwise, why would you thank me for
stopping her?”

“
We’ve got a ways to go, and I’ve a bit of posturing and speaking to do.
I canna’ do it with legs that tremble.”

Morgan glanced at him, and wished she hadn’t.
Legs that tremble?
she
wondered.
What does that mean?
He had legs stouter than the tree he’d
rammed her into the previous eve.

He laughed at her confusion. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
“
Lacy is a lot of woman. It takes as much energy to mount her as it does to run a
league’s distance. Maybe more.”

Now, she was gasping.
“Do you think of nothing else?”

She had his confusion now. “Of
course I think of other things. Blood.
War. Drink. Food. But love is at the forefront, lad. It was for me when I was
your age, and it still is. Don’t tell me you don’t hanker, too?”

“Of course I hanker. I just have better taste in women.”

That got him hooting again. They were almost back at his camp, Morgan
noted, hoping the conversation wouldn’t last beyond their reaching it. It was a
forlorn hope, she realized as he dug through a sack and tossed her a length of
white cotton.

“
Lacy may not be the most desirous of lasses, but she makes up for it
with gumption. You need help tying that?”

Morgan turned her back on him, lifted her kilt and started winding the
material about herself. “If I needed it, I’d ask.”

“You
are
shy,” he said. ‘‘Either that, or you’re woefully under-size.”

Her face was flaming again
. “I’m shy,” she answered.

That got her another burst of amusement. She was rapidly tiring of being
his entertainment. “Why doona’ we ride the horse, Morgan?” she asked, hoping
to divert the subject.

“
Because we’re going to look like all other Scot’s. Down-trodden by the
English, with little more than the clothing on our backs, and the humility of our
bowed heads.”

“I thought the FitzHughs were in bed with the Sassenach
.”

“
My brother is. He’s the idea the clan will be safe that way. He will na’
listen to anyone. He lays the dignity of FitzHugh at the feet of the English trash,
and wonders why he’s na’ looked in the eye, anymore.”

“And you d
oona’ believe the same?”

“I detest everything about the English. Especially their laws, but we Scotsmen curse ourselves rather than our true enemy. We spill our own blood,
instead of theirs. You carry any weapon beside that sling?”

Morgan lifted her left arm, surprised he’d figured out what the leather
straps about her lower arm were, and disgusted at herself for letting her sleeves
ride up as she finished with her loin-wrap. “You have my dirks,” she replied.

“Aye. Until
I’m assured of your loyalty, they’ll be safer with me.”

“Nay, you’ll be safer with them there
.”

“Change of words, same meaning. You ready
?”

Morgan adjusted the front of her kilt over the loin-thing. It actually made
her look like she had a bit more substance where she needed it, too.

“Aye,
” she replied.

“Good. Follow me
.”

He was already taking his large strides from her. Morgan broke into a jog
behind him. He was but five inches taller, but had the walk of a much larger man.
Either that, or she’d no inkling of how a grown man could walk.

“So tell me, Morgan lad
,” he turned his head sideways to ask as they
left the trees and started across a knee-high field of grass, “...just what sort of
lass are you looking to make a man out of you?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and looked at his back. “One with a bit of shape to her.
”

“The MacPhee lasses have shape. They have handfuls of the stuff
.”

“They’re like sows, with teats to match.
”

“You canna
’ lie, Morgan. I saw where you were looking.”

He did?
she wondered.
He saw, and he had it wrong?

“And Lacy has a strong pair. Ripe-feeling. Just the kind—
”

“I like a lass with some leanness to her. I would
na’ want to fall off her,”
Morgan interrupted him, before she had to hear more of Lacy’s charms.

He chuckled and turned his head back again. ‘‘Describe your lass,
” he
said.

Morgan rolled her eyes. He truly didn’t think of anything else. The lads
she been leading hadn’t been so one-minded, or if they were, it was a well-kept secret. Then again, she rarely was forced to keep company with them for as long as
she had been Zander, without a break of some kind.

“
Well?” he prompted.

“H
air like this tunic-weave you’ve thrust on me, so she can pull a curtain
of it about us. Sweet lips, fair of face. I think I’d like lean hips, long lengthy
legs, a slender waist. It will na’ matter if she’s buxom, or no, I’ve no hankerin’
for that sort of thing.”

He shook his head. “Trust the young.”

“You ask my idea of a woman, and then you mock it? Dinna’ ask again.”

“
I’m not mocking you, lad. I’m simply wondering at why you save
yourself for a nymph that does na’ exist.”

“This is the woman
I’ll have. When I meet her, I’ll know.”

“
Have? Jesu’, lad! Women are for taking, not having. I can see your
learning will have to include women. There’s women a-plenty out there for the
taking. Taking, lad.”

“I’ll na’ take a woman by force,” she answered, grimly watching the
muscles of his back through the one shoulder his plaid wasn’t covering.

“I dinna’ mean that. A woman needing forcing is a chore, not a feast.
Remember that. Woman can be made ripe for the tasting, or they can be bitter to
the core and stiff. If a woman is that, let her be. That’s my advice.”

“Where is this fair we’re attending?” Morgan was starting to feel the
stitch in her side from the huge breakfast she’d consumed, and her steady jogging was making it bothersome.

He laughed again. “Alongside that vale. Keep your eyes on it, lad, you’ll
see a burn, and then the entire field will be awash with tents.”

“I
dinna’ see...”

Her voice faded as what she’d assumed to be boulders became the
rounded tops of tents constructed from sack-cloth.

“
What is it, lad?” He stopped and she joined him.

“Tents. Scores of
them.” She pointed.

He was squinting and then turned to her. “You can see them?”

“Aye,” she answered.

His brows raised. “That could be part of your secret with knives and
taking game. Your sight.”

She turned and stared at him. “You canna’ see it?” Then, it was her turn
to chuckle. “You? The great Zander FitzHugh...a poor sighted man? No
wonder you think the vast wench, Lacy, worth tumbling.”

“
I’ve na’ said I was great, nor did I say I found her worth more than my
breakfast.”

“But,
you were...I mean, you had....” Her face was flaming again, and the look
on his face made it worse.

“If I had na’ had that response, it would ha’ been an insult. I thanked you
for a reason, lad. Rescue.”

“I d
oona’ understand.” She was mystified and sounded it.

“Grow a mite, and I’ll find a wench to show you. Come. Pull that
sling from your arm, and warm it. A cold leather does na’ have the right feel to it, and I want you showing off.”

Morgan was surprised again. “You know that?”

“A Scotsman was na’ allowed weapons a-fore Robert the Bruce
championed us and crowned himself king. We can still be imprisoned if caught
using them. You know the Sassenach laws.”

“You can sling a stone?”

“I’m capable,” he answered, starting his pace again.

“And, what...do you mean? Showing off?” She was jogging again, so the question came in the span of three breaths.

“There’s bound to be contest, lad. I’ve a wish to put my squire up
against their best stoner.”

“
I’ll na’ sling stones for you.”

“You any good with that, or do you wear it to entice the ladies to look at
your scrawny arms?”

Scrawny arms?
Morgan wondered, trying to curb the insult from showing
on her. She had well-developed and tanned arms. She could do a hundred
push-ups, and take down any of her lads in an arm wrestle. And Zander FitzHugh called them scrawny? “I’m as good with it as I am with my dirks. Maybe better.”

“Just as I suspicioned. On your toes, lad. We’ve been sighted.”

Morgan looked up at the thirty-some-odd men cresting the hill and coming head-on at them. Unconsciously she stopped her pace and stepped a bit to the back of Zander. They were approaching a Scottish gathering, and wearing
FitzHugh colors? They were going to be surrounded and captured, maybe even
stoned themselves.

“FitzHugh?” One of the leaders bellowed

“Zander.” He bowed deeply. “Of the Highland FitzHughs. Doona’
mistake me for my eldest brother.”

“We’ve heard of you, Zander. You may approach. You can bring your
frightened boy with you, too.”

Zander’s glance said enough of his disgust that Morgan didn’t have to guess what he thought. She set her lips and stepped out from behind him. She’d
never done anything so insane before. She’d been the only one in her village
brave enough to challenge the ghosts of the dead! Yet now she had acted so
completely against her character, she didn’t know what to think.

She hung her head a bit, then raised it. She had acted like a frightened rabbit for a moment or two, when she hadn’t done anything like that in more
years than she could count. It was Zander’s fault, too. He had her dirks.

“Smart lad,” Zander whispered. “They’ll na’ suspect your expertise if
they expect fear.”

Morgan’s face split with
a grin, then she stopped in her tracks. She was
smiling because the kin of her mortal enemy praised her? She was
going insane! She pulled the sling-shot from her wrist and started stretching it as she
jogged to catch up with them.