by Jackie Ivie
She turned and walked over to his pile of clothing. She didn’t know what the matter with her was. She wanted to keep her braid, yes, but at what cost? Her own self-respect? She picked up the clothes with a vicious gesture. She wondered what his reaction would be if she hacked her own braid off while he slept, but she knew she wouldn’t do it.
She was supposed to be tormenting him, threatening him with her skills, and she was failing miserably. Not only was he unabashed by her knife-throwing accuracy, but he was using her own plea against her. To add insult, he thought her a manly boy! Tears of anger glittered in her eyes when she returned to him and dumped the clothes on the ground at his feet: anger at her own thoughts. She wanted him to think her a manly boy! What woodland sprite was stealing her wits?
“This is a loin-wrap.”
He pulled a length of the white linen material and held one end of it to his right hip. Morgan tried to act interested in what he was showing her, rather than interested in what it looked like he was displaying for her. He had warmed, too, and that had an enlarging effect on...everything. She forced herself to watch his hands, and not any other part of him, and didn’t hear a word of his lecture over her own pulse.
He took the material once around his waist, then in a loose fashion, he went down the front, between his legs and around the back. Then he was wrapping it around the left hip, between his legs again, and around the back. He ended at his right hip where he tied the ends together. He didn’t leave anything she could have hit with her blade. Morgan stared at the finished product.
“That is na’ very Scot,” she finally replied.
“True. It’s also not very manly, if you ask the right Scotsman.”
“Do other lairds wear such?”
“I doona’ know. I doona’ care, either.”
“Truly?”
He looked up at her, and Morgan’s heart nose-dived into her belly. She very nearly put a hand to the spot to stop it. There was no sense to any of this. She had no use for men. She had no use for being female. She wasn’t going to rest while this man lived. She had already vowed it. She was going to do her best to eliminate the laird of FitzHugh from the world, and gain herself every true Scotsman’s thanks for so doing. She certainly wasn’t going to stand rooted to the spot while he showed her an outlandish-looking swathing, much like a bairn might wear.
The thought made her giggle.
“Something amuses you?” he asked, putting both hands on his hips and leaning just enough that despite the loin-wrap, none would mistake him as unmanly or small. Morgan swallowed.
“I’ve seen bairns wearing much the same, FitzHugh.”
“You address me as Zander, or I’ll make you use my lord. You ken?”
“Certainly, my lord. As your forced vassal, let me tell you then that you’ve lent your manhood to the fairies to wear such a thing.”
‘‘Perhaps,” he shrugged.
“Perhaps?”
“Let me put your mind to rest, Squire Morgan. I wear a loin-wrap only when I’m abroad near our borders, and trodding onto battlefields such as we left last eve. When I’m at my glen, I’m as Scot as any man.”
“I doona’ understand,” she replied.
“The English know our ways. They know the best place to weaken a man to save for torture, much like you did. They know.”
Her brow knit with the frown. The FitzHughs were in league with the Sassenach. They always had been. Most clans that survived were paying fealty to the crown of England.
He cleared his throat. “Now, you know why you dinna’ hit anything vital. I had it protected. Assist me with the rest now. I’ve a burned rabbit to whet my appetite, and then venison to finish it.”
She reeled at his words. “You knew?” Her eyes went wide. She’d skinned and hung it a goodly distance from his camp. Then, she’d set the hide out to begin drying. She didn’t know he’d been gone long enough to find it.
“I knew.”
“I dinna’ lie when you asked. You asked my talent with a bow. My talent is na’ with just the bow. ‘Tis with the arrow.”
He smiled at her. Morgan gulped in air at the sight.
“I’ll try to be more accurate in what I ask. The hide has no mark I noted. Where did you take it down?”
“The eye,” she replied.
His eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You that good?”
She nodded.
“From what distance?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I doona’ know for certain. I never had it paced off. I bring down what I aim at. The distance is na’ a part of it. If it’s too far off, I don’t shoot.”
He whistled, and she watched him pick up his own tunic, but he didn’t put it on. “I begin to think you are a very good squire after all, Morgan, of no surname or clan. I’m also thinking you’re handy enough to dig these thistles from my side, too, and I’m damn tired of pretending they don’t exist.”
He lifted an arm, and showed her at least a dozen reddish areas where a deeply imbedded spine still poked. Her eyes went wider on what had to be extremely aggravating and painful to him, and then she looked up at his face.
He winked, and coming from his handsome face, that was even worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sun was not yet up when Morgan was awakened. It wasn’t a pleasant experience and she knew Zander FitzHugh didn’t mean it to be. He’d grabbed hold of her braid and yanked, until she found wobbly legs beneath her, and stood blinking, without recognition.
“Don’t test me with your laziness, Squire Morgan.”
She lifted her hands to rub at her eyes, but was stopped by the cord about her right one. She narrowed her eyes at him, and looked to where he’d pulled on the other end, bringing it close to his shoulder. His stance said it for him. He wasn’t allowing her one inch, and she knew why. She took a step closer in order to reach her own eye sockets.
When she was finished, she stepped back, to consider him. He’d cursed and ranted at her over the pain she was showering on him last eve, and looked none the worse for it, she decided.
“You look awful pleased with yourself, Squire.”
“I dinna’ ask to be your squire, nor will I stay as one. I said as much last eve, I recollect.”
“You said much, and promised more. You’ll stay now. You’ve no choice.”
“No choice?” she spat. “I’d rather serve a poucah.”
“You’re wearing FitzHugh sett, and you dinna’ pay for it. I demand payment for such fine cloth. I will take payment with your service to me.”
Her gritted teeth didn’t stop the angry sound she made from deep in her throat. She knew it was frustration. It didn’t help that he knew it, too. “I’ll not stay and serve you for clothing I was forced to wear once my own were lost to me!”
“I saw no one forcing you to disrobe last night. What mean you by this force you accuse?”
He was enjoying her impotence. She could see it in every breath he was taking as he folded his arms, pulling her arm up with the motion as he regarded her. Morgan took a deep breath, held it, then eased it out. “Did you wake me to serve you, or bandy words with you?” she asked from between her teeth.
“I woke you because we’ve some distance we have to travel, and not all morn to do it in. You were sleeping well past what I expect of my squire. I’ll not be so lax with my punishments in future, either.”
Morgan’s eyes flared. She should have been quicker at escaping last night. She should have known when she started lancing the pus-pockets his thistles had been in that he’d not let her go. She should have had a plan before running from him. He’d been in pain, half of which she’d delivered purposely with each twist of her knife, and he was still fast enough to catch her. She wondered anew how he did it.
“I dinna’ ask to be your squire, and I doona’ want it.”
He ignored her outburst. “A good squire awakens before his master and sees that all is prepared for his day. We’ve a bit of learning to get under your belt, don’t
we?”
“I’ll not stay and learn from you, or for you.”
“You’ll stay and pay for your clothing. If you agree to that much, I’ll grant you leave once you’ve done so.”
“But I dinna’ ask for it,” she repeated again.
“Then, divest yourself of it, and leave. I’ll not stop you.”
She glared at him. “But you kicked my own into the burn! No doubt it’s joined the sea by now,” she said.
“’Tis likely. You ready to grant me service?”
“I’ll need my freedom to do so, won’t I?” She snarled and made a fist out of the hand stretched between them.
“You have your freedom. I look about and I see freedom. What mean you about this freedom you lack?”
“I have three feet of room from you.”
He chuckled. “’Tis as far as I can trust you.”
“If I give my word that I’ll stay, will you release me?”
“No,” he replied, without hesitation.
Morgan clenched her teeth. “No?’ she repeated, then again with more stupefaction. “No?”
“I canna’ trust you, lad. Show me something to trust, and I’ll reconsider your bondage.”
She couldn’t possibly be tied to him until that happened! Morgan’s eyes probably showed her panic. She had yet to bind her breasts, and although she wasn’t a buxom size, the pre-dawn cold was giving her trouble. He’d be certain to discover for himself why. It wouldn’t be hard to ferret out her gender. Once he did that, she knew what would happen. He was too large a size to fight, and he’d already told her what he liked most was a woman who was a maid. She added to that thought. He’d already said she looked untried. She’d be ravished if she stayed tied to him and allowed him the truth. She’d be raped when she fought. She didn’t have to wonder over it either; she knew. He’d have every bit of the KilCreggar clan then. She swallowed. She couldn’t stay tied to him!
“I dinna’ kill you…last eve,” she answered, grimacing slightly over the waver in her voice.
He considered her for a moment. “Not for lack of trying.”
“I could have put every one of my dirks into a vital part and you’d have bled to death,” she pointed out.
“And since that failed, you decided to twist out every one of my thorns and cut me to make certain of it. I still bear the brunt of your handiwork.”
He lifted his shirt and tunic, pulling the inner layer from the scabbing all along his side. Morgan looked with him, and had the insane thought that she hoped she hadn’t scarred him. She kicked that stupidity aside. She had vowed to make him pay for the slaughter and defamation of the KilCreggar clan. What use would his dead body have for unblemished skin?
“You had poison to each thistle. If I had na’ lanced them, you’d be suffering from the ague and moaning with the pain.”
“And you’d be suffering my hand for leaving me lay in ash all day and allow them to fester.”
“You near drowned me for that already.”
“No. I dunked you for disobedience.”
Morgan set her lips, stiffened her shoulders and looked across at him. The sun had lightened the sky while he stood, amusing himself with her words. The warmth was dissipating the remnants of mist, allowing her a better view. She had to swallow around her own response to the sight of his broad chest before he pushed his shirt back down and tucked it beneath his kilt.
She cleared her throat. “You woke me to serve you, Master? Very well, what is your bidding? What service do you require first?” she asked, in a sarcastic tone.
He grinned. “Aye, I need to be serviced. I’ve a need for a good draught from my sporran of whiskey to drink, if it still held liquid; a bowl of gruel in my belly; and a moment to relieve myself. You can grant me all of that?”
She looked across the span of three feet as levelly a possible. “I’ve no talent for cooking,” she replied finally, “and I’m not about to learn.”
His answer was a hearty laugh. She wondered why. “You stubborn still? Doona’ say I haven’t warned you.”
“About what, now?” she replied.
“You want release from your bond, you’ll learn what I tell you to learn.”
She sucked in the breath, held it, then let it out slowly. It still wasn’t working. She couldn’t best him with strength, and until she had her dirks back, she wasn’t going to try. “Very well, Master Zander, I’ll learn to make gruel. What is the stuff made of?”
That got her another laugh. “As it happens, we’re camped not far from a MacPhee croft. The lasses there cook a fine pot of gruel. They’ll not think it amiss if I need to purchase another breakfast. I’ll barter for it with some of the venison you provided.”
“’Tis my own to barter with,” she answered.
“You took it with my bow and arrow. You serve me now. I am your master. Everything you have is mine. Everything.”
His words were making every part of her feel like was jumping. Morgan frowned at such a sensation. ‘‘What have I done to deserve the likes of you? What?”
“I doona’ know, lad. Been poor long enough, I reckon.”
“I’ve no wish to be a squire.”
“You ever been one?” he asked.
“Nay,” she answered.
Then how do you ken you will na’ like it?”
“If it’s anywhere near you, I will na’ like it,” she answered.
He sighed hugely, his chest rising and falling with it. She watched it. “You were sorely in need of the employment, if your skinny hide, tattered sett, and hole-filled boots were any indication. You also have no family, or if you do, you doona’ claim them, and let’s not forget that you forced me to do it.”
“Forced?” She didn’t have to pretend the confusion.
“You tried to rob my dead body. That calls for action.”
“I dinna’ rob anyone, dead or no.”
“You lead robbers, therefore you are one.”
She hung her head a moment, allowing him the victory. He’d earned it, for she’d thought much the same every time she had to do it. “There’s bound to be dozens of young FitzHugh clansmen to choose from, for the honor of serving their laird. Why me?”
“Look about you, lad. We’re leagues from FitzHugh land. There’s a shortage of my clansmen at present, and I’m na’ the laird. My brother is.”
She was reeling, and it wasn’t from the shock. It was from the despair that opened right in front of her eyes until she couldn’t see him. She closed her eyes to keep it in. She’d vowed since the age of eleven, to avenge the KilCreggars. She’d honed a skill at knives, swords, sling-shot, bow and arrow, any weapon at her disposal, just so she could accomplish that one thing. She was prepared and willing to die with the deed, too.
That meant taking their laird, The FitzHugh. Taking him and slitting his throat, and leaving him to bleed every drop in honor of the KilCreggar clan. She’d been trying to find her courage, and hating herself just last night for not having taken him when she had it gifted to her. She still didn’t know why she hadn’t, although she was beginning to suspect.
Morgan gulped, trying to suppress what it was before she had to face it. She wasn’t used to being female, and he was more male than she’d ever been near. She was having to fight a response her body was woman enough to feel, and every prolonged moment in his company was making it intensify, and now she finds out he wasn’t even the laird?
He was speaking when she opened her eyes again. She watched him. He might not be the laird, but he was the means of getting to him. She’d use Zander to do it and force herself to stifle any reaction to being near him. All of which meant that she wouldn’t fight herself free of him, after all. She wondered how to convince him of it.
“...must have thought myself desirous of company, and you were the handiest one about. Now that I know your lack of nursing skill, I’d have lief just taken your hand for stealing from the dead and ridden away.”
“I was na’ stealing from the dead. I get tired
of repeating it, and I have great skill with a knife, just not on your thick hide.”
“I grow tired of your tongue, too, as tired as I am of your laziness. Relieve yourself. We’ve a gathering to attend.”
And, so saying, he parted his kilt. Morgan averted her face, felt the huge blast of heat to her entire body, and cursed herself for that reaction as he finished. “I’ve no need,” she replied stiffly.
He glanced sidelong at her, and waited until she looked. “You have the sickness?”
“I’ve no fever, if that’s your worry.”
“You’ve a flush to your skin and no need to do what every other man needs to. Both signs of the fever.”
Morgan’s eyes dropped. He’d noticed the blush she’d have given anything not to show? She was going to have to suppress that, too, and she didn’t know enough about a blush to be able to stop one, or even if it was possible.
It was stupid, too. It wasn’t as if she’d never been around lads before. She’d been working and living beside them for years. They just lost significance next to Zander FitzHugh, and for the first time in her life, she was afraid of why.
“If you’ve finished bandying words, come along.” He didn’t ask. He yanked on the cord and Morgan moved. ‘‘We’ve a deer to fetch, a breakfast to purchase and some ground to cover. There’s a fair at Bannockburn. There’ll be many clans represented. I’ve hankering to be there.”
“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.
