Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “They have sacks for such a problem. I will fetch them while you change. Get in there now. Get the dress on. Plato will help. We have little time as it is! I’ll be right back to paint you.”

  “Morgan?” Plato was gesturing into the chamber of her transformation. Morgan found her feet wouldn’t move. “You can always use your own teats,” he finished.

  ~ ~ ~

  She had her back to the crowd when the third act opened.

  They had torches lit all about the Hall, sending smoke-filled light about, but the stage had a stranger lighting system yet. Someone had filled a big caldron with oil, put wicks in it, and then lit them. The combination of lights swelled into a clearer, brighter whole, and it shined on the rippled length of Morgan’s hair as she sat, posed on what was supposed to be a balcony, but was, in fact, two logs cross-hatched into two other logs, with a stone-colored tapestry draped over them.

  The dress she’d been forced to wear was of burgundy-colored velvet. It was too short, it was too big, and it was old. It had sweat-stains where the sleeves were laced on, and the white linen collar cascading from the low-cut, squared neckline, had more than one stain on it. Plato had immediately decreed that the dress was too loose, as if that was its only fault. Morgan had stood helplessly while he took a length of black cording and crisscrossed it about her ribcage and down to the flare of her hips, leaving the slender waist she’d always hidden completely outlined. She only hoped her hair hid it.

  The Lady Gwynneth had told her she was entrancing, whatever that was, and proceeded to put so much greased color on her face, she itched. Morgan had never felt so different. She had never felt the swish of skirts about her ankles, the feel of air on skin above her bodice, nor the rub of velvet against her own, unbound breasts.

  The last was her own fault!

  Morgan didn’t ponder the why of her actions, she only knew she was experiencing what it felt like to be female for the one and only time in her life, and when Gwynneth brought the foul-smelling bags that draped from a cord behind her neck, Morgan had known she wouldn’t wear them. She had stepped behind her screen, and tossed them into the corner with the moldy rushes, and she had untied her own binding, replacing it on her knee, where the dragon blade and KilCreggar plaid, even now, rested.

  She hadn’t questioned them about unbinding her braid. It would work well as a curtain, she hoped. She hadn’t counted on the ripple once it was brushed, since Sally Bess had braided a tight, inter-twined affair just that morning. There was no mirror to see the transformation, but Morgan knew there was one. She knew it by the look of satisfaction in Plato’s eye, and the looks of the others when she took her place behind the curtain.

  There was complete and utter silence when the curtain parted for Act Three. Morgan waited for her cue. She had never been so frightened in her life.

  “What is my daughter doing on that stage? Stop this immediately! No woman walks the boards!”

  Morgan recognized the earl’s voice. Then Plato answered. “’Tis the FitzHugh squire, Morgan, My Lord. Calm yourself. Your daughter sits at your side. That isna’ a woman. That is the champion, himself. I swear. See the silver wrist bands? I dressed him myself.”

  Then, there was a loud commotion and someone told Zander to sit back down, and cease blocking the view. The four lads in the play came in from the back of the stage, and Morgan waited for her first line. When it was time, she swiveled to face the audience, and said in the highest tone and with the most mockery she could use, “Well and well, lads.”

  There was laughter at her delivery. She could sense that much, and then Zander FitzHugh was ordered to sit back down again. This time by his brother. Morgan narrowed her eyes to see him through the tint of black smoke rising from their caldron.

  She wished she hadn’t, for she didn’t need paint for how pale she went the moment his eyes touched hers. Nor was he in the back in the audience. He was on the front row, and rising again.

  Plato had to pull him back down that time, and use words to reach him. The play was continuing about her, but Morgan had no sense of space or time. It was lucky she had no further lines that Act. All she had was the all-consuming gaze of the man fifteen-odd feet from her, and displaying such masculine desire and passion, every person in the room had to be aware of it. Morgan certainly was.

  Her eyes did not move from his until the curtain closed with the same stuttering movement it used to open. She was not needed until Act Five, so she went back to her antechamber to await. Phineas was the FitzHugh waiting for her there. Morgan looked at him from the doorway, and watched him smile. And her mind went absolutely black.

  “Can I get that kiss now?” he asked.

  Then, she was running. She didn’t care where, or how far. She was brought up short by Plato, and his restraining arms about her middle did nothing except gain him a struggle.

  “Hold, Morgan! Hold! You canna’ go out into the masses like this! You canna’! Stop! They will na’ know the illusion. They will na’ know the part you play! There are too many. They will discover the truth, and take what belongs to my brother! Cease!”

  His brother? At the recollection of a horror so vast, the struggling began anew. Plato tightened his arms, squeezing off her breath, and making his own labored and harsh.

  “Morgan, cease this! I will hurt you if you doona’ cease this! Cease this, I say! Cease this! Damn you! I will na’ let you do this to my brother. I will na’! Now, cease this and get back into the play. Zander will be expecting you. He is close to seeing the truth for himself. Do you ken, Morgan? He is seeing it for himself. You canna’ run from that.”

  “The FitzHugh...,” she whispered.

  “Aye. Zander FitzHugh. He loves you, lass.”

  “Lass?” she repeated, whispering the word.

  “You doona’ look much like a lad in this. You doona’ feel like one, either. If the crowds outside see this, you will na’ remain innocent long. They will tear you apart. You ken?”

  “Zander?” she whispered again.

  “You’ve quieted. Thank the heavens. I would na’ like to hurt you, but if Zander sees me, with you, like this, he will be hurting me. You ken?”

  Rivulets of emotion cascaded over her, and Morgan grew stock-still. Zander FitzHugh was the FitzHugh she loved. Zander. It was his brother Phineas whom she would kill.

  “Zander?” she whispered again.

  “He is a devil to keep hold on, and he’ll be storming the stage next. I would na’ wander far next time.”

  “Next time?” she questioned.

  “The play isna’ finished.”

  “I will na’ finish it,” Morgan replied. She knew now what she was going to do. And acting like a woman in a silly production wasn’t it.

  “You will finish it. You will finish all of it.”

  “You canna’ force me, Plato FitzHugh. Now unhand me.”

  He had her gripped with both arms and held against his chest, and off the ground, and his arms were every bit as hard and muscled as Zander’s were. He probably had just as thick a chest, too. “I can more than force you, lass. I can take you. Any man you come across, dressed like this, can. You ken?”

  “Where is my feile-breacan? My shirt? My boots, then?”

  “In my possession. You be a good girl and finish this, and I’ll see them given back. You have my word.”

  Morgan closed her eyes. The experience of being held in Plato’s arms wasn’t pleasant, she decided, and it wasn’t unpleasant. It just wasn’t anything. She opened her eyes.

  “You’re every inch a lass, too,” he whispered when her eyes met his. “You are very desirable, too. I see my brother’s attraction, but I doona’ see his blindness. You ken that much, too?”

  “Put me down,” she responded. “Or I’ll tell of this.”

  “It might be worth having my throat slit by Zander if you tell. You’ve teats, too. I can feel them, just as I can feel how your heartbeat quickens when I speak like this.”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed
further and she pulled her lips back. She was rapidly deciding that she didn’t like anything about being a woman. “Doona’ think me stupid, FitzHugh. I will na’ tell my master, Zander. He may not believe me, and if he does, I’ll have brothers split asunder. I will tell your lass, Gwynneth, of this.”

  His eyebrows rose. Then, he had her on her feet, one hand on her elbow. “You guessed?”

  “Aye. It is your rotten luck she is spoken for, though. And wedding your brother in two days hence.”

  His features stiffened. “You can stop the wedding, Morgan.”

  “Me? What power do I have?”

  “You have every power. You doona’ speak, but you change everything. Release her. Release Gwynneth from her betrothal.”

  “I canna’. I had naught to do with it.”

  “You did, and you must. Only you can do it. You know this.”

  “Why should I help a FitzHugh?” she asked. ‘‘Especially one who tricks me, steals my proper clothing, and dresses me thusly?”

  “I’m begging you, Morgan. I love her.” Plato had blue eyes, too. He had light brown hair, not unlike Zander’s. He didn’t have the cleft to his chin, nor the full lips, nor was he any taller than herself, but he had every bit of the same sincerity Zander possessed. Morgan swallowed.

  “You love her?” she repeated in wonder. “And does she return this love?”

  “Aye,” he answered.

  “Then, how can she give herself to Zander?”

  “She has no choice. The earl made the betrothal. By rights, I would be first choice, but I was too slow. Where do you think Zander found Phineas and me? Right here. I was leading up to asking for my love’s hand, and then my brother comes riding up to search us out and receives her hand in marriage from her father. I dinna’ know what he was up to, or I would have stopped him.”

  “I am sorrowed for you all,” Morgan replied, “but I repeat. I had naught to do with it, and I canna’ stop it.”

  “Show him what you are, Morgan. Give him what he needs. He does na’ need Gwynneth. He does na’ even see her when she is right beside him. You canna’ do this! Have you no heart?”

  “If I ever had one, it was taken from me, and it was a FitzHugh that did the taking.”

  “Make it whole again, then! Give Zander what he needs, what you both need. Please? I beg it of you.”

  “A FitzHugh begging me?” she questioned. “A squire of no-name and no-clan?”

  “I would beg the devil himself for my lovely Gwynneth. You doona’ understand the power of love, or you would know!”

  He was shaking with emotion. Morgan looked across at him, and smiled sadly. “’Tis na’ what you think, Plato,” she whispered.

  “Zander loves you. You love him. I am not blind. Go to him after the play. Show him, Morgan!”

  “I canna’,” she replied.

  Plato dropped her arm and cursed her. Then he glared at her. Then, he spit at her feet. Morgan watched him do it with a strange sort of detachment.

  “Gwynneth has vowed to take her life before she lets him touch her.”

  Morgan paled. She was actually grateful for the paint that hid it. ‘‘Everything that lives dies, Plato,” she responded automatically.

  “But it does na’ have to happen! You can stop it! Please?” He had ceased reviling her and his eyes filled with tears. “Please?”

  Morgan turned away. “I canna’ stop the lass from what she feels she must do,” she said softly.

  “Damn your soul to Hell, Morgan.”

  “’Tis already done, FitzHugh. You canna’ make it worse,” she whispered. “You can only repeat what already will be.”

  “Then I curse you. I curse you, Morgan of no-name and no-clan. I curse you to abide in Hell for eternity, one far worse than the one you have created on earth!”

  Morgan swallowed. Her shoulders slumped. It didn’t change anything. Nothing did. “I have created nothing, Plato. I have simply been. I was nothing before. I will return to nothing. You, Zander, Gwynneth, all have your own lives to finish, no matter how long or short they turn out to be. I will na’ be here to witness it.”

  “Oh, you’re wrong there. I’m going to make certain of it. If he weds her, and she takes her life, I’m going to make certain you endure every moment of how it will feel. Every single damned one. I vow it.”

  If he said another word or made another plea, her eyes weren’t going to be able to hold back the moisture. She was going to ruin the dried black soot outlining her eyes, and make it run all down the grease paint Gwynneth had painted on her face. She was going to do all of that, and every KilCreggar killed by a FitzHugh would still be dead.

  She waited, forcing her heart to calm, and her vision to clear. The time was almost at hand. If she took her vengeance before the wedding, the lady Gwynneth wouldn’t take her life. Plato FitzHugh might still have a chance at gaining the lovely lady’s hand. Phineas was going to be rotting in hell, though. Morgan was going there too, to assure it.

  She straightened, blinked the moisture away and did her best to achieve complete detachment before turning back to him.

  “Come, Plato, you have wasted too much time. I will miss my lines, and ruin this part you have forced on me. I must return now. I must continue living until I complete my own vow.”

  “Does nothing I’ve said sway you?”

  “When the final curtain falls, you are to get me my garments back. I will na’ be caught again dressed like a weak woman and prey for any man. I want my kilt and tartan back, and all my dirks. I want an escort back to Zander’s rooms. I will na’ leave Zander’s rooms until the deed is done. You ken?”

  “You will na’ reconsider?”

  “Nay,” she answered.

  “But, why? Why?”

  Morgan wasn’t going to answer that. She wasn’t going to look back into the farthest reaches of her memory until she had to. Now that she knew exactly what was there, she didn’t need to hide from it in dreams. But now wasn’t the time.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Finishing the play was the exact form of torture she’d been telling herself it would be. Plato was back beside Zander, although where one of the FitzHughs looked to her with a combination of pain, panic and lust, the other glared only hatred. And the one she was going to kill showed nothing in those light blue eyes, just like he always did.

  The play continued, even without her participation. It was a good thing, too, for she missed her line, and the lads simply acted around it. She did nothing except sit on her perch, look out on the crowd and watch everything blur and clear with the moisture that kept rising in her eyes.

  The final act was worse, for Plato had moved over to his beloved, and must have appraised her of what had occurred, for the silent tears on the Lady Gwynneth’s face reflected more than the light. It reflected every bit of heartache right back up at Morgan, who could do naught but embrace it and add it to her own silent cloak of agony. Once everything was ended, what did it matter how many she hurt, or how much it hurt her? The KilCreggar clan was going to be avenged. That was what mattered. That was all that could matter.

  Morgan didn’t recall what her line was, but said ‘it’s finished,’ when it felt like the others were awaiting her. It must have been what was required, or close, because the theater went on. Then, the curtain closed for the final time. Morgan didn’t move until someone forced her to bow, and then she received cheers, whistles and suggestions on what a fine lass she could look. She hated the attention. She hated the burgundy dress. She hated her body. She hated herself.

  The lying bastard, Plato, didn’t return her clothing, her dirks, or her dignity, either. When she got to the antechamber she’d left them in, there was nothing. Morgan sat behind the screen and used the bottom of the burgundy dress to wipe at the grease and filth. Then, she took the dragon blade and hacked off a goodly portion of the front of her skirt to fashion a veiling of her own. She knew she was leaving her legs bare from mid-thigh down, barer than ever in her kilt, but she had no
choice.

  That was what she always received from any of the FitzHughs: no choice. She got no choice in granting them her service, no choice on her attire, no choice on her own destiny.

  Morgan slid along the walls to Zander’s chamber, keeping to the dark as much as possible. She was in luck that the earl had hired himself a minstrel, and the man had taken his lyre and begun his own entertaining. The singer had a goodly voice, too, almost the breadth of Zander’s orator voice, and his words were enjoyable enough to keep most revelers seated, although the FitzHugh squire’s exhibition was being featured when she slid out. It wasn’t only her skill with weaponry being sung about, either, it was the haunting beauty of the squire when clad in woman’s form.

  Morgan’s face was hot before she reached Zander’s chamber. She nodded to the hulk of Eagan on the stoop, although he was up and opening the door for her like she was a requested wench of the evening. Morgan fled inside to don her original garments. She could seek out Plato when she was properly attired. She was going to retrieve the sett and her dirks, or she was going to find out why not.

  She had everything in its proper place, down to her braid and her breast binding, and was just sitting next to the fire to contemplate its secrets when Zander entered. She watched the fire stir at the sudden air without turning around. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

  “Morgan?” he whispered. “I doona’ know what to say.”

  She breathed then. She sucked in on the emotion, and let it out. Soon, Zander, she thought. Soon you will be free of me, and free to return to your unstructured, teasing, play-filled life. Soon.

  She lifted a tong beside the flame and poked the log, rolling it over and showering sparks about the hearth. Zander didn’t move, or if he did, she couldn’t sense it.

  “My brother tells me to trust my senses. Trust the illusion.”

  Morgan’s eyes widened on the fire. Damn Plato! she thought. “Your brothers...lie,” she whispered. “Both of them.”

  “Both?”

  “Aye, both. Plato lies to confuse, whereas Phineas? He has...he is....” Her throat closed off with it.