by Jackie Ivie
“True enough,” he replied, and looked back at Martin. “Well? I would like to see the result on the morrow. Now go. You have a design to envision and bring to life. I have a stage to see to, and check. My squire has the task of resting. He needs his rest. His aim must be true and accurate and faultless this eve. For that, he will need some rest. You can do this, Morgan, or will you require me to stay and make certain of it?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I doona’ need rest. I am as capable as always.”
He grinned, and leveraged himself back to his feet. “Come, Scribe Martin. What the squire is saying is he canna’ sleep if we sit on his bed area on the floor. Is na’ that what you speak of, Morgan lad?”
“Zander—,” she began, using a threatening tone.
“Eagan stands at your tent door, Squire Morgan. He will make certain none disturb you until ’tis time. Seek some sleep. You will need it. This eve’s performance will require it. I guarantee it.”
He was winking as he left, slapping the door flap back into place, and even though he couldn’t see it, she put the dragon blade into the pole in front of him, anyway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Morgan stood on the top cross-piece of an entire lattice-work frame of cross-pieces and waited. She had been dressed in a different feile-breacan this time. The wool strands had been spun thicker, and brushed to a softness she’d never felt the like of, before being woven into the FitzHugh sett. They had woven strands of purest silver through it, too, giving off slashes of light whenever she moved. It was warmer, too. Almost warm enough to stop her shaking.
She had an under-tunic of the softest flax next to her skin, and a shirt that was a masterpiece of embroidery, with silvered threads plied through her short, wide sleeves and over her shoulders, where they turned into two dragons at her back. She had her silver bands at her wrists, her silver belt about her hips, and silver ribbon woven through her braid. The richness of her attire had amazed her when she first dressed, and it still did.
She had a long bow at her side, and their smithy had hammered silver into it, too. She was a FitzHugh squire, and the FitzHughs were very proud of that fact. Every inch of her body was covered to show it, even down to the new, thick leather boots on her feet, and the dark blue socks on her legs. She had very nearly cried when she’d donned it earlier with Zander’s help, and for once, he wasn’t playing, but reverently placing each article of clothing on her body, his eyes never leaving hers.
It was fitting, she supposed. She was the whore of a FitzHugh lord, she was carrying a FitzHugh bastard, and she was bringing glory to the FitzHugh clan beyond what they’d known. She might as was be dressed head-to-toe in FitzHugh color and wealth.
For a KilCreggar intent on vengeance, she was an abject failure, however.
There was a row of thirty-nine dirks placed along the edge of her peat-enclosed cone. They had braided twine attached to each hilt at one end, and at the other, to the top of her stage. The twine hung down to make loops. Each bit of twine had been soaked in pitch until it was almost black and made the enclosure reek with it. She still wondered at Zander’s optimism with this bit of his plan working.
They had placed a FitzHugh clansman in each of forty trees, too, holding a target, and with a bucket of moss at his side. The targets were difficult to see, even for those who knew where they were. Zander had pointed them out. He had also shown her the bit of silver that had been melted, poured and then flattened into the center of each target, to give her a clear view when the clansman moved it, flickering it for her.
All that was left was lighting the bonfires on all four sides of her stage. There was a raised platform, too. In the largest clearing, directly facing Old Aberdeen burgh, and with a clear view from the mountains, was the stage that The Bruce was going to be waiting on. It was the one she had to hit, with each and every one of her dirks.
“Ready, lads?”
Eagan had too loud a whisper for this type of production, but Zander needed someone to hold a torch high enough he could reach, dip each arrow, and then get it up to her. Morgan looked down at where Zander straddled two cross-beams, taking the brunt of his acrobatic position with his knees. She couldn’t believe the chore he’d placed on himself. He was going to swing down, grab up an arrow, then swing back up, to hand it to her. He then had to swing back down, get another arrow, then return. All of forty times.
Then, he had to get the torch up to light the twine. It was as amazing as it was impossible. She smiled. And she’d thought he needed a lesson on balance, she reminded herself.
She looked out. They were lighting the bonfires. All she had to await was the bagpipers. If she looked out, she could still see the acres of people, filling every space of the clearing and every slope of the hills beyond.
Pipes started.
“Now, Eagan!”
The plan went flawlessly. Morgan stepped onto the top of the platform, highlighted easily by the bonfires, and a hush fell as they saw her. Then, there was an arrow in her hand. She planted herself, took aim on the flash in the tree, and sent a flaming arrow arcing toward it. The moment she heard it hit wood, there was another arrow in her hand. She took aim, and had the next target. Another arrow, another target. Cheers were starting up by the fourth, and deafening by the tenth, but she didn’t hear anything except her own heartbeat.
When the circle about the enclosure was ringed with fire atop the trees, she started planting the dirks. Zander wanted the fire to reach the stage, before the treed FitzHughs were to put each target out with their supply of wet moss.
Morgan lifted the blade that was the farthest left, and put it at The Bruce’s left heel. Then, she methodically put all the others in a ring behind him. Zander was beside her then, on his knees to keep from being seen, in all his huffing, puffing and sweating solidness. He was touching the torch to the pitched parts of the twine, before he was gone again, disappearing to get the torch back to Eagan and out of the cone before anyone saw it.
Morgan watched the fire race down the lines she’d placed, perfectly lighting King Robert, and gaining such momentous applause, the ground seemed to shake with it.
“Time to go, Morgan. Come.”
His hand was slick, so she held to his wrist, and he to hers, getting her down the scaffold without incident, and then they were out. Morgan didn’t realize the extent of the unearthly realm she’d been a participant of, until he had her in the trees behind the tents, and she sucked in clear, frost-filled air that hadn’t a tint of smoke to it.
“Good God, that was glorious!” Zander lifted her and swung her in a complete circle, his voice loud. She didn’t stop him, because the noise had yet to die down behind them from the clearing in the midst of the tents.
“Come love, we mustn’t tarry. Your evening is just beginning! Hold my hand.”
They weren’t exactly running, but she had a stitch to her side, before he had her in the midst of some very strangely arranged stones. Zander dropped her hand then, and waited. Morgan looked about. There was mist sneaking through a small circle of pillars that were not carved, but not natural, either. She looked about, watched the moonlight glance off the mist, imbuing it with a translucent quality, and then she looked at him.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“The ancients built it. It is a place of worship. I thought it fitting.”
“For what?” she asked again.
He took a step toward her, disturbing the mist with the movement. “For worship,” he answered softly.
“We shouldn’t be here, I think,” she said, moving a step backward as he approached, to keep an arm’s span of distance between them.
“Oh yea, we should. I brought you here for a reason, Morganna, and that reason still exists.”
“Zander—” she began, only to be interrupted.
“You always prevent me from trying to sway you with words. Why is that, do you ken?”
He took another step. She backed one.
“I doona’ kno
w what you mean,” she answered.
“You allow my body to worship yours, but you doona’ allow my heart to. I would like the answer to why.”
Another step. A corresponding one backwards.
“You speak ceaseless words of love to me, Zander FitzHugh. I have listened to them non-stop, I think.”
“I have spoken them, true. You have na’ listened, though.”
“I have! I had no choice.”
He took another step. She backed into a pillar and her eyes widened with the contact.
“Then, why do you fear me? Why do you back from me now? You know I will na’ do anything to harm you.”
“Being this close to you harms me, FitzHugh.”
He took the step that placed him directly in front of her, and there was no other place she could go.
“The Bruce will na’ need us during the winter months. The snows will come. The crowds will na’ risk the cold and damp to hear, and he will na’ risk it to talk. The winter will be all ours, Morganna. There will be nae attempts at unifying the clans, no presentations to make, no showing off, no more tents. You know this to be true. The winter is all ours, Morganna. Yours and mine.”
“I doona’ know anything of the sort!”
He reached for her, but she slid around the side of the pillar, out of his reach again. He was right behind her, but an arms’ length away again.
“I doona’ know why you fight it so. You know I was made for you. You know you were designed with me in mind. You know it.”
Morgan shivered, whether at the chill behind the mist, or at his words. She didn’t want to have to find the reason why.
“...and yet you fight it,” he finished.
“I made a vow, FitzHugh. I doona’ take my vows lightly.”
“Nor I, mine,” he answered, taking a step closer to her.
Morgan backed one again. “Your vows are too lightly given, though. You vowed a change. You vowed to give me a bairn. You vowed to take me to wife, and none other. You vowed your ever-lasting love, and that you would make me find the same for you. You have vowed to change the world. You have vowed that love will change everything. You have vowed to help me end the horror of my dreams. You have vowed one thing or another every day since I came to you of my own free will. Which vow is it you take seriously, FitzHugh? Which?”
He took another step, and she backed into another pillar, startling her. She thought them outside the circular enclosure. He closed the distance, put a hand on either side of her torso, leaned into her and put his nose against hers. “All of them,” he answered.
The bairn she was carrying did the answering, as it twinged as strongly as anything her heart could have. She caught her breath at it, and then the solid, soft warmth of Zander’s lips were touching hers. Not to demand, not to take, not to seduce, but to worship, just as he’d said.
Morgan sighed, lifting her hands to the chest in front of her, whether to push it away or hold to it, she didn’t know.
“Undo my dragon brooch,” he whispered against the flesh of her lower lip. “Unpin it, Morganna. Now. Unfasten my brooch. Now. Do it, now.”
Her hands were already busy with the catch, and she didn’t even notice the minute stick of the pin when she had it gripped in her palm.
“Now drop it. Lower your hand and drop it.”
His voice was seductive and low, and brushed against her cheek as he slid his lips toward her ear. She opened her palm and then felt, rather than heard, the brooch land on the ground beside her foot.
“Now my blades. Pull each dirk and drop it blade-down. Then, unfasten my belt. Slowly. Start now, Morganna...now.”
He had the lobe of her ear in his lips and was darting his tongue all around, and she curved her neck to allow it. Her mouth was open to pant for air, while what he was doing was making her hands uncooperative with the shivers. She felt his own hands undoing her silver brooch to drop it, pulling the dragon blade, before letting it fall, blade down.
“My belt, Morganna. Unfasten my belt. Nay! Doona’ look.” This because she moved her head a bit as though to check, “...but by feel. Feel the metal clasp. Undo it. Now, Morganna...now.”
He was doing the same thing with his hands, exactly as he spoke, and he wasn’t looking anywhere. He couldn’t be. He had his lips sliding down the side of her throat, sucking gently on the skin the entire way, until he got to the juncture of her shoulder, and then he lapped at the skin, the movement pushing her embroidered shirt aside.
“Unwind my feile-breacan. Start at the back. Pull the gathers out, feel them give, fall, release. Do it, Morganna...now.”
His hands were as hypnotic as his voice, and she could feel her own kilt unwinding, caressing the backs of her legs before falling somewhere at her feet.
“Now the blouse. Unfasten my placket. Where I have buttons, yours is laced with silvered ribbon. Verra different. Verra much the same. Feel my buttons, Morganna. Hard. Slick. Smooth. Slide them from the holes. Do it, Morganna. Do it, now.”
Her fingers didn’t feel like their own, and seemed clumsy. He didn’t have that problem, however, and he had the ribbon out, and was tying his hair back with it before she had his final button out.
She shivered.
“’Tis chilled, FitzHugh,” she whispered.
“Oh no, ’tisn’t. You’re with me. It canna’ be cold. ’Tis verra warm...heated...hot.” He opened his mouth wide and exhaled heated breath about her throat. Then he did it again, moving his mouth to the back of her neck, caressing her shoulders with his breath. Then he was at the base of her throat, breathing warmth all over the exposed skin and warming her clear to her heart. “’Tis that way because I am here, Morganna. We are here. We are together. We are one. Forever. I vow that, too.”
She made a short cry of denial, but he hushed it with insistent lips on her throat where the sound needed movement in order to be made.
“Now, doona’ move, Morganna, my love. Close your eyes and doona’ move.”
She closed her eyes as he’d said, and leaned against the cold stone at her back. There was a whisper of cloth, a sound of movement and then his breath beside her ear again.
“Open them slowly now, Morganna, love. Slowly. Let the moonlight do all the talking. Slowly now. Slowly.”
He had his head lowered a fraction, shadowing those blue eyes into black and sending the same shadows to his lips. Morgan sent her eyes over him, where shadows were carving out the cleft in his chin, molding to the mounds of his chest, the thick sinews of his arms and shoulders...his hips.
Morganna slit her eyes and looked, and kept looking. Zander was a creature of moonlight and mist, highlighted by one, caressed by the other. She’d known he was handsome. She just didn’t know how handsome. He was absolutely beautiful. Her lips opened a bit to pant the reaction. Zander didn’t have to say a word.
“I was created for you, Morganna. You, and only you. Go ahead, look. ’Tis everything I am, and all that I am, and ’tis all yours...now and forever...yours.”
The cry she gave came from the depths of her soul, and had a wounded sound that couldn’t be denied. She knew Zander would hear it, but couldn’t stop it. He didn’t reply, though. He simply stepped closer, almost touching, but not quite, and he started breathing heated warmth all over her neck, to her nipples, to the depths of her.
“Zander?” she whispered. “’Tis too strange. I doona’ ken—”
He put a finger to her lips and it easily silenced her, since her knees jerked forward the instant his flesh touched her. Then, he was on his knees before her, lifting the embroidered hem of her shirt and bringing it to his lips.
Morgan had to close her eyes to stop the tears. It took three deep breaths before she had them sufficiently captured. When she opened them again, he was standing, moving the blouse with him, until he had it over her head. She didn’t realize that he’d taken the under-tunic, too until cool night air touched bare flesh everywhere on her. Morgan immediately moved to cover herself, one arm across her bound bos
om, the other to her loins, with the most feminine gesture she’d ever used. Zander didn’t stop her, but he was beside her again, breathing heat onto her and waiting.
“Oh lovely Morganna. Beautiful, womanly Morganna. Reach out, Morganna, love. Touch me. Put your hands on me. Reach out and touch all that I am. Touch me, Morganna. Put your hands on me and touch all of me that you can reach. Touch my belly, my chest, my arms, and mold your fingers to them. Do it now, Morganna...now.”
His voice was more mesmerizing than before, and then he added to it by holding his mouth close enough to hers that she could actually sense it by the space between their lips. She closed her eyes, shuddered, and then did what he said to do, moving her hands from covering her, to covering him.
“I am the largest in my family, Morganna,” he told her mouth, his breath hotter than ever. She felt the reaction clear to her toes. “I am the strongest. I am the most handsome. I am the most sought after by women. I doona’ say these things lightly, or as a braggart. I say them because they are all true.”
Her hands were smoothing over all the bulges, pits and hard knots of his abdomen, then along the center of him to his chest mounds, then her fingers slid over his shoulders, and down his arms, filling her palms with the sinews and cording of his arms.
“And I say them because I now know why. I was made this way, so that I could be man enough to deserve to be your mate.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes and she had to take breath after breath, and that didn’t do much good. Morganna felt the moisture slide from her eyes and down her cheeks, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
“You feel all that is unique about me, Morganna? All that is sinew and muscle, flesh and blood, heat and passion, love and pain, sorrow and joy? You feel the life that is within me?
She nodded.
“That is what I feel like to you, and that is what you feel like to me. I touch you and I feel the sameness, Morganna. The warrior heart that beats within you, is the mate to mine. I stand before you not as your lover, Morganna. Not even as a Scotsman. I stand before you, as your God-given mate.”
