by Jackie Ivie
“Sword arm?” she asked again.
He sighed loudly. “Verra well. Claymore. Ari is the best at wielding one. Is that what you wish to hear?”
“You know what I wish to know, Plato.”
“Actually, if I said words about swords and skill, it was untrue. We decided at the last moment who would ride beside you, who would lead. Ari wanted the rear. Skill has nothing to do with it. My mistake.”
“Doona’ take me for a fool, Plato FitzHugh. Why have we need of such?”
“I was making talk. To ease the ride. Ari is verra skilled at weapons, especially the claymore. He used to be the best. He isna’ anymore, but you know that. Squire Morgan has that title. We were all trained on such skills, though. We learned well. With one exception, of course.”
“Who would that be?” Morganna asked. “You?”
“Me? You flay me with your words, Morganna lass.”
“Then who? Caesar? That would explain his position at my other side, while William has the lead. This is William, is it not?”
“’Tis Caesar at your other side, true. It was an easy choice. He has no sense of direction. Were he leading us, he’d falter.”
“So, which one of you is the exception? Who has the worst sword arm? Well? Speak, Plato. You have my curiosity now.”
“You dinna’ guess?” he snorted. “’Tis your lord, Zander.”
“You tease me. Zander is good. He beat you.”
“Is he as good as you?’ he asked.
“Well…I think he would make up for my speed and accuracy with his strength. If he could keep his sword, he’d probably best me. I doona’ ken for certain. We’ve never fought with such.”
“Only because I stepped in to stop you.”
“Plato!”
“Doona’ speak too loudly. There’s others about.”
“I know. I can see them.”
“Na’ my brothers. My clan. The FitzHugh clan is large. It’s powerful. It’s steeped in tradition. We number in the thousands. There’s many that have heard the tale and agreed with the justice meted out. There’s probably just as many hearing it and still cleaving unto the laird, because that’s the way it’s always been. There’s many still to be told. Doona’ worry. They’ll all hear and sway, given time.”
“We may be beset by FitzHugh? Is that what you’re saying?” Morganna’s voice easily mirrored her dismay. She’d just started to feel feminine and soft, and to trust again in the promise of each day. To have it changed back to a state of constant alertness didn’t seem real.
“I dinna’ say anything of the sort. You’ve a quick tongue. I doona’ think I like it. I’m well rid of you to Zander. He’s always in need of a tongue-lashing. You should do it daily, to soften his hard head.”
Morgan couldn’t help it. She giggled.
“Remind me not to argue with you. ’Tis an earful of words one gets for such. That is the mark of a woman, you know.”
“Do tell,” Morganna replied in a sarcastic tone.
“Well…at first when women talk, men listen. Why, at first, when women talk, even children listen. But something happens after that. Women talk and talk and talk. Soon, nobody listens. Everybody has tired of listening. Women still talk. Find me an auld woman, she’ll still be talking. Find me an auld man, he’ll be deaf. You see?”
“The lady Gwynneth has my condolences, I think,” Morganna replied.
Another grin. “You may wish to seek some sleep. ’Tis a long ride ahead of us.”
“Zander told me it was five leagues. We’ll be there midmorn.”
“Not with the hiding we have to do. We have to keep to the trees. We’ll be making our own path, too. Can’t risk it.”
Morgan’s eyes went huge. “You weren’t teasing me?” she whispered.
He swore almost too softly to be heard. “It was well-planned, Morganna. Doona’ worry. We have FitzHugh clansmen and the newly named KilCreggar-FitzHugh men about the woods and paths, diverting attention with their presence and their noise. Dinna’ you listen to a word I said?”
“Which ones? You FitzHughs speak more of them than any auld woman possibly could.”
“I doona’ ken why I bother. I try to set your fears to rest, and you turn my words on me. I’ll speak them again. Listen this time. It is a long ride to your new home, nothing more. Your seat and legs will pain you with the time spent atop your horse. You’ll need a swift dram of whiskey and a quick slap to revive yourself once we arrive. The trees offer more shelter from the sun. That’s why we ride amongst them.”
“What sun?” she asked, interrupting him.
He ignored her question and continued. “We’re also trying to keep your presence a secret. It’s for self-preservation. Once we reveal your beauty, we’ll have even more crowds than your fame created. That’s all I said. That’s all I meant.”
Morganna giggled again. Then, she sobered. “Is it dangerous?”
“No more dangerous than riding my wife. Oh. Forgive me. I forgot you are a woman now.”
Morganna swatted at him.
“Hush!” William turned to hiss it.
Plato gave his brother a nod. Morganna watched him.
~ ~ ~
Near morn, they called a halt. Rain was threatening; Morganna could smell it in the air. William dismounted first, and then Caesar. The blond FitzHugh unstrapped a large bundle from his saddle and brought it to her.
’Tis raiment for the Lady KilCreggar-FitzHugh, my lady. Zander had it prepared. We’ll wait for you to change.”
“Why canna’ I stay as I am?” she asked.
It was Ari who answered. “’Tis too risky. The FitzHugh squire is well-known. ’Tis also known now that he is a KilCreggar. Sentiment runs deep here in the Highlands, my lady, almost as deep as the bottomless lochs. I canna’ change that. None of us can.”
“What Ari is trying to say is, we’ve tired of looking at each other, and being in the company of lads. A lovely lass will make the journey more pleasant, and the leagues pass quicker.”
“Plato,” Morganna said, using a warning tone.
“What?” he replied, innocently.
Ari answered. “Plato makes light of what isna’. You know the reason. We’ve four leagues left to travel. With a lass, we’ll stand a better change of arriving safely. I know my clan. I know the depth of their hatred. I know the risk. We all do. Zander, especially. That’s one of the reasons he prepared this bundle for you.”
Moisture was making Ari glitter as she looked across at him. She nodded.
“There is another reason, Morganna,” Plato said at her side.
“Is this another tease?” she asked, looking across at him.
“Nay, although I stand accused of that oft, this time what I speak is truth. My brother wishes all to know you are his lady wife. You are being clothed for that position. You doona’ understand. Zander is the wealthiest FitzHugh. ’Twas na’ fated that way. He seems to have been birthed with a mercenary streak we lack. He has challenged and conquered and competed and excelled at everything. The spoils at his house will amaze you. Truly. I doona’ tease you. Not this time, anyway.”
“He bargains well, too,” William piped up. “If you fancy anything he has, he makes you pay dearly for it. Even his brothers. Especially his brothers.”
“’Twill be morn soon,” Ari spoke again. “There will nae be a better time to change. Go. We will await you.”
Tears were threatening worse than rain as Morganna slid from her horse, took her bundle, and walked into the trees with it. The emotion wasn’t at their words. It wasn’t at the luxurious clothing she knew Zander had given her. It was at how she was going to feel. Morganna slowly unfastened her silver wristbands, caressing the clasps of each one, and watched them blur with moisture. It felt like she was leaving it behind forever. She’d never again don a feile-breacan, toss dirks against a challenger, or best an opponent. She sighed, crossed her arms over her eyes to blot at them, and then set her shoulders. She was being ridiculous. Scotland
wasn’t free yet, and Squire Morgan would be needed still. She was stupid to feel so maudlin over a change of clothing.
As she unwound the FitzHugh champion’s sett and folded it reverently, the feeling grew into certainty. Squire Morgan was disappearing and the Lady Morganna was going to replace him. It wasn’t a guess anymore. It was truth and destiny. It had been since she was born. She was a woman. She would always be a woman, and she knew she wasn’t going back. Zander and the bairn had changed her too much.
She unfastened her breast binding and peeled the KilCreggar square from it. Daily wear had taken its toll on the little piece of material, and all sides were fraying and losing strands of wool. It didn’t alter it much, actually. It was just as beloved. Morganna brought it to her lips reverently before replacing it on the binding.
Then, she bent too pull on the woven stockings. The dragon blade wasn’t going to stay safely in such a feminine item. As a skean dhu, the knife should have been tucked into a sock the entire time she’d owned it. She’d known its purpose, but she also knew its power. The dragon blade had too much to stay tucked into a sock. She tied her skean to her left thigh with her breast band, directly over the mesh-like stocking Zander had given her. It made her womanly curves look dangerous. She wondered what he’d think as he unwrapped her this time.
The shiver that ran through her body wasn’t brought on by the damp, or the night, or even the chill. It was at the thought of Zander seeing what she was. She sighed heavily. She didn’t want to be Squire Morgan, after all.
The satin chemise and accompanying slip had pink-toned ribbons laced through them to gather the garments to her body. Morganna’s hands trembled as she tied the ribbons into a little bow beneath her breasts. She was having a bit of trouble with her breasts too…such a feeling! No wonder women wore ribbons and satins and bows, she thought. It felt delicious, free—and it felt wicked.
Zander had given her an ecru-shaded under-dress, woven of flax. It flowed to her ankles. That had probably required a special order. She ran her hands along the material as it caressed her waist, before she held both hands to her hips and swayed slightly. The flax slid along her limbs like it was poured onto her. That was a strange feeling, but entirely too pleasant for her to want it ended, she decided.
There was a bit of pre-dawn light threading through the forest mist all about her. She was grateful for that bit of illumination as she lifted her dress.
Zander had gifted her with a velvet bliant, so dark blue it might as well have been black. Morganna knew it was close to the shade of his eyes. She didn’t doubt it for a moment. She caught her breath as she unfolded it and shook it out. The same cut-work embroidery style as his sheets at Argylle had been put to use on the edges of the velvet. She knew how spectacular it would look like before she donned it.
She wasn’t disappointed.
The velvet had a trellis design about the hem, following her outer line of her bodice and down the outer edge of each sleeve. The ecru-shaded flax of her under-dress filled the gaps. Morgan finished tying her sleeves on before picking up a silver filigree girdle for her waist that would clinch the dress against her form. Little, free-form flowers jointed her belt together, giving it flexibility as it wrapped. Zander had included a silver mirror and a comb. Morganna’s hands were shaking so badly she had a difficult time fastening her girdle and then undoing her braid. She had her hair combed out and rippling over her shoulders and down her back before she picked up the mirror.
Zander had called her the loveliest lass he’d ever seen. It just might be true. Morganna narrowed her eyes. They were gray, all right. They were also set off with black brows and lush lashes. She always thought Mother and Elspeth had been beautiful women. It was an absolute pleasure to realize she was, too.
Zander had gifted her with women’s slippers, too. Made of soft leather, and sewn with the stitching along the inside to keep out moisture, they looked as fragile and insubstantial as they felt. She almost put her boots over them, but stopped herself. Squire Morgan’s boots belonged on a male. The new leather slippers belonged on the new lady KilCreggar-FitzHugh. She sighed, and stood in her footwear, know she would feel each and every stone beneath her feet, and probably each blade of heather, too.
The last thing Zander had included was a lacy ring-stole, so named because it was so finely woven it would fit through a wedding ring when scrunched. Morgan shook it out and covered her head with it.
She had everything neatly tied back into the bundle when she approached where the FitzHughs sat, astride their horses, breathing mist into the morning air about them.
“Yon lady approaches. Finally. Plato lied about your swiftness, I fear,” Caesar teased.
“Na’ so,” Morganna replied. “I was simply making certain everything was on correctly. I am a novice, you know. So…is everything on correctly?”
The man at the front made a choking sound.
“What is it, Will?” Ari spoke up.
Morganna looked up and caught the amazement on William’s features. Despite the fact he was her brother-by-law, she blushed.
“I do believe you’ve made our brother speechless, Lady Morganna. That does na’ happen oft to a FitzHugh. Trust me.”
“I’m na’ without speech. I’m deciding the words to use.”
Plato smacked his forehead. “You’d best don the cloak, my lady. I fear my brother may need the rest.”
“From what?”
“From the beauty of your presence. I dinna’ lie earlier. You are a vision to make any journey that much quicker.”
Morganna colored more. She handed the bundle of Squire Morgan’s clothing to Caesar and approached her horse.
“Here. Allow me to assist you. My brothers have lost their tongue and their wits at the change in your appearance. I canna’ say I find it any less astounding, myself. ’Twill make the journey easier, as Plato says, although we may be accosted for another reason, now that I think on it.”
It was Ari putting his hands about her waist and lifting her. Morganna hadn’t even heard him move.
“If you doona’ halt this…all of you, I’ll put my feile-breacan back on,” Morganna said.
“Na’ possible, my lady. I’m in possession of it,” Caesar pointed out.
“I’m going to make him pay for this, I think,” William muttered.
“What?” someone asked.
Morganna was sitting astride her horse, and she shifted about, placing her skirts as close to her ankles as she could. She was wearing much more material than she had been, but it felt different. She didn’t dare look at any of them when she finished, and kept her eyes steadily on her hands.
“Well. My brother Will is for wishing he’d seen you first, and that he was a sight bigger,” Plato remarked. “I can vouch for it, lass. Come. We’ve some distance still to go, it’s threatening rain, and my brother has become a half-wit at sight of your beauty.”
“I am na’ a half-wit,” William replied.
The brothers chuckled and Morganna blushed even more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The attack came as they entered a small glade just large enough for all five horses.
Morganna had begun to doze when the horse beneath her startled, sending her off the side before she could react. Then she knew the slippers were useless for anything other than standing about in a carpeted room. Rocks and lumps of ground scraped at her insoles as she lowered to a crouch and moved her hand beneath her skirt for her blade.
Morgan wasn’t the lone one on the ground. The four FitzHughs were all either lying, standing, or in the process of getting there in order to check the body that had been dropped into their midst. Morganna had time to see it was covered in KilCreggar plaid, and to catch her breath in horror, before blue-and-green, tartan-covered forms started raining from the bowers above. If they made sound, it wasn’t heard over what mist was covering the ground, and the ringing in her own ears. Morganna watched as Zander’s brothers were swarmed, overpowered, and then captured, wi
thout one cry coming from anyone.
It was over as silently and quickly as it had started, and aside from a small trickle of blood from beneath Caesar’s scalp, the ambush had been without incident. The FitzHugh brothers were trussed and suspended by their hands and feet, from long poles. Morganna ignored them to kneel beside the body they’d used as their projectile.
Everything about her numbed. Even the bairn within her belly quieted, as she forced herself to hear little, see less and feel absolutely nothing. There was only one KilCreggar plaid in existence that she knew of. He’d worn it to his own wedding. She knew it. The brothers must know it, too, for there wasn’t a movement aside from her own as she peeled back the tartan.
It was a straw-filled dummy.
Relief came as tears, and Morganna shoved them as far back as she could, ignoring the ripples of emotion that flowed over her again and again. Her hands were visibly shaking as she lowered the sett into place, covering the form.
“It isna’ him?”
Morgan suspected it was Ari asking it. She didn’t look. She was still exhibiting too much emotion. She shook her head.
“Thank God.”
“Nay. Thank you host. Robert MacIlvray. That’s who you must be for thankin’.”
The name shuddered through her consciousness as much as the slick tone of the words did. Morganna had it already decided who would receive her dragon blade first as he continued speaking.
“The holder of that sett would like to be seein’ the lass. I was sent with the invite. Powerful easy it was, too, I might add.”
Morganna slanted her head until she could see the owner of the voice. It wasn’t a comforting sight. Robb MacIlvray was as large as Zander, covered with muscle and meat, and possessed a flaming beard to match his hair. Her mother hadn’t stood a chance, she realized.
“I canna’ speak with my blood to my head. Unbind us.” It was Ari speaking again.
The large, flame-haired man laughed. “I’ve KilCreggar blood on my hands when I get to Hell, Aristotle FitzHugh. I’d as lief na’ add FitzHugh to it.
Aristotle? Morgan wondered.
