“Oh yes, quite domesticated. I have daughters now, you see, and I live in fear they may someday run across a scoundrel like me.” Chaumont shuddered. “That is why I keep this on hand.” He patted his sword hilt. “When you feel better, my lady, I would invite you to come and train my daughters to use a sword. Not for war mind you, but I would like them to defend themselves if need be.”
Morrigan smiled at him. Somehow Chaumont made her feel more like a lady and less like an abomination.
“Nice work tonight, Dragon,” said Chaumont, pinning on his cloak. “The scar will be small indeed.”
“Dragon?” asked Morrigan.
“A name some call me.” Dragonet shrugged and looked away.
“It does not seem to fit ye,” said Morrigan.
“Then you have not seen him with a sword in his hand,” said Chaumont. “We had a friendly competition earlier today. Truly I have never seen such fine sword work in all my days. None can best him.”
“Ye fought?” Morrigan asked. “But why?”
“A friendly competition I assure you. He offered his share in the ransom if he lost. How could I refuse such temptation?” asked Chaumont with an impish grin.
“Ye offered your share o’ the ransom?” Morrigan asked Dragonet. Her head hurt trying to understand why the two Frenchman had fought.
Dragonet busied himself cleaning up the bloody rags and said nothing.
Morrigan glared at Chaumont. “Why did ye fight?” she demanded.
“He was most determined to win my silence on a certain matter. You have yourself a defender, my lady.”
Morrigan’s jaw went slack. “Ye fought to keep my secret?”
“I assure you, your identity as McNab’s sister will not be revealed by my lips, nor Gavin’s either,” said Chaumont. “Though unless I very much mistake myself, I warrant Dragonet will recommend you leave now for home. I suggest you follow that advice. Mademoiselle.” Chaumont bowed with a brilliant smile and left the tent.
Morrigan turned to Dragonet and realized they were very much alone. It was dark in the tent, the only light coming from the glowing lantern. “Why would ye fight for me?”
“How does your shoulder feel, my lady?” asked Dragonet, ignoring her question. He was straddling the bench beside her. It was a better position for his ministrations, but Morrigan felt awkwardly close to him. Memories of their last kiss flooded her.
“Fine.” Morrigan coughed. Her throat was rough and dry. “Ye did well.” A different emotion and new question emerged with every beat of her racing heart. What was she to say to him?
Dragonet handed her a flask and she drank deep. If ever there was a time to drink it was then. She handed it to Dragonet, but he merely put the cap back on without taking a sip.
“Ye fought to protect me.”
He looked away. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I feared something in my manner may have betrayed you. I would not wish you any harm because of me.”
“Ye dinna need to fight for me. I can take care o’ myself.”
He turned back to her, the flickering lamplight dancing in his eyes. “It is done.”
She reached out her hand to his. “Then I thank ye.”
He put his other hand on top of hers, warm and protective. “I have something for you.” Dragonet reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a jingling velvet pouch. “Your share of the ransom.”
“The governor made ransom already?”
“No, but he will soon. I talked to the Douglas about the price. This is your share.”
“But if he has not yet paid the ransom, then where did this…” Morrigan peered into his dark eyes. They merely reflected her face back to her. “This is from you.” She picked up the bag. It was heavy and jangled deliciously with coins.
Dragonet paused. “Yes.”
A ripple of excitement coursed through her at his simple reply. “I canna accept this.”
“It is yours. I am giving to you an advance. I will accept your portion when the ransom is paid.”
“I have no need of an advance. I can collect from Graham when the time comes.”
“You do not trust me? You think I am trying to rob you? Count it if you wish.” Dragonet sat up straight and leaned away from her, offended.
“Nay, I did no’ say that. I’m sure ’tis the correct amount.”
“Then accept it!” Dragonet challenged.
“Fine, I will!” shouted Morrigan.
“Good,” said Dragonet with a warm smile.
Morrigan frowned. What just happened?
“And now I would like for you to leave,” said Dragonet, the smile disappearing from his face.
Morrigan inhaled sharply. The force of his rejection stung worse than her shoulder.
“What I mean is, I do not wish you to get hurt.” He motioned toward her shoulder. “Again.”
“I have given my word to stay and fight.” The McNabs had been branded cowards by many. They were many things, but cowards they were not, and Morrigan intended to prove it.
“Go home, Morrigan.”
Morrigan shook her head. “Everyone expects us to turn tail and run. I winna bring shame to my clan.”
“You have proven to all you are no coward. Now it is time to return to your home.”
Morrigan shook her head. “I have no reason to return.”
“You are injured.” With a hesitant hand Dragonet touched her bare shoulder, slowly tracing around the bandage. Her skin burned beneath his gentle caress.
Morrigan’s lips parted to speak, but no words came to mind.
“You must heal,” whispered Dragonet. The wound was deep, and the risk it would fester was real.
“I will be well.” Morrigan reached for his hand and it trembled in her fingers. “Are ye cold?”
Dragonet shook his head, and indeed his hand was warm.
“Then why do you tremble?”
Dragonet looked down and said nothing.
Morrigan leaned forward, unsure what to say but certain she needed to be closer.
His eyes found hers. “Today when I saw you pinned to the tree, but a moment from death, I felt—how do you say? I felt a fear, a sickness. I do not ever wish to feel that way again. If you please go home, it would be to me a great comfort.”
Something inside Morrigan’s chest cracked open, painful, but sweet. This man spoke words of kindness as she had never heard before. With horror she feared the waves of emotion churning inside her might leak out in tears. Something must be done and quick!
And so she kissed him. He did not move at first, but his hand holding hers tightened. His lips were warm and soft, yet shot slivers of lightning through her at their touch. Slowly he encircled her with his arms and drew her into his embrace. Her shoulder stung but it was nothing compared to the raw pleasure his lips offered. She moved back to catch her breath, her heart galloping hard. He also was breathing shallow and fast.
She had never before desired a man—she thought herself immune to it—but she was surely afflicted now with a fever from which she had no wish to recover. The sensations he roused in her with a single touch were confusing, intoxicating, and dangerous.
She leaned in again, but he pulled back and shook his head. “You are hurt. I would not take the advantage.”
“I am no’ hurt, I assure ye. Naught but a scratch.”
“I am glad of it.” He kissed one cheek, then the other, resting his cheek against hers for a moment before he whispered in her ear, “Go home, Morrigan. Please.”
Before she could think of a response, Dragonet stood and strode out of the tent, leaving her with an open mouth and a bag full of coins.
Ten
She should have gone home. Anyone with any sense would have. But she, along with a long line of McNabs before her, had no sense. Besides, Andrew was still among the war party, and Morrigan was not about to let him march off to war without being there to protect him.
Morrigan marched her men into the main cam
p, her mind focused once again on the wrong thing. After their success at Nisbet, they were joining a larger force to prepare for the assault on Berwick. Despite the pressing concerns of war, she knew Dragonet would be in the camp, and his reaction at seeing her comprised the majority of her thoughts.
Dragonet had occupied her thoughts so frequently he had become a sort of mental companion. She remembered their kisses more than was healthy. As unlikely as it seemed, he wished to protect her. It appeared he may even care for her. The feelings this reflection arose were conflicting, alternating between wanting to throw herself into his arms and vowing to never see him again. One thing was for sure, he was good to his word and did not reveal her identity. The secret could not stay hidden forever, but before she was discovered, she hoped she would have a head start out of camp away from the angry mob.
The weather had grown cold as it was late fall. The sky was low with heavy clouds, threatening snow, an improvement from the freezing rain. Given the cold and the damp, everyone was starting to look the same, bundled in multiple layers of clothing. She was currently wearing most of what she owned, nor was she the only one, given the amorphous shapes of the men surrounding her. It may be better for her disguise, but she wished she could feel her toes.
The camp itself was a sprawling expanse of a field, which had either not been planted or had been ruined by the tramping soldiers. The clans and the French knights each had their own section identified by their own banner.
Setting up camp was exhausting, and nobody was happy with the close quarters. Morrigan hoped for a rest, but was informed that there would be a meeting to discuss invasion strategy. Each clan was expected to be represented.
“State yer clan!” demanded a gruff, well-fed man at the entrance to the main tent, clearly chosen for the duty for his size rather than his disposition.
“McNab,” answered Morrigan. If she expected a poor reception she was not disappointed. Carriers of the black death would have been given a cheerier reception.
“McNab, is it? We dinna want yer kind round ’ere.”
Morrigan pressed her lips together, preventing a blistering retort from escaping her lips. “Yer opinion means little. So unless ye’d like to explain to the duke why ye prevented one of his guests from attending, move aside.”
“Get lost, I tell ye, before I run ye through!”
Morrigan blinked. His response was more hostile than she expected. They just helped the Scots claim an important victory. Did that not afford them any good will? Morrigan sized up her opponent until the pieces of the unfortunate puzzle came into place.
“McGregor,” said Morrigan.
“Aye,” said the large man with a malicious wink. “Now bugger off.”
Morrigan sighed. Perhaps they should not have raided the McGregors quite so often nor quite so effectively. Honestly, if the man wanted to keep his sheep, he should have kept better watch over them. Morrigan took a quick step to the left as if to go around. He countered and she spun back around to the right and slipped past.
“Damn yer eyes, McNab. My brothers are all in there, ye hear me!” called the man, but he did not pursue.
Morrigan slipped her way through the throng until she was in the middle of the group of standing people. The air was hot and stale in the tent; the odor of men who traveled long in the same clothes permeated the air. The ground was covered with straw, muddy, and wet. Morrigan did not mind, the smell of rotting rushes was nothing new.
She was late to the gathering, and a man with a French accent had already begun to speak. It was hard to see him clearly, but it appeared to be Chaumont, dressed in a fine embroidered cloak. Seated at either side on the raised dais were Laird James Douglas and the steward of Scotland. It was an impressive array of prestigious persons.
“I thank you for coming to join forces against the tyranny of the English.” Chaumont said with more authority and less humor in his voice than she remembered. Of course she had been hitting the whiskey a bit hard that night. “Together we will put an end to the oppressor who takes the very food from our table and seeks to bend us to the will of England. Though these be dark days, we will stand victorious in the battle against the malice of our common foe!”
The crowd cheered, perhaps enhanced by the serving wenches who appeared at that moment to bring each man a tankard of ale. Morrigan declined. This was a time to stay sober. She squinted through the haze of the tent. Was the Frenchman truly Chaumont, or somebody else?
“Who is the man speaking?” she asked a man standing next to her.
“The Duke of Argitaine.”
And so it was. “Those Frenchies look alike,” she muttered to herself.
Several notable personages got up to speak along the same predictable vein while her comrades drank themselves into a greater appreciation for the speeches. Douglas stood along with the steward of Scotland, who was ruling in King David’s stead. Scotland’s king was still sitting in an English prison since the last time Scotland tried to invade. Morrigan wondered about the steward’s endorsement of the invasion. With the king of Scotland being held for ransom in England, invading could hardly improve the king’s tenuous situation. The steward was also King David’s nephew and currently his heir. Morrigan smiled. If the king never returned, the steward would become the king of Scotland. Ah yes, his motivation for war was clear enough.
Morrigan wanted to know the details of the plan. No Scottish invasion had ever been successful. What made them think that they could win? Finally James Douglas took the floor for a discussion on strategy. Douglas was not as tall as the duke or some of the others, but he was a hulking man and commanded many soldiers’ respect and unabashed fear.
The Douglas started to speak and a hush fell over the crowd. “As you ken, the English are attacking our French brethren. They are like the locust, which destroys all it sees. I need not remind ye o’ the massacre at Neville’s Cross or Hallidon Hill. We must stand now with our French brothers in their time of need. The English king has declared himself the king of France—what say ye to that?” The crowd obligingly hissed.
“Make no mistake, if the Sassenach king ever defeats France, he will not hesitate to use his power to dominate all o’ Scotland! King Edward will finally succeed in his goal to put himself on the throne of Scotland. What say ye to that?” The crowd booed loudly.
Morrigan waited for the actual battle plan to be revealed. Simply marching into England would end the way it always did—defeat for the Scots. One thing she did believe; Scotland would not long stand if England conquered France.
Movement from the side caught her eye. Sir Dragonet came into view and spoke quietly to the Duke of Argitaine. Dragonet stood behind the assembled titled personages, as should any good knight. He was tall, wearing armor under his surcoat. Morrigan swallowed hard and wished she had not passed the chance for a draft of ale. He was the perfect picture of a knight. Tall, straight, alert. He barely resembled the easy-moving minstrel who had played for them months ago. What would he do when he discovered she had not returned home as he asked?
“…and that is how we will begin our invasion,” said Douglas.
Morrigan snapped her attention away from the attractive young knight back to Douglas. The invasion plans. What had he said?
“So our plan is Berwick?” asked one man.
“Aye. We will take Berwick and hold it to use as a base to invade Newcastle and then York. Once we control the port o’ York, we can help ourselves to its wealth.”
“And use the money to help our brothers in France to repel King Edward,” Argitaine added.
“And what of us? If we take the riches of York, will we no’ share in the reward?” asked Morrigan, her thoughts falling from her lips as spoken words. Dragonet spotted her in the crowd. He opened his mouth slightly then shut it again, the only visible sign that he had seen her.
“And who is this young sir?” asked the Duke of Argitaine, with all the false politeness of the aristocracy.
“I am…” Morriga
n hesitated. Her family name was not likely to engender a positive response. “I represent McNab.” The temperature in the room increased exponentially as the eyes of the men turned toward her.
“McNab. We are joined together in the common purpose of fighting King Edward and our English enemy. A victory against King Edward in France is a victory for the Scots as well,” said Argitaine.
“That be well and good, but it winna put bread on the table,” answered Morrigan.
“And what do ye ken about battle, McNab?” jeered a man in front of her. “Is yer clan no’ the one that refused to go to war against the English?”
“I ken that to attack England is naught but folly. Is that no’ what we did when King David invaded and got himself captured? How will we prevent the same thing from happening again?” asked Morrigan. All sets of eyes turned hostile. Men grumbled in opposition.
“What would be your plan?” Dragonet’s voice rang over the growling men.
Morrigan searched Dragonet’s face, but he revealed no emotion.
“I would attack but no’ hold. I would plunder towns, take what we want, then leave. Give King Edward a headache wondering where or when we will attack again. Keep him on the defensive and us out of a direct fight with the English soldiers, for if we face them on the field, we will most likely lose.”
The men around Morrigan stepped back, not wanting to sully their own reputations by standing in her proximity. They circled around her like wolves.
“Coward!” cried one man.
“This strategy gave us success in Nisbet,” said Morrigan.
“You speak the truth McNab,” said Chaumont, Gavin at his side. “And one thing I can surely attest, this McNab is no coward.”
Morrigan glanced at Dragonet, who was whispering to the duke.
“Are ye afeared of an honest man, Yer Grace?” Morrigan shouted over the rumbling crowd. “It worked in Nisbet. Did it no’, Laird Douglas?”
The room hushed and all eyes turned to Douglas, who shifted his weight in his seat with some discomfort. “It was successful in Nisbet, but it was never our aim to hold that town. Berwick and the castle must be taken.”
True Highland Spirit Page 9
