Morrigan never ran from a fight, but after hours of ledgers and patient explanations, she sounded her retreat. She would take care before challenging her sister-in-law’s household management again. Besides, Alys had her own recipe for baking gingerbread, one to which Morrigan was becoming quite partial.
As much as Morrigan was uncomfortable and slightly confused by the infusion of celebratory spirit in the McNab household, she could not deny that her people were cheerier than they had been in a long time. Although Archie McNab was not there to witness it, marrying Alys was the one thing he finally got right.
“There now,” said Alys walking around Morrigan to examine her handiwork. “Ye look verra well, if I do say so myself.”
“What have ye done? It feels odd,” said Morrigan reaching for the headdress Alys had pinned to her head.
“Dinna touch it!” scolded Alys. “Yer hair is so thick I was able to do several tiny plaits to make a pattern on yer head, can ye see?” Alys held up a polished, copper mirror and Morrigan tried to see her new style.
“I canna see anything beyond this daft headdress,” complained Morrigan. The headdress itself was quite pretty, made of a gauzy material and gold ribbons. At the nape of her neck, Morrigan’s thick hair was divided to form two plaits entwined with more gold ribbons. Even with the plaits, Morrigan’s hair reached her waist.
“Now for the gown,” said Alys.
Morrigan opened her mouth to protest.
“Have some gingerbread,” said Alys handing her a large piece.
“Buying my compliance with baked goods?” Morrigan grumbled, but took a bite of the special treat.
“Aye and I’m no’ ashamed to say it. Now stand up and stay still. I’ll do all the work, ye just eat and think on the feast we’ll have tonight.”
“I’m no’ a child,” mumbled Morrigan, standing up and taking another bite. She was defeated by her love of gingerbread.
Alys had Morrigan step carefully into the blue silk gown. Alys fastened the tiny buttons at the wrists of the sleeves with nimble fingers. Next she began tightening the ties in the front and back to create a formfitting look through the bodice.
“Is breathing important?” asked Morrigan, her mouth full of gingerbread.
“Nay,” answered Alys cheerily. “Try bending over.”
Morrigan bent over at the waist and Alys cinched her in tighter. “Ow! What are ye doing?”
“Giving ye a wee bit o’ lift.”
“Lift? Lift o’ what?” Morrigan glanced down and answered her own question. The gown was low cut, at least to her standards, and squeezing out of the top was a considerable bit of cleavage that had never before seen the light of day. For Morrigan, who was accustomed to keeping herself bound as flat as possible with linen strips, the sight of her own well-proportioned bosom was a step too far.
“Alys, what are ye going to put here?” Morrigan gestured at her chest.
“Do ye have any jewels? A necklace perhaps? Something from yer mother?”
“Hang that! I canna walk out o’ the solar looking like this. Tell me true, how are ye going to cover my… my…”
“Ye could try for a maidenly blush.”
“Alys!”
“Dinna get yerself in a state; ye look lovely.”
“This isna fair. Ye are wearing a gorget.” Morrigan pointed to the part of Alys’s veil that wrapped under her chin and covered her neck and chest.
“Aye, but I am a married lady, I am expected to dress wi’ more modesty. Ye are verra fashionable. ’Tis what all the Campbell sisters wear.”
“So an unmarried lass is supposed to flaunt her wares like a fishmonger?”
“I woud’na quite put it like that, but aye, a lass should dress to catch a man’s eye.”
“Nay. I winna go down looking like this. They will laugh at me!”
“Nay. None of our lads values his life so cheaply.” Alys gave her a smile.
Morrigan shook her head. In her men’s clothing, she was protected. She knew who she was, and while she may not have been accepted, she was never mocked. Dressing as a lady, she was lost.
“I dinna ken why I let ye talk me into this.” Morrigan began to pace, a simple task she found more difficult in skirts. “No amount o’ gingerbread is worth this.”
“Morrigan, Sister,” said Alys gently. “There can be no future for ye dressing as a man and going to war. Like it or no’, ye are a lady. ’Tis yer birthright. ’Tis time ye claimed it.”
Morrigan shook her head. Not much in the world scared her, but opening herself to ridicule, that put the fear in her.
“’Tis Hogmanay, the beginning of a new year,” continued Alys. “Ye can choose a new path. Ye can be the lady ye were always meant to be. Besides, think o’ what a shock it will be for the clan. Ye should do it to amuse yerself with their surprise if naught else.”
“What is for supper?” asked Morrigan, weighing her options.
“Boar’s head and goose and mincemeat pies and frumenty, oh lots of things.”
“Are ye serving my favorite sauce wi’ the goose?”
“Aye.”
Morrigan narrowed her eyes at Alys. “What is my favorite sauce?
Alys sighed and shrugged. “Please, Morrigan, please come down to the great hall wi’ me. Let this be a new beginning for ye. A fresh start. Besides, I need ye. Like it or no’, ye are the only family I have here. Please come down wi’ me.”
Morrigan sighed. She kicked off the pretty little slippers and tugged her leather boots on under the gown. Around her waist she strapped her short sword. Morrigan glared a challenge to Alys.
“Ye look lovely… and a little frightening,” declared Alys.
Morrigan smiled. It was the best compliment she had ever received. “Let’s be done wi’ it.”
Morrigan stomped out of the room, defiance blazing in her eyes. She was determined to kill any man who insulted her by staring at her… and any man who insulted her by not staring at her. It was bound to be a bloodbath—no different from any other New Year’s with the McNabs.
***
Wearing a skirt holds a power of its own. Morrigan had always believed she must bully others into doing what she wanted. Apparently, she could gain the same effect by merely flashing a little cleavage.
Walking into the great hall arm in arm with Alys caused such a stir it was comical. Men stared. Women stared. Even the dogs stared. The room was silenced. It was the best entrance she had ever experienced. From that point forward, men she had known for years rushed to bring her a mug of wassail or a joint of meat. When she expressed a desire for whiskey, five men ran to her with their flasks.
She was not without detractors, however. One man made a rude comment and was escorted out of the hall by Harry and Willy. If his yelps outside the door were any indication, he was sent on his way with a bit of rough treatment. The women’s gossip was another hurdle, but Alys excused herself at one point and said something to a group of whispering women that made their faces burn. Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. She had never before had a female friend, but in Alys she had a powerful ally.
After supper, Alys organized mummers and some entertainment. Though nothing in the world could convince Morrigan to sing or dance, she did enjoy the festivities, much as she was loathe to admit it. Before her a juggler was trying to perform his act. Actually it was a page named Kip, and he could not juggle at all, but his comic attempts had the hall roaring in laughter. And the more they drank, the more amusing the act became.
“Och, Morrigan, help me,” whispered Alys at Morrigan’s shoulder. Alys had disappeared ten minutes ago and returned looking harried, a strand of hair falling free from her generally tidy veil.
“What’s the matter?” asked Morrigan, following her out the side door and into a small passageway beside the hall.
“Look, ’tis the blacksmith’s son, Liam. I canna raise him.” Alys pointed at the young man in a heap on the floor.
Morrigan rushed to the lad’s side and blew a si
gh of relief when she found him breathing. “By the saints, he reeks o’ whiskey and beer,” said Morrigan. “He’s fine where he is; let him sleep off his drink. He’ll learn a lesson about moderation in the morn, I wager.”
“Nay, we must get him to his feet. He is the first-foot!”
Morrigan evaluated the lad where he lay. Alys had done an admirable job of finding a tall, dark, and handsome Highlander, albeit a bit young and passed-out drunk. “He would make a good first-foot, but he’s drunk as sin.”
“Help me get him to his feet. Maybe if we walk him around a bit,” said Alys, her brows knit together in worry. This was important to her.
“Alright, up wi’ ye,” said Morrigan wrapping the lad’s arm around her shoulder and hauling him off the floor. For a thin lad, he was a heavy one, as if his father had fashioned him steel bones from his blacksmith shop.
Liam’s head lolled to one side as Morrigan and Alys struggled to get him upright. Finally they succeeded in lifting the lad to his unstable feet. Liam opened his eyes and looked at his rescuers, one on each arm.
“Bonwie lasses. Look, I gots me two o’ em!” Liam grinned and retched on the floor. Morrigan dropped him and stood back to protect the gown. She was still not sure how she felt wearing gowns, but she was certain it was not going to be ruined by a green lad who couldn’t hold his liquor.
“Oh hell!” exclaimed Alys, watching Liam slump back down to the floor.
“Alys McNab!” chastised Morrigan in mock horror. “Such language! I’m ashamed o’ ye. Ye must change the company ye keep.”
Alys flashed Morrigan a wry smile. “Sorry to offend yer delicate ears, but this was my first-foot. Who do we get now?”
“Rider’s approaching!” came the cry from the hall. Both Morrigan and Alys left the snoring lad and hustled toward the main entrance of the great hall.
Someone knocked on the door three times. The raucous laughter of the McNab clan grew quiet as they strained to see who would be the first-foot.
“Did ye get a first-foot?” hissed Alys.
“Nay, did ye?” whispered Morrigan.
Alys shook her head. “So if neither of us arranged for a first-foot, who’s at the door?”
“Only one way to find out.” Morrigan put her hand to her sword hilt. “Open the door,” she commanded.
The large, wooden double doors were unbolted and swung open with a mournful creak. With a rush of frozen air, snowflakes swirled around the cloaked figure of a man. Into the hall stepped a tall man, dark and handsome. Morrigan gasped.
It was Dragonet.
Fourteen
“Ye knock on the door,” said Andrew, stepping back to let Dragonet go first. “’Tis Hogmanay and ye can be the first-foot.”
“I hope your fever has not returned, for I have no idea what you are saying.” Dragonet looked Andrew up and down. He was on his feet at least, though his arm was still in a sling, and Dragonet knew his wound was far from fully healed.
“’Tis the eve o’ the New Year. The first visitor is the first-foot. Go on wi’ ye, knock quick. I am mighty cold.” Andrew smiled through chattering teeth. He had lost a lot of weight during his convalescence.
Dragonet wondered if the cold had made Andrew delirious, but he obligingly knocked. He waited, a nervous buzz humming in his stomach. She would be there. Morrigan. The one person he should not see. Ever. She made him forget everything, his mission, his vows, his next breath. She was dangerous, and he would not have come, except that she was the last lead he had to find the silver chest.
Morrigan was the only person he knew who could tell him the location of the cave where the Templars had hidden their treasure so many years ago. He did not know if it was still there, but he had to find out. Dragonet had tried getting the information from Andrew, but other than to say he had heard of a cave he was not allowed to enter, Andrew knew nothing of it. Morrigan was Dragonet’s last chance.
After a pause, the door to the great hall was opened with a loud creak, and Dragonet stepped into the room filled with people. The hall was more festive than he remembered it, with fresh rushes on the floor and boughs of holly and ivy decorating the walls. The air was smoky but warm, a welcome relief from the bitter cold.
Two women stood to greet him. One had a shorter figure with a pleasant smile and rosy cheeks. The other was a tall, handsome woman who gaped at him like he was an apparition. He tried not to stare in return. She was dressed in a beautiful blue silk with gold embroidery. Dragonet was no expert in fashion, but even he could see the gown was a fine piece and no doubt quite dear. He decided the woman must be a stranger, because no McNab could afford such a fine piece.
The tall woman had large, dark eyes and long lashes. Her hair was dressed in lace and two long plaits that fell to her waist. Her gown clung nicely, revealing a small waist and shapely figure. He tore his gaze away from her to avoid gawking at her cleavage. She was striking and oddly familiar, but he was certain they had never met. A lady of her stature could not be forgotten.
Despite the number of people in the room, all conversations hushed and everyone focused on him. Was that what Andrew meant by being a first-foot?
“A happy New Year to you ladies,” said Dragonet with a graceful bow. When in doubt, charm with politeness.
“Welcome to McNab Hall, sir,” said the shorter, cheerful woman. “Here, come by the fire and warm yerself. ’Tis not often we get visitors this time o’ year.”
“I come with a gift I believe belongs to you.” Dragonet motioned to Andrew, who emerged from the shadows.
“Andrew!” shrieked the tall woman and ran to hug the shivering lad. “Why are ye here? Och, Alys, he’s been hurt, bring him to the fire.”
“Morrigan, I am well. Alys need no’ fuss over me,” Andrew protested.
Morrigan? Dragonet staggered back to catch his balance as if he had been physically struck.
“Wheesht!” Morrigan silenced all protests. “Sit in this chair by the fire and mind me proper. I’m no’ surprised ye got yerself hurt, going off wi’ those Campbells like a damn fool. I told ye naught would come o’ hanging after that Cait lass, but ye ne’er listen the way ye ought. I blame Archie for sending ye to university. Put daft notions in yer head.”
Yes, it was the same Morrigan. His beautiful Morrigan. For a few beats of his heart, everything was silent. He watched people crowd around the injured lad and jump to obey Morrigan’s commands. All eyes were on Andrew. All Dragonet could see was Morrigan.
The last time Dragonet saw Morrigan, she wore so many layers against the bitter chill she was little more than an amorphous blob. She could have been a woman, a man, or a bear for all the bundles showed of her shape. Tonight, Morrigan was a lady. Her waist was small and shapely, her figure trim, her hips rounded nicely, and her bosom… Dragonet tried to avoid staring at her luscious curves. Could it truly be Morrigan?
“Bring Andrew some food and hot wassail, now! Dinna talk to him; can ye no’ see he’s tired? Now eat this, ye ken? Ye look like death, and I canna say ye dinna deserve it!” Morrigan stood with one hand on her hip and the other on her sword hilt. It was indeed Morrigan.
The transformation was remarkable. Her thick hair was plaited down to her waist. Her gown was of fine silk. All worthy things to catch his eye, and yet his gaze wandered once more to her décolletage. Despite the importance of his quest, Dragonet decided what he truly needed to know was where she had been hiding those breasts. Morrigan turned to him, her eyes narrowing. Had she caught him gawking?
“What are ye standing there for? Come sit. Drink. Ye must be froze to the bone. Dinna ye have enough sense no’ to be traipsing about in the snow after dark? Bring a chair for Sir Dragonet, now, dammit!”
Dragonet complied with her orders, as did everyone else. She fussed over Andrew and hid her good intentions with criticism and complaint. Andrew began to look harried, but Dragonet was bemused. It was not her words but the meaning behind them that mattered.
Alys pressed a mug of hot wassail in
to his hand. “Thank ye for bringing our lad Andrew back home. My good sister will thank ye too when she finishes wi’ her fit. ’Tis her way o’ showing she cares, ye ken.”
Dragonet nodded. “I did not know Lady Morrigan had a sister.”
“I am lately married to Laird McNab.”
Dragonet inclined his head toward her. “Lady McNab.” She smiled and proceeded to quietly organize the festivities. Dragonet sipped the warm, soothing wassail, the cup thawing his frozen hands. Feeling returned to his fingers with a dull ache. He took another swig against the pain.
Andrew’s greeting was warm and long. It was clear he was well liked in the castle, and soon he was called upon to tell his harrowing tales of war and how he was injured. Andrew’s tale was a modest, sanitized version of the reality of the siege to take Berwick. He was trying to protect his clan from the ugliness of war. The unfortunate truth was the invasion had ended in defeat, and the sleeping giant of England had been awakened.
Many in the hall recognized Dragonet as the minstrel and asked him to play, but Morrigan chastised her clansmen, commenting on how dreadfully fatigued he appeared to be. It was not a compliment, but Dragonet was relieved not to be called upon to perform. After an hour of greeting, followed by drinking, followed by stories, followed by more drinking, Dragonet was feeling warm and cozy and quite tired. Andrew’s eyes were half open, if they were open at all.
“Time for bed,” Morrigan said in her direct manner. “Alys, have ye prepared his room?”
“Aye, the rooms are prepared for both our surprise visitors. Come now, Andrew my lad, ye look mighty tired.” Alys gently helped Andrew from the chair and led him to his chamber.
Morrigan glanced at Dragonet, as if he was nothing but an afterthought. “Come, I’ll show ye the room if ye care to have it.” Morrigan stomped off and Dragonet jumped up to follow her.
Unfortunately, his presence had been marked by several lasses in the castle who had been flirting shamelessly and chose that moment for a drunken pounce.
True Highland Spirit Page 12
