by Ranay James
Morgan shook her head again, placing her hand over her heart in a gesture of a promise to the truthfulness of her words and softly patted her chest as to say he's mine.
"Alright, for some strange reason, I believe you." Nic looked at the gangly boy square in the eyes. “Will I be forced to surrender you or defend you?”
It was rhetorical feeling deep in his bones; the former unthinkable and the latter almost a certainty.
Nic dropped his hands from her shoulders. The day was not getting any younger. “Well, like it or not, I must go. Can you show me the way and trust that I will keep you safely out of the way?”
Again Morgan nodded.
Fate had stepped in for Morgan and she seized the opportunity. If he did not know the way, she would lead him as far from his destination as possible. Every step to the east was another step closer to true freedom. She had no idea what she would face on the journey ahead.
More precisely, she did not care.
The unknown was exactly that, it was the unknown. She knew for certain what she was leaving behind.
For her it would be certain death.
Chapter 9
The sun was low in the sky when Nic finally stopped to rest their horses. They had been steadily making their way inland. They were far enough inland that the trees were thickening, the underbrush growing to a dense mass of tangles. They had long since left the coastal region, moving on a steady path eastward.
He knew it.
He just did not care where they were heading because, neither one of them wanted to go to Seabridge for two very different reasons. So, yes, he knew. And if the fact, if the sun that was setting to his back had not tipped him off then the fact he could no longer smell the sea did. However, he continued to let this young lad lead the way. He was in no real hurry to meet his new bride. She had been in Brentwood’s care for seven years, what were a couple more days?
He was also curious about this youngster. He was almost too pretty to be a boy with such long and graceful limbs. Nic had never had a passion for young boys. However, the boy inexplicably drew him. Something just did not feel right and time would tell, he felt certain. Time had taught Nic to listen to his gut when it spoke and that gut was telling him there was something he was missing.
Up ahead and unaware of his scrutiny, Morgan was having issues of her own. Her headache was proving a distraction from the man who blindly followed her lead. She had almost forgotten he was even there.
“I’m Sir Nic McKinnon. Do you have a name?” Nic asked, bringing his warhorse parallel to her own, their thighs nearly touching.
The look Morgan gave him was a cross between, “that was a dumb question” and “for God's sake, don’t distract me while I’m trying to keep from falling on my ass”.
Nic almost laughed. “Of course you have a name. Are you able to write your letters? If not then, we will just give you a name. However, if you can write then spell your name out on my hand.” They stopped in the road, and Nic held out his palm.
Nodding, Morgan reached across and took his hand in hers. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the dice. Banking on him never putting the Duchess of Seabridge and the dirty, scruffy peasant together as one in the same, she wrote, and then looked at him.
“Morgan,” Nic said, rolling the name round on his tongue. “A good Welsh name. I believe it means Sea-Born.”
Then realization came as he sat on his warhorse, striking him like a physical blow. Nic hoped the revelation was not reflected in his face. Could this waif staring at him be his sea-born bride? Was this dirty and scruffy urchin the prize for his long and faithful service to the King? What had he done recently to piss Henry off to the point that the King would pawn this piece of work off on him?
Then he stilled his mind. He let the emotion of the moment go and looked at her, staring into the beautiful green eyes too large for her overly thin face. He looked passed the shortly cropped hair that was as dark as the deepest midnight. Looking past the dirt, he took in the high cheekbones, the perfect bone structure of her delicate features.
He had no doubt she was a female. The soft curves barely discernible under the groom’s clothing just clinched the argument he was having with himself.
All right, he thought, I'll play along for now and see where this takes us.
She obviously had some reason to run and take on a disguise to do it. Had King Henry’s decree reached her and she fled out of fear of him? Nic was aware of his far-flung reputation. He knew he was the best in the king’s forces.
Men sought him out to fight, always thinking to topple him from his standing. Women at court sought after him for vastly different reasons than a fight. The air of danger and emotional unavailability hanging about him was a mighty lure, proving irresistible to many.
However, those attachments came with a price that Nic was never willing to pay.
He figured if he wanted a close, meaningful relationship, he would get another horse.
No, he thought. The notion of going back to Seabridge singularly terrified her. He could see it in her eyes. She was not running from him, but from a more terrifying predator. Lord Brentwood or someone at the castle was the only explanation that he could reason out. Why else would a young woman of her standing be willing to risk life on the run as opposed to safe and comfortably pampered lifestyle behind castle walls?
He had heard rumors the last few months of Brentwood’s unusual tastes in the bedroom and tales of unfortunate women who had to have physicians summonsed after a night spent in Lord Brentwood’s company. Nic knew the nobleman’s tastes had become more perverted and physically violent. So much so, Henry asked him to leave the court shortly after he himself left.
Nevertheless, surely Lester would not be so idiotic as to misuse his ward. Such a notion was inconceivable even to a hardened soldier like him. Common court whores were one thing. Morgan was certainly not in that category of woman. She was a gentle woman born and bred. She was a damn Duchess for Christ’s sake and short of a Princess, it did not get much higher a birth.
What was more to the point was that kind of abuse would bring on King Henry’s rage. Henry was widely known for his kindness to women and tolerated little of that kind of behavior in or of his subjects. Brentwood was already teetering on the wrong side of Henry’s good graces and the King had personally placed Morgan in the care of her uncle with the expressed promise her well-being be seen to at all costs. If Nic found the situation to be otherwise, the hell and fire that would rain down on Brentwood would soon become legendary. Nic did not have his reputation for no good reason.
However, before Nic could continue his train of thought, his battle-honed senses peaked. Sensing the danger, Nic reacted even before feeling the hoof beats tearing up ground at breakneck speed. A complement of no fewer than ten, by his estimation, were nearly on them. Jumping from his horse, he dragged her along with him.
“Don’t make a sound,” he commanded as he hurried his young charge and their mounts into the woods as deeply as possible to avoid detection.
Morgan was too frightened to react. Frozen in fear, he pulled her back against him. Placing one arm around her waist with the horse’s reins still held tightly in his fist, she felt him place his other hand over her mouth. Quickly realizing his mistake, he pulled his hand away but did not release her. She could not have made a sound if she wanted to, but she just might run. Nic could not chance it. Fight or flight and flight was his bet at the moment.
“Ease your breathing, Morgan. They are on us,” Nic whispered in her ear. She felt the heated breath as the soft-spoken words touched her and their meaning was clear.
Nic went deadly still, freezing in place.
So did Morgan. Feeling the danger, Nic felt it washed over his skin.
Morgan held her breath as two columns of horses passed no more than twenty feet from their hiding place, pushing their mounts at a speed that would eventually kill the animals.
Damn them!, she thought. They are going to kill my horses!
Morgan took a step toward them.
Nic jerked her back. "Let them go."
So the search has begun, he thought.
Her thoughts mirrored his. The search was on.
It was obvious to Morgan they knew she was gone. The fantasy of her escaping without someone noticing was exactly that, a fantasy. Obviously, her uncle was back at the castle.
Morgan realized she could not control her fear, and it would control her. So she told herself she would not feel fear, not any more. Anger made her less of a victim, and she refused to be that any longer. She let her anger roll within her. She let the dark emotion spring up in her so sharp that she began to tremble uncontrollably with the force and desire to kill her uncle. She hated Lester for having no regard for any life, animal or human.
Nic, still clutching her to him, felt this reaction to the search party, saw her gray and drawn features, and cursed under his breath. He counted twelve men in total each bearing the blue and gold flying dragon. It was the crest of the Duchess of Seabridge.
A fierce and foreign feeling settled within him.
He was a knight of the realm, by God, sworn to protect the King and his subjects.
However, above all else, he would allow no one to harm what belonged to a McKinnon, and she was his for better or worse.
Chapter 10
“We can't remain on the main road if there is search party already on the loose. Come,” he said taking her by the hand. “We'll double back the way we came and follow the stream rather than the roadway,” Nic stated with a bit more anger than warranted. If he had doubts about the origins of her concerns those were put to rest. No one sends out that large of a search party for a petty horse thief.
They needed to find a safe harbor to make camp and soon. Darkness was descending rapidly and he had no desire to be out in the open after dark. The search party was only a small part of the necessity to find shelter.
Blindly, Morgan followed, not questioning his decision to place her in front of him on his mount. Fearing Demon was being left behind in the haste to put distance between them and the search party, Morgan glanced back checking to be sure he was behind them. Losing him would leave her completely at Nic's mercy. Nic saw her movements and understood her concern. The animal was her freedom.
“He is still with us,” Nic reassured her.
Quickening the pace, Nic turned them around, doubling back on their previous path. It would cost them valuable time. Nevertheless, the action was necessary if he was going to successfully skirt the men set on taking Morgan back to a place she obviously did not want or need to be.
Veering off the road and moving into the woods, Nic followed the stream running parallel to the road that he'd heard earlier. It seemed the most prudent action since pushing forward was not an option.
It was nearing dark when he found a an ideal grove of trees to make camp for the night. Fate was still feeling generous, he thought.
Morgan quickly decided it was in her best interest to follow his lead without question. Nic counted his blessings. He needed to be free of distraction if he were to keep them alive. At this point, he did not look or smell any better then she did and could quite easily be misconstrued as her kidnapper.
Again, Nic doubted his decision to travel alone and without backup. His friend Connor had almost insisted he join him, but he'd refused. And now Connor wasn't with them, and Nic would have to make due, and prayed his cockiness did not cost Morgan her life.
He dismounted. Pulling Morgan down after him, he spoke quietly knowing voices carry on the wind.
“See to the horses. I’ll make camp.”
Morgan nodded. She had some idea of what to do. The rest she would muddle through. She figured acting like she knew what she was doing was half the battle won.
Nic did not waste energy or time gathering firewood. There would not be a fire tonight, he thought. That firelight and smell might draw attention they did not need.
“I have cold meat, cheese, and bread in the right side of the saddlebag. Bring it once you water and feed the mounts.”
Morgan looked around and tentatively touched his sleeve to gain his attention. She looked up into his eyes, smiled and nodded in approval of the spot he chose for them to pass the night. Nic felt his toes curl at the transformation to her face.
Good Lord, he thought. If she flashed that dimpled smile at the wrong time, they would be in big trouble. There wasn't a soul who would not see through her disguise.
“Morgan, go tend our horses. The hour grows late.” Not waiting for her answer, Nic turned her in the direction of the stream .
Standing at the edge of the stream, Morgan wholeheartedly agreed with his choice. To her untrained eye, the area was beautiful. To Nic it was simply the most defensible fortification he could find on short notice.
After flaying around in the bog, she needed a bath, but settled for washing what muck she could off her arms and face without getting in the water. The full immersion would have to wait. The horses came first.
As directed, she began to gather the tall grass from around the stream, surveying her surrounding as she went. Just because she could not bathe, did not mean she could not appreciate the beauty around her. It was a lovely spot. The clear water was gently running, bubbling and soothing as the last of the birds began seeking their roosts for the night. The trees seemed enchanted and gave her a sense of wonder, as she had never seen trees so large with their canopies reaching heavenward, and trunks so wide it would take four grown men, arms wide to surround them. It was an ancient place, an enchanted place and she wanted to stay here forever.
Turning in circles Morgan tossed her head back, spreading her arms wide as if trying to touch the tree tops. Laughing for the first time in ages, she fell dizzy to the ground.
Nic watched her from a safe distance, marveling at the joy so obvious on her face at just being here in this beautiful place.
When had he lost that capacity?
When had he last possessed the ability to be in awe of the beauty of nature? When had he lost the joy to live for the moment, not worry about the past, or fret about what he could not change, or keep reaching for a future that was not yet set? When had he stopped accepting, or worse, stopped noticing the small joys life had to offer.
He could not recall.
His life had not been his own since joining the service of his King. Life had evolved into nothing more than one battle after another of either wits or strength. There had been precious little time for smelling the flowers figuratively or literally. Was he jealous of the childlike innocence he sensed in his bride to be? No, not precisely.
“Pffft,” he huffed at himself. He did not have time for this. Let her dream for both of them, he thought, as he went about securing the camp. He had to keep them alive.
Chapter 11
Morgan tethered the beautiful stallions to a low branch and brought back the meal for Nic. Her senses were on high alert as she took the bread, highly salted meat, and cheese to him.
Morgan noticed what many might not. Time had honed her senses, too, from vastly different means than Nic's, but to the same end result: to keep her alive.
She found him sitting in a relaxed position. Looks can be deceiving, she thought.
His back was up against an oak so gnarled and ancient it must have seen King Arthur’s reign, with one long leg stretched out in front of him and the other drawn up, bent at the knee. His forearm rested comfortably on that knee, his sword was within easy reach. It would have surprised her more if his weapon had not been close at hand.
Cautiously, she made her way over to his side and extended the offering. Getting no closer than necessary made her feel better. Somewhere on the surface of her mind, she understood it would take more than an arm's length to keep her safe should he decide he wanted to hurt her.
Nic looked up at her, noticing her weary posture, and wondered why she was so skittish. It went beyond shy.
“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the food and cov
ering her hand with his.
That contact was brief, but she involuntarily jerked back, dropping the plate before he had a secure grip.
A deep sound arose in Nic's throat, hot and intense at whomever had abused this delicate creature so much that she pulled away from human touch. Morgan moved back even further, eyes wide with extreme caution at her misstep. She was not necessarily afraid of him, she realized. He did not scare her to the point of being frozen in fear. That was good, she supposed. Actually, Morgan was not really sure how she felt with him; she was just ready for anything.
Nic gritted his teeth. “My anger is not toward you, Morgan, but at the circumstances that would leave you so jumpy.”
He saw her hesitation, but also relief and maybe confirmation of what he hoped she already knew. Then, again, maybe it was his hope.
“I promised to take care of you and I will. Now, eat.” Nic pointed to the food. Lucky for him it was on his blanket and not on the bare ground. The nourishment was too precious to waste. He had only packed provisions for one. Even if in the past, he had eaten some very questionable things out of necessity, it was not his preference.
She shook her head. Never taking her eyes off him, she took another step back. Morgan stared at her new Lord not daring to blink. He did not frighten her as much as distressed her. Simply put, he was intimidating. It was obvious to her what she saw in him was the potential for a dangerous man.
Intuitively, Morgan knew the danger in him went well beyond anything she had ever seen in her uncle. This was a man accustomed to command. He wore that aura visibly. Nic McKinnon was a man who was shrewd. He was, in a word, deadly to an enemy. Yet, somehow, she also knew that he would protect anything he felt worthy of his efforts. Did he now consider her worthy?
“Yes, Morgan, you will eat,” he commanded softly. “You promised to follow my instructions back at the old Roman wall. Did you not?”