by Ranay James
Nic waited for her to acknowledge his question.
She nodded. She did agree at the time and felt certain it was still a smart move. After all, he did manage to get them safely away from the search party.
“I’m your Overlord, now, and you will not disobey me in any action which is to your greater good.” Nic waited for Morgan to take the food.
But she was rooted to the spot. Nic stood.
Oh, boy, she thought understanding that she had crossed some imaginary line with him.
“Eat, Morgan.” His voice had dropped to a rough whisper.
He had succeeded in shaking her to depths far greater than her uncle had ever done with his rafter-raising tirades. He took a step forward. Morgan stood her ground, straightened her back, and held her head high before taking the food he offered. And after her meager display of bravado, she also made for a little safer distance from him.
As she ate, she took the opportunity to pilfer a look at Nic and found him distant and deep in thought. She wondered what a man like him gave his mental energies to?
Women? Maybe, but not in this instance.
Gambling? Probably not.
Hanging his enemies from the tallest tree? Now, that she would believe.
In reality, Nic was mulling over his problem of having a skittish runaway bride with a large search party in hard pursuit. Nic knew the day had gone downhill quickly. The only plus was she was eating. That certainly could not hurt her, considering she was skinny as a bean pole.
Morgan’s mind was also racing. She did not know this man. What if he sought out the search party and turned her over to them? She was certain her uncle would pay dearly to have her returned. But she shook the thought away. He could have done that already.
What sort of man was he, she wondered.
Could her uncle bribe him? No, she felt not.
Still, he was worth watching. Every man was worth watching. Nic was no exception.
She took this opportunity to take a closer look at him physically. He was tall by modern standards and broad through the shoulders. Her father had been a tall man. However, her father's coloring had been light blonde to Nic’s dark good looks. Her mother had told her once that her father was a descendant of the Vikings. Those marauders of the island eventually settled, assimilating into the local culture. She would be very surprised if Nic did not have some Viking ancestry in his linage. Men of his stature certainly did not come along every day.
Nic’s size did not intimidate her in the least. His height made her feel protected and safe, much as when her father was alive. It was a feeling that Morgan had long ago forgotten and realized she missed. Nonetheless, she would experience this feeling from a distance, but not up close.
From an artist's perspective his proportions were perfect and beautifully pulled together. Nature got it right where this one was concerned, and she would love to do a charcoal rendering of him on his equally magnificent horse. Morgan doubted that she would get him to sit still long enough to accomplish much more than a rough sketch.
His arms and legs were long and well-muscled from the years of fighting and training. It stood to reason that his shoulders would be muscled, toned, and cut. Upper body strength was necessary for any warrior. It was a given. Hauling sixty-five pounds of armor around on one's body and being able to move in it like it was a second skin would require body development out of sheer necessity.
There was not an extra ounce of fat on him.
His hands were large and tan. He had long fingers with clean nails that were free of the grime most fighting men sported. She knew Nic could kill her with one blow if he decided to. However, he did not strike her as a man who would use brute strength to subdue his opponent, not like her uncle. He would use cunning, stealth, and strategy, which would brilliantly compliment his strength. She wondered if that strength would come across in a drawing? It would prove challenging.
His leather boots and over clothes were well-made and good quality, even if quite dirty from his effort to pull her from the bog. He was obviously a man of means. If his clothes did not hint at that wealth then his sword and mount certainly said as much. The saddle and tack for that magnificent animal was worth twenty times what the average farm tenant earned in his lifetime.
Her protector's hair was clean, but long overdue for a trim. Certainly his hair style, and she used that term style very loosely, was much longer than what currently was in fashion. Judging by her uncle's hair, just below the ear was in vogue.
Yet the longer locks suited Nic, reminding Morgan of a fable her mother told her as a child. The character named Samson was of Herculean strength. The secret to his strength was in his long hair. She knew this was not the case with Nic. Yet it was still an amusing thought that took her back to a happier time when her mother would read to her and her twin sister in the hour before bedtime.
His strength came courtesy of years of fighting, and he was more likely a man who tossed fashion to the wind, not giving a care of what high society thought of him.
Morgan knew beneath that surface of ease lay a powerful man and it had nothing to do with his hair.
It surprised her that she had the urge to go to him and smooth back the lock falling over his forehead. She found it almost entertaining and definitely liberating that she should find her revelation to be reassuring. She guessed if she had to have a benefactor, it was best to have one who could back his claims of protection. Morgan instinctively knew not to doubt in this man’s ability to support such a claim.
Little escaping Nic’s attention, he comprehended her taking stock of him. He knew, even if there was a more relaxed smile on her face, there was no blind trust in her. If she came to trust him, it was because he had earned her trust.
It would come in time.
Nic pulled himself up from his resting place after finishing his evening meal.
“If you thought to bring a blanket then I suggest you go get it from your pack.”
It is going to be a cold night, Nic thought as he looked up at the cloudless evening sky.
Morgan could not dispute that observation having slept years in just such cold and dampness. He suggested they sleep close to share body warmth.
That was something new, she thought.
“We’ll have no fire to keep warm or to keep the forest animals at bay,” Nic said softly, coming to stand by her.
Morgan had never slept under the stars. However, she had dreamed of how it could be. Many times, she dreamed of this very freedom as she stared beyond her tower window far into the night, its inky blackness broken only by distant, twinkling stars.
She jumped up and quickly brought back her cloak from her bag as well as the baby fine woolen blanket she judiciously packed.
He had made their bed roll on a soft bed of leaves, gathered when she tended the horses. Morgan debated as he reclined there on his side propped up on his elbow, his hand extended upward in invitation. “Come Morgan. I don't usually bite," he teased. He saw her hesitation. "Soldiers often join their sleeping rolls together." That was not usually the case, but it was the best he could come up with. "It is not a sign of weakness, but done out of need.”
She still did not move.
“Be reasonable. We need to get as much rest as possible. First light will be here before we know it, and tomorrow we need to put as much distance between them and us as possible. Trust me. I am not the enemy. Let me keep you warm.”
He watched her inch forward like a wild thing trying to make up its mind to bolt or to take the gift extended. She cautiously lowered herself to the ground. Then in a gesture surprising him, she offered part of her blanket.
“No, thank you. Wrap yourself in it. You will need the added protection. It’s going to be a cold one,” he said, glancing up at the cloudless sky broken only by the rising moon.
She settled down on the soft earth, turning her back to him and using her arm as a pillow. He did the same allowing her to feel some privacy.
He waited to hear her
breathing signal her surrender to sleep. He had asked her to trust him and she had. Only those who trust can sleep in the presence of danger. His very fiber spoke of her life at risk. Yet, she had given into sleep, the most vulnerable of positions. He rolled over to face her before taking his own blanket and spreading it over both of them.
As the moon came and went the temperature dropped. It was a bone chilling cold even for him and he was certainly more prepared and acclimated to these conditions. Carefully gathering her in his arms, he brought her closer to his side. Pulling her into the curve of his body, she settled in. It was like finding the right piece to a jigsaw puzzle and the two individual pieces effortlessly coming together. He felt the pieces click into place.
Sometime later, Nic stretched, looking up at the heavens wondering why fate had placed this woman in his path. His friend, Connor once told him years ago that if he thought Fate was a bitch then he was really going to love her sister Destiny. Connor was right about Fate. Nic had as yet to meet her sister.
Morgan was just another burden as far as he was concerned. He really did not want a wife. All he wanted was to serve his King. Noble and corny as it sounded, it was the truth. Having a wife would require more than he was willing to give by dividing his loyalties between a wife and his King. He really did not want to go there, either. Besides, he needed to go home. All he had planned to do was to marry her and leave her at Seabridge. Now, that was unthinkable. Nevertheless, his own lands were in dire need of attention. Morgan just complicated things.
His own lands. It was a foreign thought.
Brandon, his older brother, had taken responsibility for running the family lands after their father had become too frail to continue to be Overlord. It was Brandon’s birthright. Yet, his father's steward had dispatched an urgent summons requesting he return to his ancestral home of Heather Park.
He had not been back in ages.
How many years had it been? Nic wondered. Eight or was it nine years now? How many sieges past? How many battles won or lost? And how many nights just like this, sleeping under the heavens? Far more than Nic could remember. He had stopped counting years ago.
Now, his father still breathed when his brother was long cold and dead in his grave. Brandon died the previous winter of a wasting disease, and it had taken nearly half of a year for the message to catch up with him, moving as often as he did. Brandon had left no children or wife. Therefore, King Henry demanded the marriage to the Duchess of Seabridge.
Nic remembered vividly his conversation with the King.
“Nic, my good man, you now have need of a suitable wife. I have left you to your own devises all these years, and in truth, it suited my purposes. However, the time has come to leave your selfish wishes behind.”
“I’m still good with selfish, Sire,” he had said in all honesty.
“Well, my queen is right. It is time that you get married and settle down. It is up to you to pass the linage on for future generations of loyal subject to the crown.”
“So, you want me to marry, settle, and have children? A tall order don’t you think?” Nic teased. Until that moment, he had never given children a thought. There was still his youngest brother to carry on the family name.
“I have just the lass for you in mind. A true prize if she looks anything like her mother,” the King had said good-naturedly with a wink and hearty slap on the back.
A prize?
Hum, maybe?
Then, again, maybe not, Nic thought as he could barely make out Morgan profile in the darkness. Either way it did not matter. Henry had spoken so, "that-is-that” as Henry was known to say. Nic shrugged. He would just adjust and alter his strategy as any good soldier does when faced with the failure of Plan A.
Turning his mind to other things, Nic needed to be moving north not east. London was not exactly where he thought he would end the month of April. Then, again not much else was going to plan. He wondered just how angry Henry was going to be? He certainly was not going to be pleased, but there was no way around it.
At least he was bringing his bride back with him to London. That was something, at least. They could have a hasty exchange of vows with the King and Queen Elizabeth as witnesses. What girl would not want that?
Then he would leave her there in Henry’s care as a hand matron to the queen. By doing that, Nic could meet his duty to his King and his father. Morgan would be safe in London with the queen. Henry would see to it. Then he could make his way back home.
"Well, shit," he mumbled. "So, much for Plan B," he said, realizing it solved some of his dilemma, but not all.
There was still the huge piece of rock left to conquer, and he was not speaking in terms of Morgan's wedding ring. The claim of Seabridge would be left unaccomplished even if the Duchess were in the king’s care. It would be paramount that he be there in person to do the claiming. He did not see Lester going quietly.
Morgan interrupted his thoughts as she began to shiver and turned into his body for the warmth he could give her. He knew she was unaware of her movements. As Nic gathered her close, he mused he would have to see to a bath for her if he was to continue being in close quarters with her. Yet, under the layers of mire, he got a subtle whiff of something gentle belonging just to her.
As the stars journeyed across the night sky, Morgan thrashed violently jolting Nic from sleep. He felt her silent screams.
“It is all right. Easy, Morgan, easy. It is only a nightmare. Easy, Love.”
Morgan instinctively stilled at the sound of his soothing voice. In her small and sleep-filled voice, Nic heard her as she drifted back into sleep.
“Father, I’ve missed you.”
Nic found this startling. So, she could speak. More disturbing was her pathetic declaration. It touched him deeply and unexpectedly.
He knew the whole story of the death of her entire family in one fatal blow. He would hold her if it gave her peace, even if it was only in her sleep.
As night was giving way to the rose-colored fingers of first light, Nic eased Morgan out of his arms. She unconsciously protested the loss of his warmth. However, they had overstayed, and this placed them into a vulnerable position. Nic sensed that Morgan waking up in his arms would not be to his best advantage regardless of how good the warmth might feel to him. He had no delusions after last evening of what her feelings were for him, but today was a new day and he was just beginning to make forward progress with her.
He was beginning to have a better understanding of his runaway bride. She was smart.
That much he was beginning to see.
Chapter 12
“Wake up, Morgan.” Nic nudged her with the toe of his boot. “It is time to break camp. Hurry, now. We must make good time today if we are to arrive at the King’s Court by nightfall.”
She rolled over, moaning from her aches and pains. Nic was correct. She was sore due to her fall, the cold night, and sleeping on unforgiving ground. Even her old dirty cot in the tower had some cushion against the stone floor.
Not sure if she could get up without help, she tentatively sat up and began to stretch her protesting limbs. Nic noticed her lips were blue from the early morning cold, and she had a very nasty bruise on the left temple. She was lucky the fall had not killed her.
“I won’t say, again, up now, and hurry. I have already eaten breakfast and watered the horses. We are just waiting on you to bundle your belongings and then we can head out. You can eat as we go."
She nodded, getting up quickly.
"Your cloak, Morgan, pack it. It looks too much like a woman's garment.” He really could not afford to have someone recognize her. “Here, take this.” He tossed her an extra woolen shirt from his pack. “Put it on if you need the added warmth."
He stifled a laugh when she pulled the shirt on over her head. The sleeves went to her knees and the tail hit her mid thigh. She flopped the arms around several times until her hands finally appeared. She was giggling at how absurd she must look.
"Let me
know if you need more layers,” Nic offered as he mounted Trojan.
She nodded thankful for his guidance and his thoughtfulness.
She followed his lead. Obviously knowing where he was heading, Morgan remembered the day before, him saying something about going to the King’s Court. That was excellent news to her, considering the alternative. Feeling her spirits rise, Morgan was certain this would work out after all.
Putting her trust in Fate and her mother's words, Morgan settled in for whatever the day was to bring.
As they mounted up and headed east, Demon demanded her full and undivided attention. This gave Nic the opportunity to watch her without her being aware of his scrutiny. He was coming to some conclusions.
The first conclusion was he actually liked her.
Her short hair was almost a riot of curls from the damp and the lack of a brush. Nevertheless, somehow it was not unattractive. She was tall. Not that it mattered. He was a massive man, and his height of six feet, seven inches always left him with women a great deal shorter and sometimes uncomfortably so. However, she was very slender and that was somewhat alarming to him. Normally, he found his preference to be a woman with the roundness that left him in no doubt he was bedding a woman. Morgan, on the other hand, was passing nicely for a teenage boy. She was over six feet tall, and in his opinion did not have enough weight on her bones to sustain her. He wondered if she might be ill. She seemed healthy. He guessed time would tell on that point, too.
Morgan reminded him of a colt, all legs. At least she was not a mute, but he had no other way to discover if she was of normal intelligence. In time, he supposed.
He needed to have a wife who could stimulate his mind, as well as his body. He knew she could speak, though he was not ready to tip his hand. As a result, the judgement would just have to remain undecided until he could engage her in conversation. He was also looking for a woman who was not a liar. Most women were, in his experience.