Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “And you wonder at the havoc you create,” he remarked.

  She snorted the disbelief. “I create nothing of the sort.”

  “You warn me from every lass, and then leave them be, yourself? You don’t call that havoc?”

  “I call it ravishment.”

  Zander was trying to keep the smile from his lips, but wasn’t succeeding well. “Lasses have lusts, too,” he said, laying an arm across her shoulder like he had Martin’s.

  Morgan side-stepped from it. She knew her face was flaming. “I’ve not said they don’t. And I’ve not stopped any of them.”

  He considered her. She knew he was, for the smile left his face and he had the frown lines across his forehead again. “’Tis true enough. You haven’t threatened any of the lads. You’d probably allow any of my new servants to bed with any lass, except perhaps Sheila. ’Tis only me you warn off. Why is that?”

  “I’d warn all. The others have na’ pushed it, though.”

  “And you sleep too soundly,” was his answer.

  Morgan stared at him. She’d taken a spot in the midst of each camp, lying beside the fire so she could defend virtue should it be warranted, and now he was telling her it was for naught?

  Then, he was laughing and gave her a shove. “You’re always so serious, Morgan lad. My horse has more humor.”

  Morgan glared across at him.

  “And we’d best not be gone too long. The camp needs its leader.”

  “Leader? You?”

  “I bested you last eve, didn’t I?”

  “At arm wrestle only, and that because I’d just taken down Martin. I can take you at every other contest,” she declared.

  “What if I declare the contest one of love?”

  Morgan gasped. “I’ll not take that contest,” she replied finally.

  “No courage?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she replied, stepping back as he walked toward her. “No experience. I would na’ know the first thing about it.”

  “You know more than the first thing, Morgan. I would venture a guess you’d be expert at it, too.”

  She gasped. “You jest, and I doona’ like it.”

  “I am serious, Morgan lad, and if you wish to take me up on it, I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll not accept a challenge like that!”

  “Why not? Faint of heart?”

  “Nay. Only thinking it stupid. And you forget too easily. I canna’ take you at arm-wrestle. You proved that last eve.”

  “Only because, as you already pointed out, you’d already wrestled Martin, and before that Seth and Dugan and even big Ira. You forced the issue.”

  “Forced it?” she gasped again.

  “I had to best you, lad. You took down all the other lads. You were gaining a swelled head and creating havoc in my camp.”

  “If there’s any havoc in your camp, ’tis not of my doing, but your own.” The havoc he kept referring to was merely leaving lusty young men and women together with no structure. No wonder his mother moaned about it to him. They needed a leader, and he left them to their own devices. That was his havoc. “I’ve nothing to do with it.”

  “You best every other male there and then refuse to toss a wench who lays it in your lap. That is havoc of the worst kind. It’s lust-borne havoc. I’ve suffered it myself.”

  Morgan blushed as pink as the rain-diluted blood on her blouse and band of plaid across her chest. She hadn’t asked Sophie to plant herself on her lap and plaster a wet kiss to her face, nor had she desired the feel of the girl’s breasts rubbing along her shoulder. That was the last thing she’d asked for. In fact, Morgan still felt complete mortification at the recollection. Sophie was a brazen lass. She was also experienced, and had hands that wanted to go too many places. Morgan had just finished besting Zander at push-ups and had to find the strength to hold the girl off her and it hadn’t been the least bit amusing. None of the others looked like they thought so, either. Now, Zander was claiming that Morgan created lust-borne havoc, and he suffered it, too? It was ridiculous. The entire conversation was beginning to be so.

  “I’ve done nothing,” she replied finally.

  “The girls won’t even look at the others. They barely tolerate me. They all want the handsome, young, great ‘god of the hunt’ named Morgan, to look their way. And when he does na’, they are left to wonder at the why, and try to out-pretty each other. And that’s just the lasses.”

  “The great god of the what?” she choked out.

  “Have you no idea what you are, and how you are perceived?”

  “I’m nothing and no one,” she answered.

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re amazing at anything you try. If you ever take up cooking, there won’t be a palate or belly that’s safe for leagues. It’s not easy to compete against you.”

  “I don’t compete because I want to. You make me do it to get my dirks back.”

  “I’m not talking the fairs. I’m talking camp. Zander FitzHugh’s camp. And the havoc Morgan, of no-clan and no-name, creates within it.”

  She wasn’t blushing anymore. She was pale. She’d never been around peers her age, and what he was describing seemed to fit how the girls had been acting.

  “And the lads?” she asked, finally.

  “They’ll most likely lay a trap for you. One can’t take you, but together they can.”

  “They’ll gang together against me? Why?”

  “Nobody likes perfection that can’t be besmirched. You shouldn’t strive so for it.”

  Morgan looked down at her blood-covered boots and FitzHugh plaid. “I’ll leave, then,” she finally said.

  He snorted that answer. “I’ll be sending them all away to my home ahead of me, a-fore that happens. You owe me for the plaid, remember?”

  “How much do you want for it? How many deer? How many boar? How many game birds?”

  “If I give you a figure, you’ll fill it?”

  She nodded.

  “What if I need a constant supply, not all at once?”

  “How many per season? I’ll get them for you.”

  “You show such little emotion, Morgan. It’s interesting, and a bit daunting, I must admit. I should na’ puzzle the reason, but I do.”

  “All about you is emotion, FitzHugh. Your camp reeks of it. And you wish me to show more?”

  “Nay, I wish you to show some. Just a hint would do. It might make you more human.”

  “I show emotion,” she countered. “I flush. You’ve seen and remarked on it.”

  He folded his arms and looked across at her like they had nothing else to do all day except debate her state. She noticed when he lifted one foot to the pig’s back, lifting his kilt enough to show his knees. Morgan glanced there and frowned more.

  “You just took down three pigs, slit their throats while one was still in the death throes, and you showed nothing. Not even exhilaration at the hunt, or the kill. That is worrisome.”

  “I took down three pigs and a bull elk,” she replied stiffly.

  “Death means little to you, Morgan. Does that means life has the same value?

  ‘‘Everything that lives dies. You wish me to lament that?”

  “You don’t fear death, then?”

  She shrugged. “When it comes, I’ll welcome it,” she replied.

  “You don’t worry should there be pain involved?”

  “Pain means naught to me.”

  “You’ve na’ had it then. Blades, for one. You ever suffer one?”

  Morgan rolled up a sleeve, revealing a jagged scar just above her elbow. “I’ve suffered.”

  “Did you get that learning your skill?”

  “Nay. I got it from a challenger who dinna’ like being bested.”

  “That what it takes to make you lose?”

  “What loss?” Morgan replied. “I have two arms.”

  “There is no amount of meat that you can provide that I will accept to release you, Morgan of no-clan and no-name. None.”

  “Wh
y?” she asked.

  “You’re inhuman. I’m going to change that. I don’t know how, I don’t even question the why, but I know I’m going to.”

  “I’ll na’ change for you,” she answered.

  “You’re also a braggart.”

  “A braggart? Me? I’ve said nothing I canna’ do.”

  “You said I had a choice of the pigs or an elk. I see no elk.”

  Morgan looked across at him and tossed her head. “You were na’ looking, then, and you move too slowly. Follow me.”

  He whistled at the size of it when they came on it. The death hadn’t come easily, although Morgan had pegged it through the eye as was her usual way. The beast had kicked clods of sod all about and rearranged the hillside with his hooves. Morgan looked at it dispassionately for a moment, then knelt to slit its throat. She felt Zander’s eyes on her the entire time.

  And she was flushing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Zander helped her dress out, and quarter the elk before he left to get his horse. Morgan watched him walk off, a yearling pig draped across his shoulder and a jaunty flip to his kilt. He had a well-muscled backside, if the sway of his kilt was any indication, and she already knew the extent of his masculinity on the front of him.

  Morgan’s face flamed. He was an attractive, virile man, and he’d not found a woman to release himself on, or with, since she’d met him. That couldn’t be normal, and for some reason, it was bothersome, too. She didn’t dare wonder at the why.

  She lay on her belly amidst the gore of her kill and waited for him to return. The smell of the animal’s blood hung heavy in the rain-filled air, but it didn’t occupy enough of her senses to think on it. It was the same as any clansman-strewn battlefield. Things lived...then they died. If this great bull wasn’t put on earth to grow to maturity, rut, procreate and then die to fill a man’s stomach, what was he put there for?

  She looked over at the sightless eye, where Zander had already pulled the arrow out. The elk’s rack was the largest she’d ever taken. Heavily pointed and bowl-shaped, with a size to match. There was enough meat there to feed them through most of a month. It was a great beast. Now, it was a great, dead beast.

  She rolled over and looked up, through the tunnel the raindrops created, at the gray-filled sky, blinking whenever a drop landed near her eye. She’d never wanted attention. If she got it, she’d have fought it. She didn’t want lasses panting for her, nor lads plotting against her. She wanted to fulfill her destiny, lay on the ground, close her eyes and wait for the oblivion of a good death. That’s what she wanted, what she’d always wanted.

  So, why was it bothersome what Zander had said? Why did the man say so much anyway? What was it to him if Morgan, of no-clan and no-name, cared about death, or life? The man made no sense. He was also taking up too many of her thoughts. More frightening, he was taking up more of her dreams. She wondered what that meant.

  He had strong hands. Hands that had gripped hers last eve and left her no doubt who would be the victor of their arm-wrestle. He had very handsome features, too. She’d thought so when they first met, and nothing was changing that impression. He kept using his dirk to scrape the stubble from his face, showing off the cleft, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones. Why, if she were a lass that cared for such things, she’d think him the most handsome man birthed.

  She sighed.

  “Day-dreaming atop blood? That is how I envisioned you, too. Oh Morgan, what am I to do with you, lad?”

  She was up before he finished, letting the rain soak away the elk’s leavings and watching him carefully. She hadn’t heard him approach, and he had his horse with him. Morgan eyed the animal, and wondered at its newly acquired stealth.

  “Or, perchance you were asleep?” he asked, jovially.

  “I was neither. Your steed tip-toes through heather, and you made little sound yourself.”

  He shook his head. “We startled every bird for yards. Face it, Morgan lad. You’re making up for lost sleep.”

  “Why would I be losing sleep?”

  “Trying to protect the lasses’ virtue, is my best guess. Secondly, I’d have to say that you’re afraid.”

  Her eyes widened. “Afraid of what?” she asked.

  “Dreaming,” he replied.

  She had to look away, then she looked down, and then she sucked in the fear at the sight of every woman’s curse. Morgan went to her knees on the blood-soaked sod and put her head in her hands. She was having her woman-time? Now?

  “Find a burn and cleanse yourself. I’ll load Morgan. He’s used to the smell, but he won’t like it all over you, too.”

  Morgan fled. She was shaking before she plunged into the burn, soaking herself further than any rain could. She had to hack away part of her under-tunic to use, and the loin-wrap Zander had devised was heaven-sent, too. She hadn’t been cursed for almost a year, and now it had to come? She wondered why. She’d done nothing different, except eat and lay about more.

  She wondered if that were the cause, but had none to ask. If any of Zander’s other lasses suffered their time, it had been in secret. It should be in secret. It was another secret for her to keep, and she couldn’t even remember how long it was supposed to curse her for. It shouldn’t happen. The last thing she wanted was a reminder of her gender. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be a woman. She didn’t have the time or the inclination. She was exactly what Zander called her, a killing machine.

  There was a set look to her shoulders and a sneer on her mouth when she rejoined him.

  “Well, you look none the worse for your bath. Slightly wetter, less blood-covered. What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she replied viciously.

  He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing. He had all the meat loaded and the reins in his hand. As he always taunted, she had missed the work and returned for the benefit.

  She followed him back, attempting to keep her eyes anywhere but on the width of his shoulders, or on the muscles of his back where the shirt was plastered to him, or on his legs, where the back of his kilt seemed to caress each step, and especially from the back of his head, where damp, curling brown hair started before it fell over the width of his shoulders...reaching the middle of his back....

  Morgan swallowed the instant excess moisture and rolled her eyes, stopping her mental listing of his attributes. As if he knew of her skittishness, he started the tuneless whistle he was always making. Then, she got to try to ignore the great hulk of him, and the noise he was making, too.

  Killing his brother, the FitzHugh laird, had better be worth all the trouble, she told herself.

  The camp was up, well up, and too quiet. Zander halted and Morgan ran into the back of him before she could help it. His hand came around his side to stop her, but she’d already moved away and was taking in the scene. Two of the new lads he’d acquired were facing off, a dirk in each hand and squatting low as they sliced toward each other.

  Sophie’s disheveled shift and the gratified look on her face told the story. It was obvious they were fighting over her, although if they’d think with their heads instead of their man organs, they’d know Sophie was available for any of them, or all of them. Morgan took it in with a glance, and had her six dirks in her hands before another move was made.

  “Drop them,” Zander said quietly.

  One of them looked up, the other snarled and used the opportunity to slash at his opponent’s lower arm. Morgan let her own knives fly and knocked all four dirks from them to the ground before anyone could catch their breath. There was a collective gasp. Morgan stepped in front of Zander, her final two dirks held between her thumb and forefingers, blades out. The lad named Collin started rubbing at one hand, while the bleeding one stared open-mouthed at her.

  “The next two go where you least want them,” she said.

  Her announcement got her four hands raised and more admiring glances from the females Zander had peopled his encampment with. Morgan stepped aside, allowing Zander to pronounce the judgmen
t, and wondering at her stupidity. If his lads wanted to gang up on her, as Zander predicted, then she’d just signed her own assault notice.

  She looked askant at Zander. He looked at her, then at the two combatants. Morgan returned her gaze to Collin and the other.

  “We’ve leagues to go before we reach FitzHugh land,” Zander spoke up. “Martin?”

  “Aye?” The stout lad from their first fair spoke up.

  “I want you to lead the menfolk to my house. I’ve spoken the direction?”

  “Aye,” Martin replied again.

  Morgan stepped closer to Zander and got his glance when she did so. She motioned with her eyes.

  “You’ve a better plan?” he asked softly.

  “You have enough servants already. True?”

  He nodded.

  “I’d gift them to the MacPhee lasses, then. They’ll gain strong backs and strong...uh, men, and you’ll gain peace. Aside from some properly grateful lads who won’t have any time left over for such nonsense as killing each other.”

  She watched his lips quirk. Then, he grinned. Then, he was roaring with the laughter. Morgan stepped away from him and tried to join the trees beside them. The lads were glaring hatred. She didn’t have to ask what was in their eyes. She knew.

  “Can you write?” Zander was looking at her.

  “Only with a blade, my lord,” she answered evenly.

  Zander looked disbelieving for a moment, then turned to his other followers. “Can any among you write, then?”

  “Aye.” Martin was the one answering. “I can write if you’ve ink and parchment.”

  “I’ve both. Martin? Scribe me a note to sign. I’ve decided your punishment, lads”

  “What is it to be?” Collin asked.

  “Yea, what is it the lad Morgan would have of us?”

  Zander frowned. “’Tis the lad Morgan who thought of it, but you’ll not find it onerous. Unless, of course, you’ve nothing a-tween your legs. Don’t write that, Martin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Morgan recognized the male bravado behind Collin’s tone, and she flushed as he glared at her.