by Jackie Ivie
“Oooh, lover-man. That’s a sight many a woman would give her fortune to see, let alone feel. I know just where....”
Morgan sucked in breath, shoved it out, sucked it back in, shoved it back out, pounded her fists at her temples, and nothing was stopping the sobs. They were tearing through her, climbing her spine to come over her head, and her eyes were filling with the stupid tears, and all because the man she’d sworn to hate was being serviced by another woman?
What sort of insanity was that?
“Try again, wench, and this time use your hands!”
Morgan’s hands moved from her temples to her mouth, and she sucked both hands full of fingers into her mouth to make certain no sound escaped. If she was sobbing her heart out on a whore’s front stoop, the least she could do was keep it to herself.
“’Tis hard to pump life into a lifeless thing like that, dearie.”
The whore’s laughter followed her words and Morgan would have given anything not to have to listen. She was very nearly ready to run as far and as fast away from this as she could, and to blazes with her hair, when Zander’s voice came again, this time surlier and angrier than she’d heard it all week.
“Perhaps I like my wenches with a little less flesh and a little less experience. Try again. This time use your mouth.”
Everything stopped for Morgan, and she knew shock was what was happening to her. She heard the sounds of slurping, gasping and then a kissing-type of noise, and she didn’t even know what a kiss was supposed to sound like. Then she heard nothing for so long, she had to let the held-in breath out. She was afraid to put meaning to anything. She was afraid of her emotions, and she had every right to be. So far, she was exhibiting every bit of a jealous woman’s reaction. She couldn’t believe it. Zander FitzHugh was a rutting, lusty male, a man who ordered a woman to do something so horrid he had to find a paid woman to do it for him. He wasn’t worth the time for Morganna KilCreggar to cry over him, and she told herself she wasn’t crying.
She never cried, leastways over a bit of dung like FitzHugh. She certainly wasn’t bemoaning Zander’s pleasure. He was free to get it anywhere and with anyone he wished. Just as long as it wasn’t with her.
She pulled her hands out of her mouth and wiped at the drool and tear-mixture that had started to slide down her arms. She mopped at her face with the end of her kilt, and then she tried to act like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“Blast you, woman! Save your efforts. I have better things to do than await you.”
“Await me, he says,” the whore-woman remarked, sounding a little insulted. “I’ve ridden men for days, my fine, perfectly-sized gent. I just wish you’d come to me a-fore your lass stole your desire and turned it against you.”
“’Twas no lass,” Morgan heard Zander grumble. “Heave off and take payment. I feel worse than when I arrived, no thanks to you.”
The woman laughed again. Morgan heard more sounds that could be clothing, and then light was streaming out the door and over her. She averted her face. She had no idea what the results of weeping were, but she certainly didn’t want Zander seeing any of it.
“What, by all the Saint’s, do you think you are doing sitting there?”
“You ordered me to—”
“Cease!”
He stopped her explanation with the order, accompanied with a bellow of rage, and he followed that up by coiling a fist about her upper arm so strongly, she knew she was bruising. Then, he was marching her back to Morgan, the horse, and this time he threw her so viciously, she almost went over the horse’s head before gaining her seat.
“And cease acting so fragile and lost. Hold to the saddle this time. You touch me, and I may not be able to stop what I do.”
Morgan held to the saddle with every bit of strength she had. She also had to cling to the horse’s flank with every muscle at her disposal, and she would rot in Hell before she touched Zander. He could save his threats for those that cared. She didn’t. She sniffed, smelled the fresh, rain-soaked scent of heather, and tried to stop every emotion.
She’d rather be a killing machine.
No one was about when they returned, and that was strange. It hadn’t felt like they’d been gone so long. She saw the banked fire, the sleeping shapes of two lads next to it, and knew the truth. They were well into the night, and if Zander was intent on her exercise in the morning, she’d better get as much rest as she could, and she’d better get into it as quickly as possible.
Zander hadn’t said a word. He walked the horse around the tents and into the roped-off affair that held him.
“Get off,” he said.
She slid off the right side, weaving a bit once she landed.
“Unsaddle and curry my horse,” he said next as he dismounted on the opposite side and glared at her over the horse’s back.
She nodded, uncinched the saddle strap and pulled it off.
“Faster,” he demanded.
Morgan flung it atop a tree stump, and pulled the curry comb from its hook. She started at his neck, and then got to his foam-flecked sides. She hadn’t realized they had ridden him this hard. Steam was rising from the animal as she wiped, and she shivered in the same chill.
“I’ve na’ got all night,” Zander spoke again, his voice as disembodied and harsh as the night.
Morgan renewed her efforts, covering Morgan, the horse’s, other side as quickly as possible. Then, she re-hung the comb and awaited her next instructions.
“You sleep with me.”
She looked toward where he was standing, although all she could see was a bit of skin and black holes where his eyes were. She nodded.
“Then, cease delaying, and get to the tent. Turn down my cot and assist me with my kilt. Be a good squire, for a change. That’s why I keep you.”
Assist him? she wondered, in growing panic. Now?
He reached out to grip her shoulder and Morgan winced at the pressure he put on her collarbone. He pulled her a step toward him, then another, until she was standing close enough to feel his breath on her nose.
“Are you my squire, Morgan?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
“Do you like men?”
Morgan stiffened to her toes, then she snarled. “Of all the disgusting questions! I detest men! All men. Every man.”
“Do you detest me?”
“You’re a man, are na’ you? Now, unhand me, and allow me to serve you, my lord. We’ve na’ got much left of the night to rest if you are intent on the exercises on the morrow. I canna’ seek my own rest until I’ve seen you a-bed, now can I?”
He groaned and lifted his hand.
“Thank you, Morgan,” he whispered, and turned her about to face the tent. He wasn’t following her when she got there, either, and after waiting what seemed hours for him, she lay on the floor and slept.
CHAPTER TEN
He woke her differently this time. Morgan saw him sitting on the floor watching her when she started awake, her face covered with tears and her heart hammering. She blinked at him, watched him smile, and then she collapsed back onto the dirt. The second time, she opened her eyes, and he was still sitting there, cross-legged and massive, as though he’d been there all night.
“Are you ready to exercise?” he asked, when all she did was blink, rub both fists into her eyes and blink again.
“Exercise?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Of a sort. Bring your knives. I stopped you from showing me how you use them. I could use another lesson, I think.”
Morgan didn’t know what to think of this new temperament, so she thought nothing, and told herself to respond the same way. She simply rose, shook her feile-breacan out, put her braid down the back of her shirt, donned her boots and followed him.
The sun wasn’t out yet, but that wasn’t strange for Zander FitzHugh. The man was a slave master with his regimen. It was surprising that he only made Morgan and himself follow it, though. She would have wondered why, but she was telling hersel
f not to think, and her mind felt too clogged with wool to puzzle it through, anyway.
They’d been out too late, and while it was making every muscle in her body angry at her, he seemed not to notice. He had lines she’d never seen before etched onto his cheeks and his forehead, though. She wondered if he’d slept in a position that created them, and told herself not to think about it. She wasn’t going to think of anything. She was simply going to endure whatever she had to, until she got her revenge. Then, she was going to cease existing. Thinking of Zander FitzHugh was a total waste of time.
Unfortunately, he was too immense and vibrant and vital to ignore. Her hands told her as much when he stopped at a stand of trees and pointed at a target he’d carved. Morgan looked at it. It wasn’t but ten, maybe twelve paces away. It was child’s play.
“Can you hit that?” he asked.
“In my sleep,” she replied, reaching for a dirk. She stood and without taking any time, pegged the center.
“How do you do that, with that accuracy, and that lack of emotion? I would give anything for that.”
“You throw?” she asked, instead.
He shrugged. “I managed to gain myself several servants before I met you. I’m fair at it.”
“Toss your knife,” she replied.
He stood, took two pumping motions over his shoulder and let fly his own dirk. It landed beside Morgan’s.
Her eyebrows rose before he turned to her, and his smile was devastating before it faded.
“Can you do that every time?” she asked, in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
“More times than not,” he replied.
“Do you know why you fail?”
He shook his head.
“Balance,” she whispered. “Get another knife and do this with it.” She stooped to pull another dirk, turned and flung it, from a position on one knee. It landed right between the two previous ones where it shuddered, kissing both blades with the quiver of it.
“Glory,” Zander breathed the word, awe staining his voice.
“Aim, and try it.”
“Not from my knee,” he responded.
“Oh that,” she smiled up at him. “I was fairly young when I started tossing. My vantage point wasn’t much higher than this. It makes for good tosses at any level.”
“You started tossing knives at what age?”
“Childhood,” she replied, evasively. “Toss your knife. Let me see how you do.”
He did the same two pumps over his shoulder before letting it fly. He wasn’t bad. She could tell that as his knife landed a finger-width below the other three. She had her eyebrows up again.
“Damn!” he said.
“It isn’t bad. Truly.”
He turned a look of complete disgust down at her. “But you’re a master. Why? What makes you so different?”
Morgan pulled two more dirks from her sock. “When will you let me have all my knives back?” she asked.
“When I have another hold on you,” he answered.
She met his eyes, and had to ignore the feel of a sudden drop, as if her innards rolled over onto themselves. “You have my hair,” she said finally.
“True,” he remarked. “And you’ve got six of your knives. Finish the lesson.”
“Watch this.” She started walking backwards, keeping a straight shot to the target in sight, until she could see it as a spot smaller than the end of her finger. Zander was standing where she’d left him and he was squinting at her. “Watch the target,” she called.
She knew exhilaration as the knife sank into wood amidst the other four, and her sixth joined it. She knew why she was showing off, too. She just didn’t want to think of the why it was so important to her.
Zander walked to the target and pulled the knives back out. Then he walked toward her, a look on his face that was everything she wanted to see. He was in awe of her ability, and it was as gratifying as it was stimulating, and other feelings she wasn’t going to put a thought to. Zander stood in front of her and held the knives out.
“Tell me about balance,” he said.
“You don’t learn well, though. Balance is in the feel. The perfect coordination of blade to hand, and from there to the target, like an extension of the body.”
He had too intense a blue to his eyes, and much too handsome of a face to stand as close to her as he was, for her not to expect the gasp she experienced. Morgan stepped back, putting some necessary space between them. Zander didn’t say anything, although he raised his brows and waited.
“Hand me the knives,” she said, extending her cupped hands.
He deposited them one at a time, as if she might be hurt somehow and, surprisingly, it felt like she was getting cut, or worse, each time a blade left the warmth of his skin to caress hers. Morgan watched his face until she had all the knives. He wasn’t watching her, he was watching himself put each blade into her hand, and then another. Then he looked up and locked gazes with her.
The earth opened up, tossing her to the heavens before letting her fall back, carefully placing her back in the exact same spot and in the exact same space. It may have felt the same to him, since his eyes were telling of it. Morgan’s own eyes went wide and her lips parted of their own accord.
She watched his eyes drop to her mouth and come back. Then, he did it again. Then, he licked his lips. Morgan had to shut her eyes on the spasm, and knew it was audible as the knife blades clicked together in her palms. When she opened them back up, he hadn’t moved. Not an inch.
“Now, close your eyes and put out your most sensitive hand,” she whispered.
“You certain that’s a good idea?” he asked.
“We’re finding out about balance. It’s the only way.”
“It may be too late for that, Morgan,” he answered, but he shut his eyes and put out both hands.
“For what?”
“Finding balance,” he replied.
“Whose dirk is this?” she asked in a soft voice, laying one of hers atop his left palm.
She watched him tip his hand one way, then the other, a frown to his face. Then, he brightened. “It’s yours,” he crowed.
Morgan picked it back up.
“Whose is this one, then?” She put the same one on his right palm. His frown came and stayed as he tilted his hand back and forth, back and forth, without a clear answer.
“I canna’ tell.”
“Do you ken why?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“You are left-handed. ’Tis the left that has the sensitivity, not the right.”
His eyes opened and he stared at her. Morgan forgot for a moment who she was, who he was, and everything, except how dark a blue his eyes were and how they were tying her belly in knots again, the longer she held his gaze.
“This is true?”
She cleared her throat in order to find a voice. “Try and toss one left-handed next time.”
“You believe it will help?”
“Close your eyes again.”
Zander rolled his eyes, but he did it. Morgan reached down and plucked a bit of fuzz from the top of a dandelion. She placed it atop his left hand, which immediately closed on it.
“What foolishness is this?” he asked, opening his eyes to glare at his hand. He opened his fingers, turned his hand over and they both watched as the fuzzy seed-pods floated away.
“No foolishness. I’m only showing you how sensitive your left is in comparison to your right.”
“What difference does that make? A warrior attacks from the right, a claymore comes from the right, a sword comes from the right. The left always holds the shield. Always.”
She nodded. “All true,” she replied.
“Then, why are you making me stand and hold weeds?”
She laughed aloud and missed the surprise on his face at the sound. “Sometimes the most unexpected is the best,” she finally answered.
“You do laugh,” he said. “I would na’ have guessed it of you.”
; Morgan pulled her lower lip in. “Are you ready to return to balance, now?”
He looked at her, closed his eyes and held out his hands again.
“Why do you waste my time with your right?” she demanded. “We already know it hasn’t the sensitivity to feel the difference. Put it down.”
He moved his head about like he would argue, but he lowered the hand.
“Now, whose blade is this?”
She put one of his on his hand and watched him tilt it to one side. “Mine,” he replied.
She lifted it and put it back on. “And this?”
“Mine,” he returned quickly.
She did it again, lifting it from his skin for a moment and then putting it back. “Mine, he replied unerringly.
“And this?”
She lifted his, and put two of hers down. She watched him tilt his hand just a bit before grinning. “Yours. Both of them.”
“Very good,” she responded. “Very, very good. You are an excellent pupil.”
His eyes opened again at that and Morgan darted her glance away before she was swallowed by them, and lose all sense of time and reality. This was Zander FitzHugh standing in front of her, grinning like a boy. He was a FitzHugh. He was a man.
Nothing was working.
Morgan moved her gaze to his. The grin died on his face. She cleared her throat. “Now, let’s return to your target, and try again.”
“With your blades?” he asked.
“And with your left hand,” she replied.
He looked over at her. “Left?”
“Where is it written that knives must be tossed from the right hand, anyway?” she asked.
He considered that for a moment, then smiled over at her. “I doona’ know,” he answered, “for I canna’ read.”
Morgan laughed again, then stopped. They were back in his glade, and the morning sun was making it magical. Dew drops sparkled on every surface and light danced off the very air, as the mist clung for a few moments in its silent retreat.
“The center?” Zander was asking, holding his blade above his right shoulder as he did just before his pumping action was due to begin.
Morgan’s fantasy environment dissipated and she looked over at where he stood. She gave him an ‘I am-severely-disappointed-in-you look. “What?” he said, lowering his arm.