Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “Yes?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t say it.

  “Phineas and I were never close, Morgan. He is much older than me, and much too serious. Almost as bad as you are, yourself.”

  “Phineas is a FitzHugh. You are a FitzHugh,” she whispered.

  “True enough. ’Tis a fine name. A fine clan. You, yourself have been adopted into it. The cloth looks good on you. Almost as good as yon burgundy dress did.”

  “Zander—”

  “Plato tells me to force you to wear it. Force the illusion into reality. Is that what would happen, Morgan?”

  “Plato has his own reasons for such a story, Zander.”

  “He does? What?”

  “It is his secret, not mine,” she replied.

  “And what secrets does my next older brother keep from me?”

  “He is in love.”

  “With you? I’ll kill him!”

  “Zander,” Morgan said, turning on the hearth to face him. “No man can be in love with me. You ask if there is an illusion, and I say ‘aye’, there is. Love is it.”

  “Love is no illusion, Morgan. ’Tis verra real. I think if you put your hand out, you can touch it. It’s within your grasp now. With me.”

  “Nay Zander,” she began and she rose to her feet, since he had taken a step from the door and every part of her was alert to it.

  “I am in love with you, Morgan.”

  “I know,” she answered.

  “And you feel it for me.”

  “Nay,” she whispered, but she couldn’t face him and say it.

  “Nay?” he chuckled. “I know who the liar is now, Morgan, and ’tis na’ any of my brothers. ’Tis you.”

  “I doona’ lie. I have never lied!”

  “You love me. It is in every look you give and every word you say, and in the way you do both. It is in the illusion you created for me tonight. It’s in the image I canna’ get from my head. Get out the blade, Morgan.”

  He took another step toward her. Then another. Morgan pulled the blade. “Stop, Zander,” she said.

  “Stop? When everything I want was shown to me not an hour past? Stop, when all my blood sings for and has been denied was just put on show for me? Stop, when the woman I wish you to be, was put into form in front of my eyes? Stop, when I’ve been unable to perform with another wench since I was cursed with you, and I just saw curves blessed by fantasy? Stop? Aim the blade, Morgan!”

  “Zander, you must stop. You must!” She was stepping up on the hearth, and backing to the point the fire was singeing the backs of her legs.

  “Stop? When your wide eyes and slender form could be hiding everything? Stop? When my hands itch to taste your innocence, claim you and make you mine? Fling the blade, Morgan! Fling it now, damn you!”

  Damn the curse of woman tears! Morgan heard it as clearly as if she’d said it aloud, then he blurred, becoming one with the room around him. She knew the knife in her hand shook as he kept coming, his booted feet barely heard on the tapestry-covered stone.

  “Now!”

  She took aim, and threw. The knife slid perfectly into a slit in the stone across the room, and Zander stopped, closing his eyes. With her instincts, she saw how clearly the pain and panic were showing on those perfect features.

  “Damn you, Morgan lad,” he said, opening those midnight-blue eyes and seizing hers. “Damn you.”

  “You’ll have to do it, Zander. I canna’.” Tears were obliterating everything and she watched him stand beneath her, his entire frame shuddering, both fists knotted at his side. “You’ll have to do the killing. Do it quickly, though. Make it fast. Don’t give pain. I beg that much of you.”

  The tears slid from her eyes, blinding her, and then she heard his roar. The chamber door flew open, sending fire into the backs of her legs. Morgan didn’t even feel it.

  Zander was yelling for Plato. He was using every bit of his orator’s voice, and it was filled with the self-hate. Plato finally answered, his voice just as loud and angered, and then both voices faded down the hall. Eagan was in front of her then, helping her down from the hearth, and beating at the spots of cinders glowing on her socks.

  “You’ve burned yourself, lad,” he said.

  “Where are they going?”

  “Yon master has gone to fight Plato. I was told this might happen, although Master Plato laughed about it.”

  “What might happen?”

  “Master Zander seeks release from the demons in his head.”

  “What demons?” she whispered.

  “I doona’ know. I only know what I heard. Plato may know.”

  Morgan was very afraid that she did, too. “How is Master Zander going to get this release?” she questioned.

  “They will fight. Physical exhaustion is what the youngest master is looking for. That is the release he hopes for. They will use claymores and shields. I’ve seen it before. You don’t watch six FitzHugh men grow without witnessing battles such as these. Come. I’ll assist you with these. If you need a poultice to stop the pain, you let Eagan know. I’ll see it fetched.”

  “Pain?” she repeated. What did this kindly-faced clansman know of pain? she wondered.

  “You may’ve burned yourself, lad.”

  “Burned?”

  He frowned. “You take a burn badly? I would na’ have thought it from what I was told about you.”

  “Where did they just go?” she asked.

  “The FitzHugh lads? I’ve just told you. To do battle. The master asked Plato to help him exorcise the demons should it need doing. I heard it. I dinna’ think it would take place, but I doona’ ken these two. Doona’ fash yourself, though. They be evenly matched. It will na’ go either way for some time.”

  “Battle?” Some of it was sinking into her mind, and she stared over at him, since he was of a like height. “Plato is fighting Zander?”

  “Aye. With claymores and shields.”

  “Claymores?” She gasped on the word, for the large, heavy sword was capable of taking a man’s limb off. “We’ve got to stop them!”

  “You canna’ stop a FitzHugh set on battle, lad. They be hard in the head over something like that. Master Zander was clear. They will na’ return until one wins, or there is no strength left in him. I heard him.”

  “Get out of my way, then!”

  Morgan raced down the corridor, leaping bodies and sleeping forms to reach the parade ground. The minstrel was still whining his ballads of strength and unrequited love and other ills, and was missing the drama of it right in front of his nose. Morgan flew out the door, jumped the four large steps to the earthen ground and lifted from her crouch to get her bearings.

  She heard the clang of steel against steel before she could see the brothers. The night was filled with rain and mud and lust and pain. She could feel it, sense it, almost absorb it. She crossed the same ground on which she’d taken her victory bow that afternoon, and approached where torches were being lit and cheers being given. She forced her way to the front of the group, and went to her knees as the FitzHughs raged against each other.

  She knew what it was they felt. She also knew it wasn’t directed at each other, but at her. She knew it and received absolutely nothing from it except complete and utter dread. The claymores kept swinging, covered in mud and grass, and more than once a grunt of pain came from either of them. Shields that had started without a dent were now pocked with them, and steam rose from their bodies as the contest continued.

  The minstrel must have lost his audience to the parade grounds, for the crowds about Zander and Plato swelled. Morgan had to get to her feet to maintain her view. She didn’t want to watch, but was unable to take her eyes off the battle even to blink. Rain slid off her hair into her eyes, into her mouth, into her ears, and she ignored it. Every time either of them stumbled, she was catching her breath on a silent prayer, and then winging thanks as the FitzHugh who had been down, rose and continued.

  Then, it was finished, as harshly as it began
. She watched Plato stumble to his knees once too often, and bow his head in defeat. It didn’t stop Zander. He hit his claymore into one of Morgan’s exhibition targets until the wood splintered and came off the support. Then, he turned in a semi-circle and hollered with that great orator’s voice at everyone.

  Morgan had to stop him. She was the only one who could. She knew it. She approached from his right, but he turned on her. “Stay away from me!” he ordered, the claymore pointed directly at her belly. “Never come near me again! Never!”

  “Aye,” she replied. “I will na’. ’Tis finished, Zander.”

  He slammed the claymore into the ground, and even though it was wet, everyone gaped as he sank the sword to its hilt.

  “Nay!” He turned on her, wiping the wet strands of hair from his forehead. “’Tis not finished yet. I go now to finish it! Check my brother. He does na’ deserve what I gave. You know who does.”

  Morgan watched him go back to the castle, flinging anyone brave enough to block him out of his path, and she waited until he disappeared behind the door. Rain made the ground slick and the air hard to breathe. It also chased every weak, English observer back into the warmth and dryness of the castle.

  Morgan approached the mud-covered lump that was Plato. He had yet to stand, and was clasping his claymore with shaking hands.

  “You all right?” she asked when he just sat there, heaving for breath.

  “You have created a monster, Morgan.”

  “I have done nothing,” she replied.

  “Of course you would say that. He is impossible to beat when he is angered. That’s why he had the dragon blade. He can beat all of us, if we get him angered. He won me because he had the emotion to do so, and I did na’. He was angered.”

  “He did not beat you because he was angered,” she said.

  “You wish me to take more offense by such words?”

  “Nay, only to set your mind at ease.”

  “He has the strength of ten when he is angered, and he is still so. I did na’ tire him enough. Maybe if Ari were here, too, we could have done it. But by myself? I dinna’ stand a chance.”

  “He would have won you without anger, Plato FitzHugh, and I doona’ say this lightly,” Morgan replied.

  “Now, you have offended me. For punishment, I sentence you to return to that chamber of horrors you have created with him and deal with this anger you say he does na’ possess.”

  “I dinna’ say he was na’ angered. I said he beat you without the anger, and I still say it. He was using his left hand.” Her voice held the awe, too. She had seen how perfect he was with it. She wondered if he realized he’d done so, yet.

  “His left? Blast and damn him! He tricked me!”

  “Nay, he only used the one with the most power. I told him of it some days past. I dinna’ think he listened, though.”

  “Go to him, Morgan,” he said, trying to rise, by putting the claymore’s tip in the sod and leaning on it. He fell back down.

  Morgan watched him dispassionately for a moment. “Where are my clothes, Plato FitzHugh, and my dirks?”

  “Is that what all this is about? Tartan and knives?” he asked.

  “Nay, not only that. ’Tis more than that.”

  “He tried to claim you, and you used the dragon blade? Was that it?”

  “I dinna’ use the dragon blade,” she whispered in reply.

  “Then what angered him so?”

  “That I dinna’ use it,” she replied.

  The muddy lump sighed. “Go to him, Morgan. Show him what you are. Let him claim you. Heal this.”

  “No man claims me! Ever! Especially not a FitzHugh.”

  He shook his head. “You still doona’ understand, do you?”

  “Understand what?” she asked.

  “How much do you require?” Plato asked, startling her.

  “I doona ken your meaning,” she replied.

  “How much do you require, to bring my little brother back?”

  “You wish him back, after he just trounced you? You canna’ even lift your sword.”

  “I was na’ meaning that,” he spat, and blood came with it. Then, he tested his jaw with a hand. “I mean, how much do you require? How much more do you need?”

  She pulled back, absolutely stung. “I will na’ whore for any man! Not even for Zander FitzHugh.”

  Plato shook his head wearily. “I dinna’ mean that. I meant how much more do you ken he can stand? How much more of his anguish do you need to satisfy yourself? How much more of this, when it is within your power to fix it?”

  “I doona’ have that much power. I’m a lowly squire of no-name and no-clan. I have no power.”

  Plato stretched out his arm and gestured. “Look about you, Morgan, what do you see?”

  She looked. There were groups of men huddled about under overhanging porches, some talking, some pointing. There was mud, a splintered target, great gray stone walls, pouring rain. She said all of that as she observed it.

  He shook his head. “Do you know what I see?”

  “You see more than that?”

  “Aye. I see lads taking to a different form of slingshot because a lad named Morgan showed them how. I see knives getting tossed differently, and with greater accuracy because of a lad named Morgan. I see Scotsmen glowing with pride and jostling each other every time a Sassenach was sent away from the field, his dignity in tatters, all because of a lad named Morgan. I see young clansmen all clamoring for the chance to squire, so they can be like a lad named Morgan. I see a warrior like my brother, a score and eight in years, hardened by exercise, and faultless in battle, yet changing his attacking arm, all because of a lad named Morgan. You see any of that?”

  Morgan squinted her eyes against the rain and considered him. Her legs felt a little wobbly, and it wasn’t the rain doing it. It was what he was saying.

  “I did all that?” she asked.

  Plato grinned, his teeth white in his mud-splattered face, although the rain was washing off some of the muck. “That and more, Morgan. There is a dark side of this power you wield, too. Doona’ think there isna’. Doona’ ken that Zander is the only one suffering with it, either, for he isna’.”

  “I’m suffering, too,” Morgan replied, “And none among you knows my reasons!”

  “I doona’ care what your reasons are, anymore!”

  “I’ll not stay and listen to another—” Morgan turned her back on him, but he interrupted her.

  “Do you know where the lass, Sheila, is, Morgan?”

  She stopped. “Sheila is not my concern.”

  “Oh, that is where you’re wrong. I happen to know where the lass is, and it will na’ be what she expects.”

  Morgan turned back around. “Where is she?” she asked.

  “In my bed.”

  Morgan gasped. “But, I thought you loved the beauteous lass, Gwynneth,” she protested.

  “Love and lust are two differing things, Morgan. That is where you have confused them. My brother is also confused. He thinks he can place his lust on the woman I love, and keep his love for the woman I am starting to detest.”

  “Now, wait. I had nothing to do with—”

  “Do you not even wish to know why Sheila is in my bed?”

  “You will tell me, even if I doona’ wish to hear it. Go on then, Plato, tell me.”

  “She is learning how to be a whore.”

  “What?” Morgan’s knees were definitely wobbly. She rocked. “But, why? There is nae need for such a life. She has my protection! Everyone know it.”

  “That’s just it, lass. She has the great Scot’s champion, Squire Morgan’s protection, but he does na’ want her for himself. Oh nay. He wants to slake his lust on a fat, old whore named Sally Bess with a big mouth and ceaseless tormenting words about it.”

  “I dinna’ know,” Morgan whispered.

  “So, if her protector wants a fat, used, whore, then Sheila will do her best, because she wants what Sally Bess has.”


  “Sally Bess does na’ have anything of the kind!”

  “You go tell them of it,” Plato said.

  “I dinna’ know. You say I am responsible, then help me! How can I change it? How? I dinna’ know it was happening. I dinna’ mean it to happen. I dinna’ mean any of this to happen.”

  “It gets worse,” Plato said softly.

  “It...does?” Her voice wasn’t even audible, but he heard it.

  “Aye,” he answered.

  Morgan’s knees gave and she went to them on the wet grass beside him. “How?” she whispered.

  “You want Sheila?” He asked, glancing sideways at where she sat. “You want to take her to your bed?”

  “That’s disgusting!” she blurted out. “And you know it is!”

  “Do I?” he asked.

  “I doona’ want anything of the sort!”

  “You doona know how it feels to rolls a teat around in your teeth, then? You doona’ ken how they tighten into a knot just made for sucking on?”

  “Stop!” Morgan screamed it, slamming a hand to her mouth to stay the sickness.

  “How about her moist womanness? You wish to feel that about yourself? Have you considered that? Her moistness pressed to yours? Well?”

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Morgan screamed it until her voice cracked, and sobs filled the gap. She slammed her hands to her ears and still seemed to hear him, see the images, feel the bile churn warningly. “Stop! I canna’ take it! I canna’ listen! I canna’ think! I hate the images you give to me! Stop! I beg you, stop!”

  He didn’t say anything while Morgan moved her hands to her belly, clasped them about herself and rocked with the feeling of revulsion.

  “Why are you doing this to me? Why? Why, Plato, why? I dinna’ want to know. I dinna’ want to hear. I would rather die than think this through. Why do you do it?” She lifted her head and looked at him, and all she could still see was the horror he’d described.

  “So you will see what you’ve done to my brother,” he said finally.

  Morgan’s eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Oh my God,” she whimpered, and then she was running back the way Zander had gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Morgan stood outside Zander’s chamber, put her forehead to the door and tried to convince herself not to interfere. She had the length of her flight to reach here, and realize that Plato was getting her to do his bidding, not the KilCreggars’. He was making her forget that everything the KilCreggars had vowed for was within her ability to grant, right here and right now. She could not only wreak blood-vengeance from the FitzHugh clan, by taking one of theirs from them, but she was actually doing it without her having to spill a drop of blood.