by Jackie Ivie
She opened her eyes.
Zander moved back, although he couldn’t have seen her reaction. He had his eyes closed, too. His hands moved to her binding, untied it and let it fall where it may. Then, he was attending to the unbraiding of her hair. He wasn’t satisfied until he had the length undone, and moved it to cascade over her shoulders, separating the strands with a rubbing motion of his fingers against his thumbs. Morgan watched him, and didn’t move one bit of her being the entire time, because she saw the streaks that were on his face, too.
She trembled with the indrawn breath, then let it out. For a heart that was bent on revenge, she had an amazing capacity to feel love, she decided, lifting her hands to cup his face. Zander stopped all motion at the touch, and then she ran her thumbs over his cheeks, wiping the tears away.
“Come to me,” he whispered, and she stepped forward into his arms.
He hadn’t spoken lightly when he spoke of his strength, his size, or of being sought after. She knew the truth as he lay them down on the pile of discarded clothing and joined them, her cries and his groans blending with the night mists. He took her with him to a place of warmth and joy, and no room for anything but love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Morgan?”
“Hush!” Morgan’s reply sounded more like a brush of wind than the command it was meant to be, as she drew bead on a buck. It was going to be a shot deserving of her talents, for he was hidden behind his doe, while a fawn hovered in the spotted sunlight behind them, making it nearly impossible to see.
The buck was only visible by his rack above the doe’s neck, and whenever he reached his head down to pull at the grasses at their hooves. Her shot was going to graze the bottom of the doe’s throat with its motion, brush the hair perhaps with a bit of her arrow’s feathered shaft, before it was going to impale the buck exactly where Morgan wanted it to; its eye.
She pulled the bow taut.
“Are you carrying my bairn?”
Zander said it from his indolent position right below her, startling her so the shot went far wide. So far wide, in fact, that both deer raised their heads a fraction at the sound, and then resumed grazing, not the least bit alerted.
Morgan closed her eyes, stilled the immediate fear and had it under control before she glared down at the FitzHugh at her feet.
“If you canna’ stay quiet, FitzHugh, you will na’ eat,” she answered finally, reaching for another missile.
He chuckled. “They are far enough away, they canna’ hear a thing. Why, I dinna’ even see them at first. Aside from which, I have a sow roasting nicely over my spit and no less than sixteen maidens cooking the rest of a nice sup for Squire Morgan and myself. I see no need for splitting that family asunder, do you?”
“That is no family, Zander. That is an animal. One which, I might add, we rely on for food.”
She took another aim, hoping he wouldn’t spot the slightest tremble of her bow string, and also that it wouldn’t affect her accuracy. She’d never had such trouble, and all because Zander FitzHugh wouldn’t let her out of his sight, and hadn’t since last night at the worship circle.
“So...do you? Carry my bairn, that is?”
His whisper was soft enough to affect her aim. This time, the arrow quivered to a stop right at the nose of her stag, startling the entire grouping into escape. Morgan slid her eyes down to where Zander reclined, his head on a fallen log, one leg bent at the knee, the other prone, while his attention vacillated between a blade of long grass in his fingers, and her.
“Did you miss your prey?” he asked, softly.
“I was na’ aiming for it,” she lied.
“Truly?” He swiveled his head in time to catch the flicker of white tail and moving brush that clearly marked her stag’s escape. “That was noble of you, Morgan.”
She made the best sneer she could. “Noble? When we go hungry? How is that noble?”
“He was a grand stag, full of rut, proud of his doe, and of his offspring. He was a thing of beauty, posed for our delectation at what a glorious creature of nature he is. I am glad you let him live.”
She shrugged. “He will be taken down by the next hunter, Zander. He is too great a prize not to be. Come. There are fresh tracks of an elk. We passed them on our way here. I will try for one of them.”
“We have enough game, Morganna,” he said softly.
“There is never enough game, FitzHugh. I know this to be true. I have gone hungry. I don’t believe you ever have.”
He sighed. “That much is probably true. I was spoiled and held, and loved and adored, and my head filled with how wonderful I was, probably from the moment I left my mother’s womb. What of it? There is still enough game already taken. We have no need of more.”
“I have a hankering to hunt,” she replied.
“Why?” he asked.
She put her bow tip to the ground and leaned a bit on it, and thought about his question. “You have asked this of me a-fore, Zander, and the answer is the same. I doona’ ken why I hunt, I only know I need to. Why is it so important to you?”
“Because there is something there, Morganna. Something only you see and feel. I want to ken what it is, so I can understand you.”
“Nobody understands me!” She gave the snort every bit of her disgust and turned to check the elk tracks. His hand on her ankle stopped her.
“I am still glad you let him live,” he whispered.
“Live? Nay, I let him wander about until the next hunter, with more need, takes him down. I did him no favor.”
“You gave him another glorious afternoon with which to enjoy the living. That is what you gave him.”
“How did you ever bring down game to feed yourself, FitzHugh, with sentiments such as these?”
“I hunt when necessary, Morgan. For food.”
“’Tis the same as what I do,” she replied, “and if you doona’ release me, we’ll go without the elk, too.”
He blew the sigh out that massive chest of his, and she watched it rise and fall with it. She had to close her eyes for a moment and force the vibration that went through her at the sight, to a halt, though. It had been bad enough worshipping him in the midst of a field of strangely erected stones, surrounded by mist, and covered with darkness. In the dappled sunlight of their forest glade, it was impossible to cover over, or hide from.
“Do you enjoy the killing, Morganna? Does the thought of stopping a heart from beating thrill you? Is that what hunting does for you?”
Tears glittered in her eyes, but she’d never let him know of it. She shrugged. “What if it is?” she asked.
“I think not. I think ’tis your talent you are flexing.”
“My talent is a gift from God! Why do you revile it so?”
Zander looked up at her, and his other hand had her calf, now, holding her in place. “I doona’ revile it, Morganna. I revere it. I worship it. I am in awe of it.”
“Then why do you pester me with the why? Isna’ it enough that ’tis?”
“I said it wrong. That is strange, for I have a gift of speaking second only to The Bruce. I meant, you have this talent, and I think you have to use it, because you have it.”
Morgan shook her head. “It will be dark a-fore we return, Zander FitzHugh, with speech such as you do. Meantime, my elk trots away.”
“Let him,” Zander replied. “I like that you dinna’ wear the loin-wrap, Morganna. ’Tis verra inviting of you. Your lord and master thanks you for such a gift.”
He was looking up her kilt, and since he had one leg solidly in his grasp there was nothing she could do but stand and suffer the blush. She knew he wished it so, too.
“You are only lord and master because of the accident of your birth, Zander,” she said.
“The accident of my birth? I am fairly certain my parents were overjoyed. Not that they dinna’ wish a lass, but I am a bonny sort, you know.”
He displayed that physique for her to look at, and Morgan rolled her eyes, instead. “Y
ou’re a fine male, FitzHugh. You doona’ need me to speak of it, for you already have a swelled head with it.”
He pursed his lips. “You are taking an awful long time today to recognize and appreciate it, too.”
“You were birthed a male, Zander. ’Tis the males who are lord and master. That is the accident I speak of.”
“A woman has all the power, though,” he replied.
The sound she made voiced all her disgust, and more. “What power does a woman have?”
“The power to sway males.”
“You have shown me I have this power, but ’tis na’ due to my gender, but my aim. Why, if it became known that I am not a lad, The Bruce would be a target for ridicule and embarrassment.”
“It’s not that kind of power, Morganna. Would you twist all my words today? You are verra difficult to speak with.”
“As you are to hunt with. Yonder elk escapes while you delay me with worthless words.”
“Worthless. Worthless, she says,” he replied. “I have a talent with words, and she calls it worthless. I think I am insulted. With more thought, I realize I am insulted.”
Morgan giggled. “You are a fetching male, Zander FitzHugh, and you have a great orator voice, which is your gift. Now, if you would unhand me, I will use mine.”
“Let the elk go, Morganna. He deserves it. Let him live another afternoon, perhaps another full day.”
“Why?”
“If I say, you will anger at me. So, I will na’ say.”
“Zander FitzHugh!” she exclaimed loudly.
“With a reaction like that, there will na’ be game within a league, oh great god-of-the-hunt, Squire Morgan.”
His voice was still calm and seductive, and he had moved his fingers to the back of her knee. Morgan had to concentrate on keeping that part of her leg stiff and unbending.
“Have you decided the why of your hunt, yet?” he asked, peeling her sock over her knee and running his fingernail from the back of her calf, to the highest point on her thigh he could reach.
“My hunt?” she replied.
“You are showing off your talent. We doona’ need the meat, although I doona’ mock what you do, any meat you bring would be put to use. It is just you hunt, because you can.”
“You simplify everything. Nothing is...that simple.” She was whispering the words at the end, and it was his fault.
It felt like he was sending sparks, straight from his dark blue eyes directly to her heart, and didn’t even realize it. The bairn must know, though, for it twinged, stronger this time, and Morgan hadn’t the expertise to hide it. She was going to carry and birth a very active babe. That much, wasn’t in doubt.
She watched him watch her, and he didn’t appear to blink. She forced herself to breathe evenly and normally, and very carefully.
“It isna’ simple, Morganna, and yet it is, at the same time. You are gifted in targeting, shooting, and hunting. You hunt because of this talent. You may not even like it, but you use it, because you know what a special gift it is.”
“You spoil my hunt, and talk nonsense. You are a strange hunting companion, Zander FitzHugh,” she replied, surprised she had a voice.
He smiled, and an ocean of sound roared through her ears at the sight of it, and the bairn did antics in her belly again. Morgan caught her breath and silently begged the babe to cease. She very nearly flicked her gaze to it, too, since the slightest swell of her kilt betrayed her, and it was in her line of sight to the gorgeous FitzHugh at her feet. If she did such a thing, however, she knew he’d know.
She just didn’t know what he’d do.
“God could have given this gift to a hundred...nay, a thousand others, but he dinna’. He gave it to you. Therefore, you must use it. Otherwise, it was wasted. So, I think you hunt because you can. Simple.”
“And, that must mean you talk because you can. Regardless if your words have meaning or sense. You fill the day with words because you can.”
“I am going to get insulted yet, Morganna. I want you to know this a-forehand.”
She giggled.
“There could be another reason to your need to hunt, Morgan. Have you thought of that?”
“I try not to do too much thinking. My lord and master does too much of it for me already,” she replied, and grinned.
“You are learning to tease, Morganna. I am proud of you,” he replied quietly.
She was going to have to look elsewhere, or she was going to give everything away with the baby’s continual twinging, and the effect of the love and pride in his eyes. She also wondered if she did look elsewhere, if that would give it away. She gulped.
“I have changed my mind, Zander. I doona’ wish to finish this hunt. You have won. Yon elk can live another day. Or another hunter can bag him. Now, release my leg.”
“One bit of my teasing about your teasing, and you seek to run. You are a strange creature, Morganna. I think it’s because you will lose control if you allow humor into your world. You are so blasted serious because you canna’ allow the slightest crack to your composure. You canna’ lose control. If that happens, you’ll...what? Let something besides your vow rule your world? Something...like love, mayhap?”
She gulped again. She didn’t have an answer. She shook her head. He didn’t know the extent of her life vow. When he found out, he wouldn’t be speaking words of love or losing control or anything else to her, except hate and revenge, himself.
“Maybe you hunt for this reason. Maybe you hunt because it puts perfect order to your world. It puts you in command of it, instead of the other way around. Perhaps this is what hunting is to you.”
Her eyes were awash with moisture, and he glimmered through it as a blur of blue and green sett, and long, thick legs and arms. “I already told you the elk could live, Zander. What else would you have of me?” she whispered.
“Do you carry my bairn?” he asked, softly.
Morgan had to look away. She concentrated on a tree, any tree, and she picked a large, stout one, with bark as thick as Zander’s head must be. The thought helped as her tears faded.
She looked back down at him. “I already told you, FitzHugh, that I am unable to carry a bairn, whether it is sired by a grand fellow such as yourself, or a mere man.’Tisn’t a fault of yours, if you think to place the blame there. ’Tis mine.”
“If you carry no bairn, ’tis na’ my fault, nor is it yours, Morganna, my love. ’Tis God’s will.” He shrugged. “I was hopeful you would be by now, though. ’Twas my fondest wish.”
“Why?”
She’d give anything not to have asked it. She realized it as he put the entire force of those blue eyes on her. Morgan’s eyes widened and she gaped. She actually felt the burning sensation starting at the depth of her and spreading outward, and the bairn felt it, too, if the movement within her was any indication.
“Remember when I spoke of a woman’s power, Morganna?” he asked.
She nodded. It was the most she was capable of.
“It is in the life she gives. The life she creates for the men about her, it’s the realms of valor, gallantry and chivalry that she makes a man strive toward, just so he can be noble enough to deserve to be at her side. And it is the life she grows within her. A man canna’ do any of these things. This is the power women have. I ask you again, Morganna, and I beg of you not to lie to me...do you carry my bairn?”
She didn’t betray herself by so much as a hairsbreadth of motion. “And I asked you why you keep asking,” she finally replied, although nothing about her voice sounded normal. She was actually having a hard time hearing it over the roar of sound in her own ears.
He sighed. “This season just passed? ’Twas wondrous. ’Twas all I longed for Scotland. The Bruce had his countrymen to sway. The need for freedom has gained root, and with every word he spoke, and every crowd he swayed, he has encouraged it and helped it grow. This forced march canna’ last, though. The winter months are coming. Snow is already in the air. ’Twas cold last eve, in
the circle, was it not?”
“I was na’ cold,” she whispered.
He smiled, and it had everything warm, and loving and pure about it. Morgan heard the ocean in her ears crest in waves of reaction. She felt them to her gut. The baby within her didn’t move.
“There will be an end to this season, and then there will be living to do for everyone. You, too.”
There wasn’t going to be anything for her except Phineas’ death, and then hopefully, her own. Or, she suspected, it would be worse than dying. Zander was going to be lost to her. Forever. Death would probably be more merciful.
The bairn twinged, almost painfully, and her breath caught at it. How could she will herself to die, when she was carrying life within her? Her eyes went huge with the thought. Did Zander suspect that was her plan, and was that why he gave her his baby, on purpose?
“...and there is the future. This bairn you’re carrying, Morganna...it ties us together. It is as much mine, as it is yours. You do realize that, doona’ you?”
She forced herself to listen to him, and caught the tail end of what he was saying. Her heart sank. “Zander, I grow tired of—” She’d found her voice, but before she could start her rebuttal, he was interrupting her.
“I will have no bastards, Morganna. I told you that what seems a lifetime ago, when we first met. You carry my bairn in your belly. I will na’ allow you to bring my child into this world without its father. Hear me well, Morganna, for I vow this to you.”
“I doona’ carry a bairn!” She shouted it. “Now, cease speaking of it!”
Silence descended all about them. Morgan looked at him and waited. He twisted his lips into a semi-smile, raised those eyebrows and very slowly blinked at her. The result was worse than having a bucket of cold water tossed on her. She wondered if he knew.
“If you doona’ carry my bairn, then this talk is but a bit soon, for you will be. I will make certain of it.”
“Please...don’t touch me again,” she answered.