Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4)

by Jackie Ivie

  “Oh, Morganna, my love. That is the most teasing thing you’ve yet said,” he responded.

  “Even if I carried a bairn, Zander, it would na’ change anything. I have a vow to fulfill. I have always had this vow. You knew this. You knew this, and still gave me your seed. I will never forgive you for that, I think.”

  “I had to. The way you see your vow ends in death.”

  “It always did!”

  “I will na’ allow death about you, Morganna. Doona’ you ken anything I have said? You are the receptacle of my love, and the bearer of my future. I will na’ allow death near you, ever again. Ever. That is another of my vows.”

  “Zander...please?” She was begging. She only hoped it swayed him. His words were doing more damage than any sword.

  “You are carrying my bairn, Morganna, and it makes you more beautiful than before. That is how I knew, actually. You deny what is, and yet I already know. I know, Morganna. This makes it right and true that we wed. I would have wed with you a thousand times over a-fore this, but I had to have the means to force your hand. You will wed with me, Morganna. You will na’ be given the choice. I canna’ risk it.”

  “Do you na’ ken what that would do to me, FitzHugh?”

  “I am afraid to ponder it, actually,” he answered.

  ‘‘Would you have me fade into a shadow of myself, because I had no pride? Is that what you wish of me, FitzHugh? To lose every sense of pride I have? I will na’ wed with you, and I will na’ birth a bairn for you. I will do nothing save what I vowed to do over eight years ago. I will have justice for my clan, and I will na’ allow you to sway it. I canna’.”

  He put her sock back into place on her leg, and sprang to a crouch, and then slowly stood to stand beside her. Then, he reached to lift her chin to make her face him, and she jerked her face away.

  “This has been a bad day for a hunt, I think,” he said finally.

  “You think to finish this by ignoring it. ’Twill na’ happen, Zander FitzHugh. You say I am serious, and ’tis true. I had to be. I still have to be. The man that destroyed my family still walks the earth. He still talks, eats and enjoys this life you are always spouting to me about. I will na’ allow it. I will na’ rest while it is so. I canna’ wed with you, or any man, until there is an end to this. I canna’. You doona’ understand!”

  “I understand, Morgan. Forgive me.”

  “You will na’ press me?”

  “I have pressed you enough for one afternoon, I think. I will ponder the means for my next attack upon your defenses, although I am uncertain as to what they are. You are immune to talk of love. You are against talk of future and babes. You are prickly with anger at the thought of a warm house and me at your side as your husband. I will have to think of another tactic to sway you.”

  Her eyes flooded with tears. She gulped and sniffed and held herself stiff, and absolutely nothing worked. She was humiliated that he saw it.

  “’Tis all right, love. Forgive my forceful words. I forget myself with the desire I have. Come. Our sup awaits, and I’ve a long night planned ahead.”

  “Zander FitzHugh!”

  She said it in response to the hands he was cupping about her buttocks, in order to lift her against him.

  “You wear no loin-wrap, flaunt yourself above me, putting all your charms within easy reach and sight, and now say me nay? You are a tease, Morganna, lass. I am surprised I dinna’ note that a-fore.”

  “And you are insatiable, my lord Zander.”

  He grinned, and used his thumb to wipe the tears from her face. “If you have complaints, you are to voice them.”

  “What would happen if I did?” she asked, trying to chuckle through the last of her emotional weeping.

  He cocked his head and regarded her until she looked. “I believe I would consider them,” he answered, “and try to change to what you need. What say you to that?”

  Nothing. That was the only answer she had. She didn’t voice it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They came for her just before midnight, and without warning. Morgan wasn’t asleep, mainly because Zander hadn’t arrived back, but when FitzHugh man after FitzHugh man entered the tent, she was on her feet, rubbing at her eyes, and trying not to look as terrified as she felt. There were five of them altogether, Zander bringing up the rear. She recognized Plato, but that was all.

  “Morganna?” Zander said, and at his use of her name her eyes widened to their full extent.

  “Zander, what have you done?” Morgan whispered the question.

  “I have brought my brothers. They wish to meet Morgan, the great marksman, the squire who has brought such fame and recognition to our clan, and who is also the woman, Morganna, whom I love.”

  Morgan’s eyes were huge. She was afraid to breathe.

  “This is Ari FitzHugh, second-born. Ari? The maiden, Morganna.”

  A man, the same height as Morgan and looking a bit like Plato, but with Phineas’ light-blue eyes, and a slim physique that defied any relation to Zander, went on his knee before her. Morgan watched him do it and took a step back.

  “Next born is Caesar. Caesar FitzHugh? The lass, Morganna.”

  The next FitzHugh male stood to her eyebrows in height, had hair as blonde as Zander had described, and was as slight in build as Ari. He also went to a knee before her. Morgan’s eyes were still wide and now her mouth opened.

  “The fourth-born, and the lone one with a strange name, William FitzHugh. William? The lass, Morganna.”

  This brother had midnight-blue eyes, and receding medium-brown hair. He was a bit taller than Caesar, but shorter than Ari. He was more solidly built than the preceding brothers, too. He went on a knee beside the others, and bowed his head.

  Morgan looked toward Zander, but he had a taut look to him, and anger in every pore. She looked back at Plato. The apologetic slant of his eyebrows didn’t give her a clue, either. Zander hadn’t said a word that wasn’t true. His brothers were all small, less prepossessing, and not near as handsome. Plato and Ari were the only ones to stand to Morgan’s height.

  “We’ve met, my lady,” he said, dipping his head. “Plato FitzHugh.”

  And then Plato went to his knee.

  “Zander?” Morgan whispered. “What is this about?”

  “I have told my brothers that you are carrying my bairn, Morganna.”

  His face was as tight as before while he said the damning words. Morgan went white. Then, she had to hold to a tent pole to keep upright. She was shaking, stunned, demoralized, and totally degraded. Tears flooded her eyes and she wiped angrily at them before she pulled away from the tent pole and sent every bit of hate she possessed into the look she gave him.

  “You have lied then, FitzHugh, for I doona’ carry anyone’s bairn. Yours, or no,” she replied, finally.

  “Aye, you do, and I have brought my brothers to attend the wedding that I would force on you.”

  Her mouth wouldn’t function, and her knees wobbled. “Zander, I...”

  Then, she was falling, but he caught her, and pulled her against him before that could happen. His chest was huge, strong and comforting, and she let herself rest against it for the span of a heartbeat, then she was hitting at him.

  “I will na’ wed with you, FitzHugh! I will na’!”

  He caught her fists and held them, holding her in place while he did so. “You will, Morganna, if I have to force it. And I will force it. Doona’ doubt me.”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  “I will na’ do it alone, either. I have brought over a hundred clansman to make certain of it. I will have you to wife. You are nae longer being given a choice.”

  “But...why?”

  His jaw was still set and a nerve bulged out the side of it. “You carry my bairn. I will have no bastards to claim. You will wed with me. This night.”

  “Nay, Zander, nay. I canna’. You doona’ understand.” If she wanted him to listen, she was going to have to find a stronger argument than tha
t, especially said with a hint of tears, she told herself.

  “You can, and you will. Dinna’ you listen? I will force it.”

  “Oh God, not this, Zander. Please? Not this! You doona’ understand!” Morgan looked about wildly.

  The other four FitzHughs were still on one knee in a line, and acting like they couldn’t hear a word. It was horrible. She’d had nightmares about this baby, about facing the eventual size she was bound to become, about birthing a member of the FitzHugh clan, about facing the members of her dead clan when it happened. None of her nightmares matched the one Zander was forcing on her.

  “Morganna, you carry my bairn,” he repeated softly, more gently than before, but just as implacably. He had his head lowered, pinning that midnight-blue gaze on her from an angle beneath his eyebrows. The hands holding to her were trembling, too.

  “Please, not this. I’m begging you. Please?” Morgan felt the tears of self-hate mingling with the same emotion as she begged him. A KilCreggar was stooping to begging from a FitzHugh. She didn’t think she could stand it, but wedding to him would be worse. She knew it.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t vow before God to be his for their entire lives! She couldn’t! She couldn’t put his name with her own. She couldn’t vow allegiance to a clan that Phineas FitzHugh was laird of. She just couldn’t! The betrayal to her ancestors would be more than she could bear.

  “You are carrying my bairn,” he repeated again, in the same calm, controlled, emotionless voice.

  “Very well, Zander, aye!” Her voice was low, although she felt like screaming. “I carry your bairn! ’Tis what you wanted, what you schemed for, worked for, and made certain of. You convinced me it was love, when it was nothing of the sort. It was a trap you were setting. Well I will na’ wed with you. I will na’ vow to a FitzHugh. I canna’. I canna’ stop this child you have given me, but I dinna’ want it, and I will na’ accept it. I will decide what I will do with ’tis birthed, but I will na’ wed with you, FitzHugh! I canna!”

  Zander was perfectly still, although she could tell he still breathed, because there was the slightest grunt of pain to each one. He was pale beneath his tan, too, and his jaw looked even more set, with his teeth clenched. The hard, reflective, midnight-blue of his eyes was more like the surface of a winter-blocked loch, and just as warm. Morgan looked away. She couldn’t keep the gaze. It was killing her. The bairn wasn’t reacting well, either, for it seemed to be doing push-up type antics in her belly.

  “Well, you heard her, brothers? She carries my bairn. She is going to wed with me, whether she wishes it, or no. Now, do I have to force you, Morganna, or will you cleave unto me without it?”

  “You doona’ understand, Zander! I canna’ wed with you. Even if I wished to, I canna’! You doona’ understand!” Tears were running down her face now, and she ignored them.

  He sighed hugely. “If you dinna’ walk of your own power to the horse, Morgan, mount it and follow me to the cathedral, Morganna, I will bind you. I will gag you, and I will carry you. Now, which is it to be?”

  “If you force me into this, FitzHugh, I will hate you. I will never forgive it. I want you to know this.”

  Nothing. She got no reaction from her words, nothing. Morgan looked down. She looked at the four kneeling FitzHughs, and then she looked at the door. She tightened her thighs to run. If Zander weakened his grip at all, she was ready.

  “Dinna’ you hear me, love?” Zander whispered. “There are a hundred clansmen outside this tent. You would na’ get two steps from me. Now, which is it to be?”

  Morgan closed her eyes, tried to send every emotion to where it wouldn’t hurt her and opened them. All the weeks of love, all the words of worship, and all the vows he’d made were for this? He’d done it to force her to wed him, when everything that was KilCreggar in her would rather die.

  She yanked a hand free and reached for the dragon blade.

  Zander was quicker. He had her against his chest, and was plucking the blade, and dirks hidden at her back. Then, he was advising Plato to get those from her socks. Morgan fought. She kicked. She twisted. Everything failed. She was forced to cease when they had all thirteen of her weapons, and she had nothing except Zander’s arms about her like iron bands.

  “Get the ties, Ari,” Zander said.

  “Wait,” she said, stopping everyone. She was defeated, and she knew it. They all knew it. All that further fighting would do was get her trussed up and taken like a fresh kill before the priest, and all that would change is that the church would know, too. They wouldn’t stop it, though. There was an unborn bairn to consider, and women had forever been forced. They always would be.

  She bowed her head. “I will marry you, Zander FitzHugh,” she whispered, and then the tears started.

  Morgan wept when the cloak was put on her, covering her from head to foot. She wept when she was put atop the horse, Morgan, and then pulled back into Zander’s arms. She wept with every step of the horse and every tear felt as though it carried blood. She wept when they arrived at the cathedral. She wept when they went inside: not just the six of them, but all the FitzHugh clansmen he’d brought with him. She wept when Zander carried her into a small room, just large enough for the two of them, and unwrapped her, and showed her the beautiful dress that was hanging there for her.

  She wept the hardest when he left her to dress.

  Morgan took every bit of FitzHugh-given squire’s raiment from her body. Then, she untied her breast binding and looked at the square of fraying cloth that had been her constant companion. She scrunched her eyes shut at the same moment she wrapped a fist about it. She no longer deserved to wear it. She certainly wasn’t worthy of owning a piece of it. She opened her eyes, slashed an arm across her ceaseless weeping, and placed her KilCreggar plaid atop the bench by itself. There wasn’t any way she was going to allow it near FitzHugh colors…not now. The only time she’d pick it up again was when Zander turned his back and gave her time to join her clan in death.

  Morgan sighed, wiped at her eyes again, and then she turned her back on the last remnant of her clan. She put the FitzHugh-given dress on almost viciously. There was a chemise. There was a linen sheath over that, and there was an off-white, woven flax dress, with a square neckline and long laced-on sleeves that fell below the wrist.

  There was no veil, so Morgan undid her braid, and combed her fingers through her hair until she had her veil. There was a silvered mirror on the wall, but she ignored it. She couldn’t see through her tears, anyway.

  There was a bit of sound coming from the front altar when she stepped out, and she noted Plato was the FitzHugh standing outside her door to escort her. Morgan looked up the aisle-way of the cathedral and saw the altar. She saw the huge, pointed hat on the bishop, who was to wed them, she saw that every available bit of standing room was taken up with a FitzHugh, and then she started walking.

  There were altar boys singing as she grew closer, their voices combining to make heavenly, reverent-sounding music. That was strange, when they were doing such a desecration, she thought. Her feet grew heavier the closer to the altar she came, and that was strange, too.

  Then, Zander stepped out to the front of the altar, and time stood completely still for the briefest moment of time. Zander FitzHugh was dressed from neck to knee in a feile-breacan of her beloved KilCreggar gray-and-black plaid.

  Morgan’s steps faltered, her breath completely left her body as she felt and heard the reaction of shock, disgust and hatred about her. Then, she heard, from a long way away, Zander telling Plato to catch her, for God’s sake, and then she heard absolutely nothing.

  The din was enormous when she opened her eyes, and she was lying in Plato’s lap, directly in front of the altar, and Zander was speaking in that great orator’s voice of his.

  “Listen to me, I say! Nay! I doona’ say it, I command it! Listen! Hush your tongues and listen to me! I am going to wed the last KilCreggar in Scotland, the lass Morganna, and there is na’ going to be m
ore clan war about it! There is a story to tell, and every single man amongst you is going to listen. Ewan FitzHugh is going to tell it. Ewan!”

  “Ewan FitzHugh is a deaf-mute!” Someone called out derisively.

  “Nay!” Zander shouted. “Ewan isna’ deaf, nor is he mute, although he would give his soul to be both! Ewan? Step up! Now. Step up and tell your tale.”

  The little old man that moved to Zander’s side, looked even older and frailer than he was, simply by standing next to the youngest FitzHugh. He also looked very colorful beside the muted grayish sett worn by Zander. Morgan blinked and sat up, and Plato let her, although he put a finger on his lip to silence her.

  “Speak loud, Ewan. This church has great space for sound to seek out and amplify words, but ’tis na’ everything. Speak loudly. Tell them the story. Make them hear!”

  The little old man opened his mouth, and the fact that he was actually speaking was probably what hushed them more than what he was saying at first. Morgan watched as man after man stopped clamoring and shaking his fists and started listening.

  “What Zander says is truth, my clansmen. I am no deaf-mute, although I have sought that condition for more than fourteen years. Fourteen years when I have aged far beyond my two score!”

  The man is forty? Morgan thought and gasped. She wasn’t the only one astounded as they all looked at him.

  “Listen, and know the truth, my friends, my blood, my kin. I am the man you see before you because I carry guilt, great guilt. I was going to my grave with it, until friend Zander here, spoke with me two days past. He begged me to right a wrong, and that is what I must do.”

  There was absolute silence at the end of his words this time, and all waited while he gasped for breath to continue.

  “Fourteen years ago, I was na’ the auld man you see before you now. Nay, I was young, I was virile, I was every inch a FitzHugh warrior, and I was a companion to our laird, Phineas. I tell you that, so you will know. Some of you may even remember.”

  “I remember!” Someone shouted from the rear. Ewan nodded.