Seeking The Truth - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 11)

by Shea,Lisa

  The man came over a rise and immediately began to slow when he saw her waiting ahead. An odd mix of pleasure and disappointment settled over her. It was Sean, his dark cloak cascading over a forest green tunic. He rode a jet black steed, handling himself in the saddle with admirable skill.

  Morgan looked forward to crossing swords with him for the sheer enjoyment of a good fight, but it was a shame that he had turned out to be a man of little honor, had come after her to steal her winnings. His friend had been killed for defaulting on gambling debts. Maybe this group of soldiers was full of bad apples.

  “Go now,” she called out preemptively as he reined in near her, making a shooing motion with her hand. “You do not want any piece of me. My head hurts and I am in a sour mood. I might forget to pull my blows.”

  “My, you are rather feisty for a waitress,” commented Sean drolly, a smile dancing on his lips.

  “A waitress?” cried out Morgan in outrage, half pulling her sword from beneath her cloak. Sean’s eyes sharpened in surprise, and he sat back in his saddle, contemplation brightening him.

  “No, not a waitress,” he agreed, looking at her with renewed interest, drawing nearer. “It appears I made an assumption last night. That was wrong of me.”

  “Yes. Now before this situation becomes even more wrong, I suggest you turn yourself around and head back into town. You will find I am no easy target.” Morgan held her sword at a half draw, her eyes locked on his with careful appraisal.

  Sean’s eyes ran appreciatively up and down her form. “An easy target for what?” he wondered idly, a knowing smile growing on his face.

  Morgan felt the look in his eyes sink into her skin, fill her with an answering glow of heat. Her gaze moved from the fine sword at his side to the well-made boots he wore and the sturdy quality of gear on his horse. He did not seem to be in want of coin.

  Her throat went dry, and she licked her lips, pondering. What was he after then …

  A hawk called out sharply as it soared overhead on a spiraling thermal; Morgan’s horse skittered sideways in nervousness. She drew the steed back without conscious thought, and he sidestepped, drawing more closely to Sean’s. She felt the heat of his mount by hers, felt the touch of his thigh against her own. Her heart began racing, and she shook off the feeling.

  “You are after my purse, and I shall not let you have it,” she ground out, her voice hoarse, knowing she should draw away, finding herself unable to pull the reins. She brought her gaze back up to his, her hand still on the hilt of her sword. “I worked hard for that money, and my dagger needs a new sheath.”

  “Perhaps it is your purse I am after … and perhaps it is your sheath,” he answered in a low voice, his eyes caught on hers, smoky with passion.

  Morgan felt the sensual threat as a physical force, felt the answering desire shine out in her eyes, felt the matching need for release flame to life deep within her.

  God, he was handsome. His gaze captivated her, his dark eyes focused on her own with an almost arrogant amusement, as if he knew exactly how he was affecting her, knew that she would, if he but asked, readily answer to his every wish. He swept his eyes down her body as if he was sizing her up to buy her at an auction.

  Morgan’s temper flared into hot life. She was no slave; she did no man’s bidding.

  She drew her sword in a flash, laying it against his neck with a firm hand. He did not seek to block or pull away, but held his eyes on hers, tempting, alluring, a grin teasing the edges of his face.

  “You stay here,” she warned, her voice rough with both anger and desire. “I am going to ride on. Do not attempt to follow me. You have been warned.”

  “If that is your wish,” he replied languidly, his eyes dropping to her lips. A flush coursed through her, and in a move half defensive, half regret, she pulled back her steed, breaking the contact. She wheeled her horse, sheathing her sword in one smooth movement, galloping along the road toward Lady Donna’s keep. She was thankful to hear no sound of pursuit behind her. If he had come, she did not know if she was more likely to fight Sean, or to rein in, to find out for herself just how well those lips could kiss.

  *

  Morgan slowed to a canter after a mile, but did not let up from there as the miles streamed past, as she flew across the familiar terrain approaching the keep. She only drew in as she clattered across the cobblestone, pulling into the stables. Once there, Morgan dismounted in one smooth motion, flinging the reins of her horse in to Angus, the aging stable master. He gave a laughing wave as she half ran across the courtyard, her heart pounding. Where were they …

  It was Christian she came across first, his broad chest and red curls catching her eye. He was practicing sword thrusts with a young page, but with one look at Morgan’s eyes he turned, brought his sword into a high guard, and she was engaged in an instant. She felt the release of steel on steel, turning and spinning, her pent up energy glowing and streaming with every thrust. Christian laughed in delight as they circled around the dusty ground, his face beaming in the sun. She smiled warmly in response. He was her overeager hunt-dog puppy – enthusiastic, well-meaning, and friendly.

  She let the match go on for several long minutes, relishing his freshness. Finally she saluted him and stepped back with a laughing smile.

  “I missed you too, Christian,” she chuckled, sheathing her sword. “Come on, let us head inside.” She grabbed his hand, pulling him along past the kitchen buildings. Letitia, the cook’s assistant, was peeling carrots at the counter. She looked up shyly, brushing back her light brown hair as the pair passed the open doorways. Morgan gave her a playful wink as she raced up the main steps and into the keep proper.

  “There you are,” called a congenial voice from one end of the hall. Morgan’s face lit up with delight. She greatly enjoyed working for Lady Donna. The woman was past sixty, but her face shone fresh with youthful vigor. Her white hair was drawn back into a long braid, and her form was slim and toned.

  Morgan smiled at her friend with pleasure. She skipped forward, dropping easily to one knee in front of her.

  “Morgan, reporting for duty,” she announced before bouncing back up onto her feet.

  Lady Donna pulled her in for a warm hug, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “So you survived the few days with your parents? It is good to go home again, if only to remind yourself of why you moved out.” She moved over to the fireplace, raising an eyebrow. “Still, your trip could not have been all bad. I got a delivery in from Felix this morning.” She nodded her head meaningfully at the mantle.

  Morgan laughed out loud with delight, her face splitting into a wide smile. “Glass number eighteen!” she called out merrily, giving Christian a hearty nudge in the side. A row of shot glasses lined the top of the mantle, different shapes, different sizes. Morgan could barely remember what her final glass had looked like last night, but she trusted Felix to send along the right one.

  “So who was it this time?” asked Lady Donna with a grin, pouring out three mugs of ale from the sideboard. “Some visiting farmer for the harvest festival? A barkeep from Cranleigh? He must have been someone with endurance to finally get you up to number eighteen.”

  “Oh, he was,” agreed Morgan, raising her eyebrows suggestively, thinking back to his dark eyes, his strong build. She remembered suddenly how he had trailed her earlier this morning, and her face fell into a frown. “It is a shame, though - he disappointed me greatly. It turns out he was a thief, a common cutpurse.” She shrugged, sighing. “That seems to be the way it goes.”

  “I am no thief,” came a low, rumbling voice from the entryway.

  Morgan turned hard at the sound, her mouth dropping open in surprise. It was only a second later that her sword was drawn, that she was striding toward Sean with fire snapping in her eyes.

  “You had no right to follow me here,” she grit out, all defensive feelings for her patron flooding to the fore. “I want you to get out of here before -”

  Lady Donna’s voice rang out brig
ht and lively across the hall. “Morgan! Peace! I had no idea you meant Sean was your opponent! This is my nephew, surely I have told you about him.” She smiled, turning to the sideboard, pouring out another mug. “It turns out he was in the area; he has come by to visit for a while.”

  Morgan’s mouth hung open for a long moment. She closed it slowly, staring at the man before her. He was well-dressed in a forest green tunic and leather leggings, his clothing crafted of fine material. The sword at his hip seemed well-made and maintained. Her eyes moved up his solid muscles to his rugged face. His dark hair was brushed back; it seemed soft as silk, tempting her to run her fingers through it.

  His eyes twinkled in delight as he patiently watched her look him over.

  “No, not a waitress at all,” he commented in a murmur, looking at the steady hand which held the sword. “So you are my aunt’s bodyguard?”

  “Yes, I am,” replied Morgan, regaining her footing, tossing her hair back with a smile. She slid her sword easily back into the scabbard. An arm moved to encompass her waist as her red-headed compatriot came up at her right side. “This here is Christian, one of our guards,” she added, leaning against Christian with comfortable familiarity. Her smile deepened as a frisson of jealous heat flitted through Sean’s eyes.

  Christian nodded. “Welcome to our home,” he offered, his eyes steady on Sean’s, offering his right hand. Sean took it, and Morgan could feel the tight strength of their grip echo in the way Christian’s arm wrapped more strongly about her.

  She looked over to Sean, smiling sweetly. “You might recall Christian from last night, cheering me on to victory.” Her grin widened as she thought back over the evening. “Then again, perhaps you do not remember, after all.” She glanced meaningfully over at the eighteenth glass.

  “Oh, believe me, I remember everything,” promised Sean with a smile, his eyes glancing down at her right hand with lingering attention. Morgan followed his gaze, recalling suddenly the way he had kissed it, the feel of his lips on her skin. She flexed her fingers, breathing in as a flush cascaded along her body.

  Lady Donna strolled over between them, breaking the spell. She distributed the full mugs with ease to the trio. “A toast, to family,” she announced cheerfully. The mugs rang together, and all four drained their ale halfway down before lowering their tankards.

  Morgan turned to look over at Lady Donna. “I suppose he gets to sit with us at the main table, this nephew of yours,” she commented with a teasing smile. She slid away from Christian’s arm, walking with her patron to take a seat at the long table at the head end of the hall.

  Servants moved in quickly carrying wicker baskets of bread and wooden platters of cheese. Reaching for a block of cheddar, Morgan pulled her knife from her scabbard, cutting off even squares with easy skill. She looked over as Lady Donna walked around the other side of the table.

  Morgan glanced at Sean’s green outfit, then turned back to her patron. “So, I thought your nephew was with the King’s personal guard,” she teased lightheartedly.

  Lady Donna settled across from her, and in a moment Sean had taken the seat beside his aunt. “Yes, I belong to a small unit under King John’s discretion,” Sean answered quietly, his voice more serious.

  Christian plunked himself down next to Morgan, giving her a playful nudge with his hip. His eyes danced up to meet Sean’s, his look holding a light challenge. “A personal guard? Your uniforms seem rather standard issue.”

  Sean nodded neutrally. “We keep a low profile,” he agreed without inflection. “Especially when we are out away from London. It tends to be easier that way.”

  Morgan took a bite of cheese and bread. “So you are out here for the funeral?” she asked with curiosity. “A member of your group, I hear?”

  “What did you hear about it?” snapped Sean, his tone suddenly sharp.

  Morgan tilted her head to one side. Apparently she had hit a sore spot in the man. “Nothing, really,” she demurred. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Sean nodded, taking a long pull on his ale, momentarily lost in thought.

  Morgan felt the twinge in her upper back again and winced, rolling her shoulders against it. Suddenly there was a pair of hands on her shoulders, and Morgan leant back, half closing her eyes in contentment. “Oh, Oliver, how do you know -” words failed her as he dug a thumb into the knot in her upper back. “Yes, there,” she sighed, giving herself over to her old friend.

  Lady Donna’s voice came from far away. “This, my dear nephew, is Oliver, our captain of the guard. He also is our house doctor.”

  Oliver reached a hand across the table to shake Sean’s, then settled down at Morgan’s free side. “So, staying for a day or two?” he asked Sean in an even tone, his eyes scanning the man before him with careful attention.

  Sean nodded, bringing the smile back onto his face with an effort. “A few weeks, more likely,” he clarified. “Lady Donna here is the only family I have left, and my unit just finished up with some heavy work in London. The King has given us some time off as a result. With the harvest festivals going on, it seemed like perfect timing.”

  Lady Donna patted her nephew’s hand warmly. “We are very happy to have you,” she agreed with a smile.

  Sean’s eyes moved to hold Morgan’s. “I am certainly very happy to be here,” he murmured, his gaze moving slowly down her body. Heat trailed through her as he looked at her lips … her throat …then lower …

  Morgan grinned mischievously. She could rein in those eyes. She leant forward to take a grape from the wicker basket, dropping her cleavage just a bit lower than necessary in the process. She sat back slowly, examining the grape with a lingering look, raising it to her mouth, sliding it carefully into her pursed lips. She smiled widely as Sean’s face flushed with heat, his eyes coming back up to meet hers with a flare of desire.

  Christian instantly took a hold of her hand, bounding up with tense energy. “Well, Lady Donna, we will leave you two to enjoy some family catch-up time,” he offered in a quick rush. “We three have some sparring to get to. Morgan?” He looked down anxiously, giving her a gentle tug.

  She nodded, popping one last square of cheese into her mouth, then standing with smooth grace. “Until later, then, Sean,” she offered in a low murmur, nodding with a grin across the table.

  “I look forward to it,” he agreed, sitting back in his chair, a smile slowly growing on his face.

  His look warmed her to her toes, then Christian was pulling her hard, and she turned, chuckling with amusement. She walked from the room flanked by Oliver and Christian, looking forward to the coming hours of exercise. It would help to clear her head and burn off some of her pent-up energy.

  *

  Morgan loved to spar. It reminded her of her happy memories of childhood, of her father letting her test out a new dagger. There had been long hours of scampering around the forge area, trading jabs, learning about high blocks, low sweeps, parries, and turns.

  The hour of swordwork passed in a steady stream of motion, providing exactly the release she craved. Her friends were the perfect sparring partners. Christian kept her on her toes, his exuberant attacks and wild swings making sure she was ready for anything. Oliver was far more methodical, more predictable, his skill top notch. If she left even the slightest opening in her guard, he was sure to find it – repeatedly – until she learned a defense for it.

  She was coated with sweat by the time they finished up, and she swept a hand up against her braid, drawing the loose hair out of her face. She gave a wave to Christian and Oliver. The men returned her farewell before heading up the hill to gather up the waiting soldiers for their daily training work.

  Morgan made her way over to a stone bench by the edge of the lush gardens, sitting down to stretch for a moment. She then leant over to begin stripping off the arm and leg guards she wore during practice.

  A pair of strong hands lay against her shoulders, and she sat up instinctively, giving Oliver an easier angle to work with. He be
gan kneading at her sore muscles of her back, working expertly along her spine, then up across the shoulder blades, digging into the knots, working them loose. She relaxed under his expert touch, leaning back without reservation into the strong hands. Her eyes closed of their own accord.

  His hands rose higher, gliding sensually against her neck, seducing her, the touch almost intimate.

  She stiffened in surprise. This was not Oliver, not her dear friend, almost a surrogate father. It could only be …

  His hands moved against her shoulders again, and suddenly she did not care that it was the rogue who had confronted her on the road this morning. All that mattered was that the fingers kept doing what they were doing, that the blissful feeling continue. She melted against him, giving herself over to his caresses.

  He stopped suddenly, and she let out a long exhale, returning to the reality around her. The herb garden was in full flower, with large swathes of lavender stretching out toward the far wall which circled the keep. She followed it with her eyes for a moment before turning to look up at Sean.

  “Did I wear you out?” she asked with a teasing smile.

  He chuckled, gazing down at her. “Not at all,” he promised. “I only wanted to leave some knots for Oliver; otherwise he might feel jealous.”

  Morgan’s grin widened. “Jealous? Oliver has no claim over me, none of them do. I am my own woman.”

  Sean looked her over, considering. “Most men would not be happy to share something so … appealing.”

  She stood easily, putting one long leg up onto the bench, sliding her red dress up to her knee to remove the leather guard which was strapped to her lower leg. She smiled as she felt his eyes on her, felt them tracing the firm curve of her calf as she undid the buckles. She paused a moment before switching position, revealing her other leg, undoing the opposite guard. She lay the leather down on the bench, then rubbed her hands languorously against her skin to ease away the marks caused by the straps.

  Finally done, she stood up straight again, her eyes meeting him with a knowing smile. It was about time she gained the upper hand. She saw instantly that her efforts had paid off; his face was flushed, and his voice was rough when he spoke.