True Highland Spirit

by Amanda Forester

  “Good!” She pulled him back, but he resisted.

  “I am sorry, but I want to… to…” Suddenly he pulled her close, crashing his mouth into hers. He was not gentle or slow, but passionate and urgent. He plundered her mouth with his as if he could not get close enough. She opened herself to him and gave as good as she got.

  “Well now, I thought a spot of something hot might be nice on a cold day like this,” said Alys, entering the room with a tray of food and drink before her.

  Dragonet jumped away from Morrigan as if she was on fire. Truth be told, she almost was.

  Alys placed the tray on the table and looked up at them, her naturally rosy cheeks growing redder. “Ah, well. I see. Verra good. Much too busy to stay. Carry on wi’ whatever ye were doing. Canna stay. Winna be back for a long time.” Alys turned and hustled from the room. Despite her embarrassment, she could not help turning at the door and giving Morrigan a wink before shutting the door behind her.

  Dragonet stood and pushed his hair from his eyes with both hands, muttering something in French. He turned back at her, his eyes desolate. “I am sorry. I am so sorry. I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Nay, ’tis naught to forgive.” Morrigan’s body trembled from the shock of intimacy and its sudden removal. She remained seated on the bench, her legs too unsteady to rise.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” He bowed and fled for the door.

  Morrigan stared at the open doorway wondering what had happened and how it had gone from so good to so wrong. She put her head in her hands. One thing was clear. She was again alone.

  Seventeen

  Dragonet smacked his head with the palm of his hand. How could he be so colossally stupid? Just as he found the information he needed, he fell victim to his own carnal desires and kissed her. No, not a kiss. What he did couldn’t be considered a kiss. He had mauled her, desperately trying to pull her closer. He was not sure if he was trying to kiss her or consume her.

  It was bad enough that he had kissed her again. But to kiss badly? It was inexcusable. What must she think of him? Was she laughing at him? She must be telling Alys how he had lost control and tried to eat her.

  Dragonet groaned and collapsed on his bed. He should leave. Maybe if he snuck out at first light, he could avoid the inevitable confrontation. And laughter, as she would no doubt mock his futile, immature, pathetic, adolescent, attempts at passion.

  The only alternative was even worse. If she actually welcomed his inexperienced attentions, then he should offer marriage immediately. Any true knight would go to her brother and arrange terms. But of course he was no ordinary knight, and marriage was the one thing he could not offer.

  If her heart was engaged even a fraction as much as his, he was going to hurt her. It would hurt to leave, but he must. He knew he would live the rest of his life in love with her, grieving the loss of her company. He did not wish her to suffer the same.

  He must leave on the morrow and hope for her mockery. Could he ever make it right? He sighed and put his hands over his eyes. It could never be made right. He was wrong to tarry so long. He must return to his quest.

  ***

  Morrigan paced in the solar, waiting for Dragonet. They had shared the feast of Epiphany together with her clansmen, but in the crowded hall one could not say anything of importance. She had spent the meal trying to guess at his feelings toward her, and her emotions were raw from the effort. Did he dislike her kissing? Was he not attracted to her? Was he merely shy? She did not know whether to act cool and distant or warm and encouraging. Her heart was on the verge of elation or heartbreak. If only she knew which one.

  Dragonet entered the room slowly, his eyes lingering on the sword she decided to strap on after the meal. She did not know how the conversation would proceed, and she wanted to be prepared for all options.

  “Enjoy yerself tonight?” Morrigan asked. It was a cautious beginning.

  “It was a fine meal.”

  His answer told her nothing. She wanted to ask why he had run from the room earlier, but could not find the words. How does one ask about that?

  “Here. This is for ye.” Morrigan held out a small, wrapped parcel, rather crumpled from being gripped in her hand. Dragonet eyed her with reserve. She realized that, while she had one hand extended, the other was on her sword hilt. She forced herself to move her hand from her sword to her hip. Dragonet stepped forward and gingerly took the parcel from her hand.

  “Open it. ’Tis for Twelfth Night.” It was tradition to exchange gifts on Epiphany, the last day of the twelve days of Christmas.

  “Thank you,” Dragonet murmured and opened the paper package. Inside was a linen handkerchief, poorly embroidered.

  “I made it myself. ’Tis verra bad because I rarely take up a needle.”

  “I will cherish it.” Dragonet clutched it to his chest. He did not look well. His face was drawn and gray; his eyes were dull and tired. The room was silent as death.

  Morrigan searched for something to say, something to bridge the ever-increasing chasm between them, but her mind was blank.

  “I have something for you too.” Dragonet walked over to where his lyre had been left on the window seat.

  “A song for me?” asked Morrigan. Perhaps in song he could reveal what the hell was going on with him.

  Dragonet held out his lyre to her.

  “Ye want me to play a song?” asked Morrigan, taking the offered instrument.

  “I want for you to keep it.”

  “Yer lyre? But why? I could no’ accept such a gift.”

  “Please take it. I cannot play anymore. There is no song in me.”

  “Why? Tell me the meaning o’ this!” Morrigan demanded. Anger flashed through her. She was tired of guessing; she wanted the truth from him.

  “I must leave now.”

  Morrigan froze. Something inside her chest cracked open. She clutched the instrument to her breast, fighting against the growing pain. He had broken her. “Ye are leaving?”

  “I am sorry, but I must go.”

  “Go where? Why must ye leave?” Had he found her lacking?

  “I am sorry. I cannot stay. I am but a poor bastard, not worthy of your notice. I humbly beg your pardon for any of my actions that may have offended. Please give my apologies to Lady McNab. I will leave at first light on the morrow.”

  Morrigan opened her mouth to say something, anything. “Have a good journey. Good evening to ye.” Morrigan swooped from the room in a proud manner, though it did her no good.

  She stood in the hallway, fighting back tears, unsure where to go or what to do. Footsteps told her Dragonet was entering the hall, and she rushed into Andrew’s room to avoid the man.

  Andrew had not recovered his strength as she had hoped. He was lying in bed, looking if anything a little thinner and weaker than before.

  “Sister.” Andrew held out his hand.

  Morrigan stepped forward quickly to take it. “Ye should be resting.”

  “I am. I canna be in bed all day; ye must let me out.” Andrew smiled, but dark circles had formed under his eyes, and he made no attempt to move.

  “Rest a while longer, and ye’ll be up and bothering us in no time.”

  “Maybe another week, and then I can travel back to the Campbells.”

  Morrigan nodded. “I am sure Cait will be glad to see ye.” Andrew would be going nowhere next week or for several weeks to come, but Morrigan said nothing.

  “Cait.” Andrew smiled. “I hope ye can be as happy as we are. How goes it with Dragonet?”

  Morrigan took a deep breath. “He’s leaving tomorrow.”

  “Leaving? Where?”

  “I dinna ken.”

  “Why is he going? Ye dinna scare him away did ye?”

  “Nay. At least I dinna mean to. I dinna ken why he is leaving.” Morrigan rubbed the ache that formed on her forehead.

  “Talk to him. Be nice. I was so hoping…”

  “Dinna worrit yerself. I will speak wi’ him.”
>
  “Promise me?”

  “I dinna think he is interested…”

  “Promise me!”

  Morrigan sighed. “Aye, I promise. Now rest so ye can get yer strength back. Ye’ll have bairns to raise soon enough, so sleep while ye may.”

  “I think we’ll have a boy.” Andrew smiled even as eyes drooped and closed. Morrigan sat next to him, her hand in his until he slept peacefully.

  Morrigan felt Andrew’s forehead for fever and was relieved to find it cool. Still, he was not recovering the way she had hoped. Morrigan shook off such traitorous thoughts and stood up, taking a deep breath. Andrew would be fine; he was simply tired, which was understandable from his long ordeal. He was a hearty lad. He would recover soon.

  Morrigan began to pace the room, harried by the thoughts that crowded around in her mind, pushing and shoving at each other, demanding her full attention and concern. She must figure a way to speak to Dragonet, a task she would rather avoid. Yet she promised Andrew she would speak to him, and she was not about to deny Andrew anything. But how to approach her confusing knight, and what to say?

  An ill-advised plot came to mind. Morrigan turned it around in her head. It was a bad idea. The chance for success was slim, the odds of disastrous failure were great. She should clearly reject such an ill-conceived scheme.

  Except she was a McNab, so she liked it instantly. Yes, tonight would be the night.

  ***

  Cold. It did not matter how many blankets he piled on, he was still cold. Dragonet stared unseeing into the utter blackness of his room. He had found the information he wanted so he should be happy. Why then did he feel dead inside?

  A small knock at the door got his attention. Before he could say anything, Morrigan slipped inside his room, holding a single candle. She wore her plaid wrapped around her, which she clutched to her chest with one hand. She shut the door behind her, and the plaid slipped a little, revealing a naked shoulder.

  Dragonet sat up, the vision of Morrigan commanding his full attention. In truth, much of him was up and at attention. He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing.

  “I… I…” Morrigan stammered and gulped air. “I brought ye a candle.” She walked toward him and put the candle on a small table by his bed.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, trying to think of something else to say.

  “Are ye cold?” She motioned to the pile of blankets on top of him.

  “No, not anymore.” Dragonet realized he was hot, burning so that he was even perspiring.

  “I had thought to warm ye tonight.”

  Done. Morrigan was offering herself to him? Despite his rejection, Morrigan, the temptress of his dreams, was there, tonight, offering herself to him. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his heartbeat, which pounded so fast he thought he might collapse from the shock.

  “Well, do ye want to or no’?” demanded Morrigan.

  “Yes! Yes, very much I want to. Yes.” He was babbling and saying things that he knew he should not. His rational brain screamed a warning, but it was steadily drowned out by the throbbing of his… heart.

  Morrigan sat on the edge of his bed. “I dinna ken what ye are about, Dragonet, but I will show ye what I want. After the kiss we shared today, I dinna think ye are indifferent toward me.”

  “You… you liked the kiss? I did not think it was very good.”

  “Oh, well then.” Morrigan clutched her plaid close to her chest.

  “I mean I liked it, but I thought you would not. I lost control. I do not know why I was so overcome.”

  “It was the earlobes.” Morrigan nodded sagely.

  “Earlobes?”

  “I read it in a book. The sight of earlobes can cause fervent, lustful frenzy.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing the suspect body part. “How are ye feeling now?” she said, turning her head to the side to make sure he got a good look.

  Dragonet smiled. “I feel the frenzy, yes.” It was the truth, too.

  “Verra good. Ye may ravish me now.”

  “R-ravish?”

  “Aye. Ye do know how to ravish?”

  Dragonet blinked. In truth, he had never ravished anything in his life. Though with a naked Morrigan, he was more than willing to give it a try. And yet his rational brain screamed at him to take care. He could not act honorably toward her and offer marriage. He must still leave. This was not right, but turning her away? That would only be worse.

  “Morrigan, I…” What could he say? “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Morrigan nodded; her large brown eyes caught the flickering light of the candle. “I want ye close to me. I have wanted it a long time. I have never felt this way about anyone, and I dinna think I will ever feel this way again. I wish for one night. One night to pretend I am no’ so repulsive to men. There is no man who would ever wed me unless ye…” Morrigan pulled her plaid tighter and looked at him with sad eyes. “I will spend the rest of my days and nights alone. So I ask ye for one night.”

  Dragonet wrapped his arms around her and held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. “You must not say such things. You are most desirable to men. You are every man’s dream.”

  “Nightmare ye mean.” Morrigan’s voice was muffled from being pressed into his chest. She opened her plaid and returned his embrace, pressing her naked chest into him. He cursed the misfortune he was wearing his tunic.

  Any man who could draw breath would take her immediately to bed. Any of his fellow knights would. Several monks he knew would. Even his father the bishop would. But then… he would be no better than his father. Could he leave her the way his father had abandoned his mother?

  “Morrigan. Please do not throw yourself away on me. I am sure you will find a good man to marry you.”

  “I want ye to be my husband.” Morrigan’s voice was so soft he could barely make out the words. Perhaps she had not meant for him to hear it.

  He held her tight, trying to ease the growing ache in his heart. “I wish I could pledge my troth to you. In truth, there is no other lady I would wish to marry if the choice, it was mine, but I am… I am…”

  “Married?” She pulled back from him and wrapped her plaid around herself tight.

  “No. I am not married, but—”

  “Ye are promised?”

  Dragonet drew a breath of freezing air. The room had grown suddenly cold. “Yes.” He was promised in a manner of speaking, to the church.

  “Why did ye no’ say something to me? Why keep it a secret?”

  “I am sorry. I ought to have said something.”

  “Aye, ye damn well should have!” Morrigan stood and glared at him. “Why no’ mention it when we kissed the first time, or the second, or perhaps the third? If ye wanted to keep it a secret to trick me into yer bed, why tell me now when I am ready to give ye all? Why come all the way back to the Highlands just to make me miserable!”

  “I am so sorry,” Dragonet repeated. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “Too late for that now.” Morrigan’s eyes burned into him, causing physical pain. “I wish I had ne’er laid eyes on ye, ye lying maggot. Make sure yer sorry arse is gone by morning.” Morrigan stomped out of his chamber and slammed the heavy wooden door shut.

  Dragonet shivered under the blankets. He doubted he would ever be warm again. He had never before been that cold. So terribly cold.

  He hated himself. He hated his father. He hated his quest. He thought himself on a noble journey, but he was consumed with deceit. He now knew his feelings for Morrigan were shared, but the realization only caused him pain. Marriage, the only decent option, could never be.

  Dragonet sat on the bed suffocated by the silent blackness of his room. Tears he had not shed in so many years fell unchecked to the floor. There was no escape from the truth. He was going to hurt the one person he loved.

  ***

  Morrigan rose the next morning after a sleepless night. She went to Dragonet’s room, but he was gone, as she knew he would be
. She was empty, a gaping hole where her heart used to be. Yet most people thought her heartless to begin with, so it could be no great loss.

  She wandered into the solar, struggling to move her arms and legs, which were strangely heavy. The solar was gray in the muted light of dawn. The banked fire smoldered, emitting a thin, gray ribbon of smoke.

  Morrigan sat down at the table and stared at the beautiful instrument, Dragonet’s lyre, which mocked her with happy memories. She remembered the first time he played in the hall. She remembered how he played it for her in the tower, leading to their first kiss. She remembered how he played it for her yesterday, which led to their last kiss.

  “Damn ye, Dragonet,” she whispered, running a finger along the smooth surface of the glowing instrument. Why would he leave her such a beautiful prize? Why reject her and then give her the only object in his possession of any worth?

  She was tired. Tired of his lies, tired of his games, tired of him. It was time to make him go away forever. She took the lyre in hand and walked over to the fireplace. She kicked the banked fire with the toe of her leather boot, knocking off the ashes and encouraging a flame to appear.

  She stared at the beautiful instrument in her hand, a single tear streaming down her face. She wiped it away impatiently. She was heartless, cold, and brutal. People could not hurt her. Objects meant nothing to her. She was the destroyer of beauty and love. She felt nothing.

  Morrigan held the instrument over the flames. It was time to say good-bye.

  “Morrigan, nay!” Alys snatched the lyre from her hand. “What are ye doing?”

  “Dragonet left. He is betrothed to another, and he left. He gave that to me, and I will see it burnt to ashes.”

  Alys’s shoulders slumped. “I see.”

  Morrigan said nothing but held out her hand for the return of the instrument. Time for a funeral pyre.

  “Nay. We may need the coin this instrument can bring.” Alys’s usually rosy cheeks were pale. “’Tis Andrew; his fever has returned.”

  Eighteen

  Morrigan urged her mount forward, squinting into the driving snow. Instead of soft flakes, the snow fell in small ice pellets that stung her eyes in the bitter cold; still, she pressed on. Andrew’s life hung in the balance, and she would never give up.