Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (3 page)

Morgan held the blade. She wasn’t going to let it go that easily. She had
to pick her target. There was only one that would take him down without killing him. She was
afraid to consider it. If he was smallish, or it didn’t hit vitally, she was as good as
dead. And, if it did hit vitally, she was as good as dead.

Zander lifted his eyebrows. “You having a little trouble deciding? A
sharp-eyed snipe like you? Come along, lad, put the blade down. We’ll both
shed our filthy garments and don fresh. ‘Course I’ll see that KilCreggar plaid shredded
before I’d keep it, and—”

The final blade went s
licing through the kilt between his thighs, ripping
material and thudding as it hit the log behind him. She heard his roar, and it wasn’t one of pain. She was already leaping obstacles and dancing around trees
to escape him.

Damn
him for being small,
she thought.

Morgan was fast. She was light. She was able to move quickly and
expertly, even though the sun was fast sinking, and he’d pitched his ruined tent
near a lot of dead-fall from the trees. He’d also camped close enough to some
source of water that the mist it would bring wasn’t far off. If she could keep him
at bay until then, she could hide easily.

She stopped, instantly attuned to the woods around her, and didn’t hear a
sound. She didn’t feel the shove, either. All she knew was the tree he slammed
her front-first into, before he had her shirt collar in one hand and actually had her
dangling off the ground while he shook her. Morgan watched him with a stunned expression, not because he could heft her above him with one arm, but because her ears were still ringing from the blow she’d received.

Then, she was drowning as he shoved her under the water and held her
against the creek bottom. Just before she lost consciousness and sucked in
water, he lifted her, holding her up long enough to shake her until her head rattled, and then he shoved her back again. Morgan’s belly was full of water, and she was coughing it up on the third dunking, and that wasn’t enough for him.

The fifth time, Morgan forgot to suck in air, and just lay on the bottom of
the creek, her face scraping pebbles, and being washed by moss. She was going to die, and all because she was too stupid to put a death-blow into her enemy
when she had the chance.

She could actually see bright light behind her lids when he finally pulled
her up and held her at arm’s length in order to scowl at her. She wondered when it had gotten so bright, and had a chance to watch black dots swim through her
vision before it settled back to semi-normal. There was nothing normal about the
black hatred coming from his eyes and seeing into every secret crevice
she’d ever hidden in, though.

He swore again, and heaved himself backward onto the bank, hauling her
with him. He had her torso locked between his thighs, and that was stupid of him. She hadn’t any fight left in her. None. She saw the glint of a knife and
closed her eyes.

“Open your eyes and face your punishment, Morgan!”

He had one hand locked about her neck, lifting it from his chest, and the
other holding a skean that made her blades look like the toothpicks he’d
called them. Morgan felt the sting of tears, and hated every bit of herself for such a weakness, as they dripped out of eyes she didn’t even dare blink with.

“Tears? You cry woman-tears, now?”

“Just kill me and get it over with,” she snarled.

“As much as I’d like to, I’ll not kill you. A good Scot’s squire is hard to
come by. A fighting Scotsman even harder, especially one as talented with a dirk
as you are. I’m just giving you a taste of your own barbering.”

“Nay!” She screamed as his hand moved underneath her braid to raise it. She felt the cold of his steel against her skin.

“This hank of hair?”

He was slicing his blade through it, and Morgan started shuddering with
the sobs. It was the only thing she had left of her childhood, and the only thing
she had that marked her for what she was. A woman. Morgan hated herself
anew for the realization. “Please?” she whispered.

He stopped sawing. Morgan held her breath.

“This means so much to you?”

She nodde
d.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“
It’s too long, it’ll be in your way. It comes loose in a fight and you’re useless.”

“It does na’ come loose,” she answered.

“
Mine does na’ grow past the midst of my back.”

“I’m na’ you,” she answered.

“I let you keep this braid, you obey me? You’ll become my squire in
every sense? Guard my back, and take care of my person with nary a complaint?”

Morgan swallowed with a throat that felt too sore, too tight, and too dry.
“Hack it off, and have done,” she answered, closing her eyes to all she’d hidden
from herself and waited for him to do it. Her tears weren’t subsiding, though, and the woman in her that she’d tried to destroy was the one sobbing. She told herself
it was only hair. It would grow back. It was stupid to keep something just
because her mother, in another lifetime, had hair just like it. Nothing she tried to tell herself was working, though.

He shoved her away. “Get that KilCreggar sett off. I’ve a kilt for you. If
you’re not undressed, washed and awaiting it when I return, I’ll hack more than
your braid off you. You ken?”

She was already stripping the tartan off.

CHAPTER THREE

Morgan didn’t waste any time luxuriating in the water, but then again, she
never did. She was quick enough to be brutal, but without her thigh-length jerkin, laced-on sleeves, or the yards of tartan, folded about her body to form a
kilt and cape affair called the
feile-breacan,
she looked exactly like what she was; a
slender female. She raced from the water to hide behind a tree and await him.

She very nearly didn’t make it, and his disgust at finding her out of the
water was obvious.

“
Morgan, lad! If you make me hunt you—”

His words stopped when he saw the pile of KilCreggar cloth on the bank.
Morgan watched him kick it into the water with his boot, as though it was too filthy to touch. She shut her eyes on the desecration, before darting along the edge of the foliage, watching the sodden black mass bob in the current.

“You wore it within an inch of its use, lad.
You needn’t mourn such a rag.”

Morgan watched him call the words over his far shoulder and knew now was her moment
. She was as good at shifting positions as Zander had looked to be. She was an excellent swimmer, too. Just about everything a lad could do, she could do better. She was beneath the water and sliding her body to where her KilCreggar plaid had gone under before he said another word.

“…
more use of my
colors. You’ve no need to shun them. You’ve more reason to welcome them.”

Morgan heard him as she surfaced
. She didn’t know what else he’d said. She had a clear view of where Zander was still talking over his shoulder, as she propelled herself to a spot on the bank below him. She was going to be in plain view for a moment, but it couldn’t be helped. She said a swift prayer for his continued ignorance of her position before she chanced it.

“Why, many’s the lass who has fallen into a swoon at seeing the FitzHugh plaid
. It’s a fine color, vibrant and alive. Not like that dark, ugly KilCreggar gray. Besides, the threads are softer, spun tighter, and weave’s done by skilled hands. You’ve not much to lose, you ken?”

Morgan slipped out of the water and back behind the curtain of bushes while he was still speaking
. She knelt to wring the material out, close to the ground, keeping the drops from making sound. She frowned as she realized the obvious. She wasn’t going to be able to keep it with her. Not all of it, anyway.

For the first time in eight years, she wasn’t going to be able to wear her clan colors. The certainty made her shake.
She stifled it. She might be forced to wear the enemy’s colors on the outside, but she’d keep a piece of KilCreggar plaid close to her heart. She would pretend to be one of them. She told herself she’d parade around in leopard skins and jewels if it got her the justice she was seeking. Then, she’d have another KilCreggar sett woven. Her ancestors would have to be content with that.

Morgan ran her fingers along an edge, searching for a particularly weak spot. She longed for one of her dirks. Water had made the fabric resilient against tearing. She found a frayed area and settled her teeth into it.

“Aside from that, such a sett labels you a KilCreggar supporter. Not a man alive wishes such a title. He’d be branded a coward.

Morgan bit hard on the cloth to prevent her cry of hatred and anger
. She wished
she had a dirk at her disposal now for a different reason. She’d
not miss a vital spot. The tearing sound was slight but she watched him move to cock his head in her direction. He looked to have excellent hearing. She’d have to remember that. She palmed the square she’d ripped free, and rose to a crouch. It wasn’t a big piece, but it would have to do. She used the foliage as she paralleled the bank, approaching where he stood.

“
Come out of hiding, lad. This is foolish. You’ve a FitzHugh sett to don, and a master to
serve.”

Morgan stuck her tongue out at him.

“
Why do you hide, anyway? I’ll not punish ye further. There’s no need.”

“I’m na’ hiding,” she replied
finally, from a spot directly behind him. She noted he didn’t appear surprised to hear her from the new position.

“
Yonder woods hold you bound, then?”

“
I seek my privy, and he calls it hiding,” she remarked to the air as if it
were her audience. She knew it not only explained her absence, but her stealth. She watched as he assimilated it.

He laughed. “You a shy type?”

“At times,” she answered. “This being one of them.”

“Well, if I was blessed with a thin, bony frame like The Good Lord settled
on you, I’d be lief to hide it away, too. The lasses must run at the sight of your white arse.”

“
I would na’ ken. I’ve na’ tested it.”

“F
ind yourself a lass whose heavy of foot, then. She’ll be easier to catch.”

He was laughing at his own joke as he sat to pull his boots off. Morgan
turned
away. She wasn’t risking exposure again until he was in the
water, and she still had a braid to undo and test for damage. She’d seen enough
near-naked males anyway, that whatever he could show her wasn’t going to be of any interest, other than sizing up her opponent.

She had the braid undone, had raked out a fistful of shorn hair from the
back of her neck, and had it re-braided before she heard his splashing. She
looked across. That quick check showed that he’d gone beneath the water.
Morgan darted in, grabbed the smaller pile and retreated to the shelter of the trees to don them.

“
Where did you learn to toss knives, boy?” he called over his shoulder.

“
What learning?” she answered. “I missed.” She was wringing out her
binding cloth with the same twist her mouth made. She could hardly don it wet, so she tied it in a knot above her knee where it would dry better. She could put it back on
in the morning. She secured the square of KilCreggar plaid beneath it. Then she stood, lifting the thin, linen under-tunic he’d brought. She
pulled it over her head, lifted her braid out of the way, and relished the instant
sensation of finely wrought, soft cloth against her bare skin for the very first time
in her life. Morgan ran a finger along the hem, where it reached to mid-thigh. Even there, she could feel the perfectly-wrought stitches.
He puts such cloth on a
serf?
she wondered, her eyes wide.

“
You’ve the best damn aim I’ve ever witnessed. Missed, he says.
Missed. I’ve a dirk buried blade-deep in all my hilts, and both tassels from
my socks shorn off. Missed.”

Morgan fought the smile before
FitzHugh shoved his head beneath the water again, rinsing his hair, then she just did it. He hadn’t shown the slightest inkling
of respect before. She should have known it was an act. The man might be small, but he had no dearth of courage, she surmised. To stand and taunt someone to
toss knives until they were depleted took more courage than she’d guessed he
possessed. That was another bit of interest she committed to memory.

She tossed on the shirt he’d given her, buttoning the placket to her chin, and recognizing it was made from fine broadcloth as she did so. It fit well, too,
curving down to cover her loins, while a corresponding length of material fell at
the back to cloak her buttocks. Morgan ran her hands along the edges of the
sleeves, creasing them.

“So, where did ye learn it?” he asked.

She glanced over at him. The water’s warmth had brought an opaque
mist to the air hovering directly above it, and she saw his head like a disembodied
piece of him. Then she saw an arm, the other, then both as he washed himself.

“
I
may have taught myself, and I may not have,” she answered the ghost-like figure she was watching.

“
How are you with a bow?”

The kilt he’d given her was of the
finest, tightest weave she’d ever felt, and Morgan ran it through her hands to feel it. It was made of such thinly spun, wool strands, she could twist the width in her hands and it was thinner than her
braid. “Why?” she asked.

“
I like to know my own people. You’ve a talent. I want to know the extent of it. It may be of use to me in the future.”

It was a good thing she couldn’t see where he’d gone to as he said that.
Such arrogance!
she thought, then recalled. He was a FitzHugh. Their
arrogance was legendary: the world existed to be trod upon and taken. She
swallowed the quick retort. Until she got her dirks back, or any weapon for that
matter, she was curbing her tongue. She didn’t like his use of brute force.

“I’
ve no talent with a bow,” she replied.

“Pity,” was h
is answer.

Morgan put on the belt he’d included. Although it was too dark to tell
for certain,
she could feel that it was worked from expensive leather from the thickness of it.
She ran her fingers along the length, touching on the whipcord stitching. It had
no weak spots, unlike her own worn, rawhide-braided one. She clasped it about her waist, shaking her head as it fell to her hips. That was probably a good
thing. A waist like hers didn’t belong to any boy.

“
How about a hand-ax?” he asked.

“Rare
ly held one,” she answered.

“That’s not surprising. Weapons only recently being made legal, and that
due to our new king. Where did you get your dirks?”

“I had them made, and then paid for them with barter I earned
,” she
answered.

“
Earned from stealin’ from the dead?”

“I earned it with my skill. Not stealing.
”

“
You did na’ take them from the dead?”

“
What dead Scot would have a weapon? Dinna’ you just tell me they’ve
but recently become legal for us?”

“There’s
just so much of your tongue that I’ll take, lad. Answer me
square. That battlefield was probably littered with Scots’ weapons, legal or na’.
Why else would you be leading a group of lads through it like you were?”

Morgan sucked in on the surprise. He was brighter than she’d suspected.
Much brighter. She lifted the calf-high socks he was giving her and slid them on,
sitting when she was done to pull on the boots he’d brought for her. To her
surprise, they were nearly a perfect fit. She’d never had that happen before.
Boots she could afford were usually full of holes from wear, and out of shape,
and always too tight. His other squire must have been a large lad. She looked
down at her feet, spread her toes wide, and somehow managed to keep the joy
from showing. “You see that much, did you?” she asked, finally.

“
My head was hit. My eyes worked fine.”

“Then, you would have noted that I stole nothing. I don’t steal
from anyone, living or dead.”

That
stopped his questioning for a bit, and she listened for any response.
All she heard was the liquid gurgle of the water from the burn he stood in.

“I suppose that could be true
,” he said.

Morgan stiffened and had to bite her tongue. She was taking as much
abuse as a KilCreggar was supposed to take without retaliation. The fact it was a FitzHugh parceling it out made it harder to swallow and set aside. “It is
truth. What reason would I have to lie?”

“The same you use when lying to me about your other talents.”

Morgan tried to pierce the fog he was hiding behind. Then, she shrugged.
“I’ve not lied about them, either.”

“
My quiver is short an arrow, and yonder roasting hare didn’t receive it.
Beside which, it wouldn’t settle your puny belly’s hunger. You knew that, and you bagged bigger game. You took just one arrow to do it with because that’s
all you’d need. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He wasn
’t just bright. He was very bright,
she thought. She’d better take care to remember that, most of all. She cleared her
throat and tossed out an insult to change the subject. “You thinking to stay in
there until you shrivel to walnuts? Although as small as you must be, it wouldn’t be far, would it?”

“You saying something with that statement?” he asked, his voice just a bit
lower than it had been. She smiled.