The McKinnon (14 page)

Their entanglement was a fierce and a swiftly moving battle. Both men knew only one would walk away. She prayed it would be Nic, but she remembered that God helps those who help themselves.

Morgan had narrowed her vision. Her focus trained to tuning out everything  excluding the man on top of her. Nic was on his own.

“F
ight
with everything you've got,
” Nic had said.

Moreover, she was doing just that. Her attacker had just sliced her face and she managed a lucky shot to the man’s right eye, snapping his head and upper body back giving her a clear shot to his chest. By some twist of fate, he dropped the dagger. She quickly picked it up.

Fight with everything you've got….
Nic’s words echoed in her head.
Don't go quietly
.

She plunged the dagger in as deeply as she could. However, it was not enough to kill him. She twisted the knife as he grabbed her around the throat again. He began to squeeze in earnest, slowly choking the life from her body, crushing her airway. Morgan gasped for breath, black circles hovered in front of her eyes.

She knew she was dying. Her airway was collapsing.

Fight, damn it, fight, her brain was screaming to her oxygen deprived muscles. The burning in her lungs was increasing as if she had inhaled hot coals. Reaching up, she found the strength to pull the dagger out of his chest and sliced his wrist. It was just enough for him to release his death grip around her throat. She drew in a great gulp of air as her hands were instinctively flailing around for anything she could use for a weapon.

As if guided by a higher power, her hand touched something cold and rough.

Her assailant had hit her, again and then from somewhere deep within in her she began to feel her power rise.

Her will to live was strong. Stronger than she even thought possible. She wanted to live! She wanted to live, damn it! Live to see the sunset. Live to have children. Live to grow old.

“
Now, Morgan!
” Her mother's voice filled her with courage and strength as she grabbed the stone. Either, he would die or she would, and it was not a good day to die. She had to make that one shot count or he would surely deliver the killing blow. With all the strength remaining in her, she swung hard. Morgan felt hard stone connect with softer bone and heard the breaking of the man's skull.

He fell off her from the momentum of the blow, relieving the crush to her chest. The man rolled one more time, and Morgan made sure he was never to rise, again by plunging the dagger into his throat. He would hurt her no more.

Morgan painstakingly got to her knees just in time to see Nic strike the deadly thrust to his opponent as his head was severed clean from his neck.

On the forest floor, blood running down her face and shoulder, she wondered why she was losing so much blood. The arrow must have struck an artery, a fatal wound if not treated quickly.

With the danger of her attacker passed, Morgan knew she was in trouble. Looking up at Nic, who was standing frozen in his last move of attack, their eyes locked in the deadly quiet of the forest. All she heard was Nic’s ragged and labored breathing and the pounding of her heart in her ears. Morgan’s vision was narrowing. The sight of Nic was fading fast.

“Help me.”

Her tiny voice broke through his fog.

All strength gone, no longer able hold herself up and shaking uncontrollably, Morgan collapsed to the forest floor. Nic saw she was losing blood at an alarming rate. Too soon she would go into shock.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Morgan,” he commanded as he went into action.

"Another command I may not be able to follow," she said before falling unconscious.

Nic was in agony as he quickly did a field dressing to stem the bleeding. How many times had he dressed a wound for one of his fallen men? A hundred, a thousand? It had never been more important than this minute for him to do it right.

Scooping her unconscious body off the forest floor, he whistled for Trojan. It was miraculous that Salt and Vernon had not fled. Trojan would have had no choice except to follow with Salt’s bridle still attached to his. Nic carried Morgan to his mount. It was not the most gentle of movements, and he thanked God that she was unconscious as he flung her over his horse’s neck and mounted behind her. Then gently, he turned her and cradled her in his arms. She was bleeding, but not as freely. That was lucky, and he would take it.

He had to get her to safety, but where? London was too far and going back to the inn would deliver her back into the arms of her uncle.

Featherstone Castle, he thought.

Nic pushed the horses unmercifully. There was no choice. Morgan’s life was at stake.

“Open the gates!” The shout of the sentry echoed through the bailey. “It’s Sir Nic. Hurry man and open the gates!”

The guardsman turned to his son who had come running at the sound of the commotion. “Quick, run, Lad. Go get Connor.”

Nic rode Trojan full tilt into the courtyard of the home of his friend Lord Connor Holden, Earl of Featherstone. He came to an abrupt halt just feet from the main doorway as Connor stepped through it with sword in hand, ready for battle.

When he saw his close friend, Connor ran to Nic, reached up to take Morgan as Nic handed his precious bundle to him. Connor took her into his arms, allowing Nic to dismount. However Nic quickly took her back into his arms, wanting to carry Morgan into the castle. She was his burden and he would bare it gladly.

Connor was more than just a little surprised and shocked to see him with a bloody, unconscious boy in his arms.

“Nic, what in God’s holy name happened? You look as if you have the devil on your heels, and had a fight or two with him along the way. Come, inside. What can I do?” Connor quickly led his friend and the bundle he carried into the castle and behind the safe walls.

Nic bellowed his command to the servants. Without a backward glance, he took the stone steps two at a time. He did not wait to see if the housekeeper carried out his orders. “I need warmed blankets, boiling water, clean bandages, a bath, a fine needle and silk thread brought to my chamber!”

He had no doubt they would obey his orders. He was a long-standing friend and frequent visitor. He made his way to his usual chamber with Connor just steps behind.

With gentleness one would never think owned by a man as large as Nic, he placed Morgan on top of the coverlets, oblivious to the fact that he was not alone in the room.

He began to rub her arms to get the warmth back into them being careful of her wounds. Quietly, soothingly, he began to speak.

“Come on, Morgan. Come back to me. Morgan?” He paused. “Morgan?” He waited in vain for a response he feared was not to come. “Come on. Please, come back to me.”

Nothing came from her. She did not stir. The bright red blood covering her body stood out in stark contrast to the crisp white of the cool linen sheets. She was still as death.

So, much blood, Nic thought. Too much blood.

“You are a fighter! Fight, damn it! Fight! Where are the blankets and water?” Nic shouted.

Connor found this scene remarkable. He had known Nic for the better part of his life, and he had never before seen Nic anything except cool and collected. He was the one usually losing his patience. Connor had never seen Nic this emotional and surely never emotional over a squire. Something about this scene did not fit.

Connor put words to his misgivings.

“Nic, you leave me a week ago. Now, you show back up on my doorstep with a boy who you have grown quickly attached to. Care to tell me what exactly is going on here?”

Nic turned to face his friend who was leaning against the door frame of the room, his massive bulk nearly filling the door opening. Except for his younger brother Cullen, Connor was the only man Nic knew who could match his size and build.

“Not now, Connor. I must get Morgan revived first. Her safety is paramount.”

“Her?” Connor looked at his friend, his dark head tilted to the right, his left eyebrow raised in surprise. “Hum, well that explains at least one thing.”

Connor pushed away from the door frame to make way for the servants. The kitchen boys were bringing in the tub, food and extra blankets that Nic had commanded.

Connor was beginning to see just how dirty and bloody Nic was, too.

“Nic, my friend, let Mary take care of Morgan while you tend to your own needs. It would be best.” 

“No, if Morgan wakes up, it will be to unfamiliar surroundings. I need to be here to ensure there is no fight. I don't want bleeding to start again. That is something we cannot afford.”

Connor was looking at his long-time friend with an expression of puzzlement.

Nic continued.  He did not want Connor pressuring him for answers, and certainly not with an audience looking on. Saying that Connor was an impatient man was a huge understatement, like saying the sun was only mildly necessary for life. 

“It is a story even I don’t have all the pieces to just yet, my friend. Nevertheless, trust me on this one, Connor. Morgan needs me to be here.”

Connor was beginning to think Nic needed to be here, too, even if the man was not aware of his reasons. Connor also noted Nic did not refer to Morgan as
she
in front of the house staff. He would respect Nic’s obvious wish for this piece of information to remain a secret. At least for the moment, it would remain between the two of them.

“Is any of that blood on you yours?” Connor knew it would be like his friend to neglect his own needs and place his total focus on the woman.

Nic looked at Morgan's swollen and purple face then examined the arrow wound on her upper shoulder. He thanked God the bleeding had stopped. His dressing had preserved her life, and if infection did not set in it might have saved her arm, too.

“None to speak of, no, just minor cuts. Morgan took the worst of it. I could use some fresh clothes.”

“You know what is mine is yours, my friend, you have but to ask what you need. I will have Keegan bring them to you. When you feel you can leave your squire for a time, I will be in my study.”

With a nod from Nic, Connor left the room in search of his valet.

Nic tended Morgan's wounds as best as he could and prayed for her. After bolting the chamber door, he stripped his bloody clothes off then his bride's. Gathering her in his arms, he padded over to the extra large roman tub filled with clean, hot water. She still felt cold against his naked flesh. Gently lowering himself, he took her with him into the hot water because she needed to get warm as soon as possible. Cradling her to him, he tenderly washed her as a mother would a young child. Her bloody clothes gone, Morgan looked fragile, especially with her wounds.

Rage boiled raw, scalding his insides. An anger filled him as nothing ever had before. He physically shook with it. Her narrow waist was showing signs of bruising, especially around her rib cage where she had taken the full weight of the man straddling her. He ran his hands down each side probing for cracked or broken bones. Satisfied she suffered none, Nic moved his attentions to her face. Her beautiful features were purple, her eyes swelled shut from the blows. The knife wound from her hairline to her jaw was deep and jagged. The tiny stitches he used to bring the seam together would help to lessen the scar, but she would bare it always.

For her it would be a constant reminder of this horrific day.

For him it would be an invariable testament of how close he came to losing her, punctuating his failure to protect her.

“I’m sorry, Morgan. I should never have let this happen to you.” He apologized, gently brushing his lips to her forehead.

Her soft lips were bloody and swollen from the blows her attacker had inflected on her. The finger marks were visible along the column of her graceful neck, showing ugly and purple against white tender flesh.

Her shoulder was a mess. The arrow had taken a chunk of her upper arm, severing the artery as it passed through. There was nothing to do for it except keep it clean.

All this was damning evidence against him of just how close he had come to losing her. When she improved, he would choke her himself for her impulsive actions even though her response had been brave. This was twice she had disobeyed him. Both times, it nearly cost her life.

He remembered her final words before falling unconscious; "Another command I may not be able to follow." A tiny smile of irony grabbed his lips

However he was grateful for those actions. He probably could have taken them all on and killed them. They were not highly-trained--just a rag tag group of thugs. Yet he felt sure it would not have happened without a great degree of harm to him personally. It was by her actions, alone, that he walked away from the encounter with just a couple of minor wounds.

Clean from the bath, no longer covered in blood, Nic placed Morgan under the covers of the massive bed where he'd slept as more than just a guest. Featherstone was like a second home to him. He'd known Connor most all his life. Now Nic felt he was in Connor's debt for more than just his friendship.

Nic dressed slowly, as if he'd aged suddenly. He felt drained and lost for the first in his life.

After he ate from the tray of food Mary had brought him, he sat, watching her as she lay there. He knew Mary was praying in the chapel and he thought he should join her.

Instead, he stayed and prayed by Morgan's bed.

Her breathing seemed labored and unsteady. Needing to feel her in his arms, he gave into the urge to go to her, to hold her.

Nic crawled on the bed, pulling her against his body, immediately feeling better. It felt right. This was where she belonged.

Was Morgan his destiny? He thought perhaps she just might be. Connor was right. Fate was a bitch and Destiny even more cruel. He had just found Morgan and might lose her now.

Hours went by. He released her only to light the candles by the bedside.

As the candles burned low, Nic began to realize her breathing was back to normal. Her body temperature had risen. She was in a natural sleep. Only then did he, too, succumb to sleep.