The McKinnon (6 page)

Turning in circles Morgan tossed her head back, spreading her arms wide as if trying to touch the tree tops. Laughing for the first time in ages, she fell dizzy to the ground.

Nic watched her from a safe distance, marveling at the joy so obvious on her face at just being here in this beautiful place.

When had he lost that capacity?

When had he last possessed the ability to be in awe of the beauty of nature? When had he lost the joy to live for the moment, not worry about the past, or fret about what he could not change, or keep reaching for a future that was not yet set? When had he stopped accepting, or worse, stopped noticing the small joys life had to offer.

He could not recall.

His life had not been his own since joining the service of his King. Life had evolved into nothing more than one battle after another of either wits or strength. There had been precious little time for smelling the flowers figuratively or literally. Was he jealous of the childlike innocence he sensed in his bride to be? No, not precisely.

“Pffft,” he huffed at himself. He did not have time for this. Let her dream for both of them, he thought, as he went about securing the camp. He had to keep them alive.

Morgan tethered the beautiful stallions to a low branch and brought back the meal for Nic. Her senses were on high alert as she took the bread, highly salted meat, and cheese to him.

Morgan noticed what many might not. Time had honed her senses, too, from vastly different means than Nic's, but to the same end result: to keep her alive.

She found him sitting in a relaxed position. Looks can be deceiving, she thought.

His back was up against an oak so gnarled and ancient it must have seen King Arthur’s reign, with one long leg stretched out in front of him and the other drawn up, bent at the knee. His forearm rested comfortably on that knee, his sword was within easy reach. It would have surprised her more if his weapon had not been close at hand.

Cautiously, she made her way over to his side and extended the offering. Getting no closer than necessary made her feel better. Somewhere on the surface of her mind, she understood it would take more than an arm's length to keep her safe should he decide he wanted to hurt her.

Nic looked up at her, noticing her weary posture, and wondered why she was so skittish. It went beyond shy.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the food and covering her hand with his.

That contact was brief, but she involuntarily jerked back, dropping the plate before he had a secure grip.

A deep sound arose in Nic's throat, hot and intense at whomever had abused this delicate creature so much that she pulled away from human touch. Morgan moved back even further, eyes wide with extreme caution at her misstep. She was not necessarily afraid of him, she realized. He did not scare her to the point of being frozen in fear. That was good, she supposed.  Actually, Morgan was not really sure how she felt with him; she was just ready for anything.

Nic gritted his teeth. “My anger is not toward you, Morgan, but at the circumstances that would leave you so jumpy.”

He saw her hesitation, but also relief and maybe confirmation of what he hoped she already knew. Then, again, maybe it was his hope.

“I promised to take care of you and I will. Now, eat.” Nic pointed to the food. Lucky for him it was on his blanket and not on the bare ground. The nourishment was too precious to waste. He had only packed provisions for one. Even if in the past, he had eaten some very questionable things out of necessity, it was not his preference.

She shook her head. Never taking her eyes off him, she took another step back. Morgan stared at her new Lord not daring to blink. He did not frighten her as much as distressed her. Simply put, he was intimidating. It was obvious to her what she saw in him was the potential for a dangerous man. 

Intuitively, Morgan knew the danger in him went well beyond anything she had ever seen in her uncle. This was a man accustomed to command. He wore that aura visibly. Nic McKinnon was a man who was shrewd. He was, in a word, deadly to an enemy. Yet, somehow, she also knew that he would protect anything he felt worthy of his efforts. Did he now consider her worthy?

“Yes, Morgan, you will eat,” he commanded softly. “You promised to follow my instructions back at the old Roman wall. Did you not?”

Nic waited for her to acknowledge his question.

She nodded. She did agree at the time and felt certain it was still a smart move. After all, he did manage to get them safely away from the search party.

“I’m your Overlord, now, and you will not disobey me in any action which is to your greater good.” Nic waited for Morgan to take the food.

But she was rooted to the spot. Nic stood.

Oh, boy, she thought understanding that she had crossed some imaginary line with him.

“Eat, Morgan.” His voice had dropped to a rough whisper.

He had succeeded in shaking her to depths far greater than her uncle had ever done with his rafter-raising tirades. He took a step forward. Morgan stood her ground, straightened her back, and held her head high before taking the food he offered. And after her meager display of bravado, she also made for a little safer distance from him. 

As she ate, she took the opportunity to pilfer a look at Nic and found him distant and deep in thought. She wondered what a man like him gave his mental energies to?

Women? Maybe, but not in this instance.

Gambling? Probably not.

Hanging his enemies from the tallest tree? Now, that she would believe.

In reality, Nic was mulling over his problem of having a skittish runaway bride with a large search party in hard pursuit. Nic knew the day had gone downhill quickly. The only plus was she was eating. That certainly could not hurt her, considering she was skinny as a bean pole.

Morgan’s mind was also racing. She did not know this man. What if he sought out the search party and turned her over to them? She was certain her uncle would pay dearly to have her returned. But she shook the thought away. He could have done that already.

What sort of man was he, she wondered.

Could her uncle bribe him? No, she felt not.

Still, he was worth watching. Every man was worth watching. Nic was no exception.

She took this opportunity to take a closer look at him physically. He was tall by modern standards and broad through the shoulders. Her father had been a tall man. However, her father's coloring had been light blonde to Nic’s dark good looks. Her mother had told her once that her father was a descendant of the Vikings. Those marauders of the island eventually settled, assimilating into the local culture. She would be very surprised if Nic did not have some Viking ancestry in his linage. Men of his stature certainly did not come along every day.

Nic’s size did not intimidate her in the least. His height made her feel protected and safe, much as when her father was alive. It was a feeling that Morgan had long ago forgotten and realized she missed. Nonetheless, she would experience this feeling from a distance, but not up close.

From an artist's perspective his proportions were perfect and beautifully pulled together. Nature got it right where this one was concerned, and she would love to do a charcoal  rendering of him on his equally magnificent horse. Morgan doubted that she would get him to sit still long enough to accomplish much more than a rough sketch. 

His arms and legs were long and well-muscled from the years of fighting and training. It stood to reason that his shoulders would be muscled, toned, and cut. Upper body strength was necessary for any warrior. It was a given. Hauling sixty-five pounds of armor around on one's body and being able to move in it like it was a second skin would require body development out of sheer necessity.

There was not an extra ounce of fat on him. 

His hands were large and tan. He had long fingers with clean nails that were free of the grime most fighting men sported. She knew Nic could kill her with one blow if he decided to. However, he did not strike her as a man who would use brute strength to subdue his opponent, not like her uncle. He would use cunning, stealth, and strategy, which would brilliantly compliment his strength. She wondered if that strength would come across in a drawing? It would prove challenging.

His leather boots and over clothes were well-made and good quality, even if quite dirty from his effort to pull her from the bog. He was obviously a man of means. If his clothes did not hint at that wealth then his sword and mount certainly said as much. The saddle and tack for that magnificent animal was worth twenty times what the average farm tenant earned in his lifetime.

Her protector's hair was clean, but long overdue for a trim. Certainly his hair style, and she used that term
style
very loosely, was much longer than what currently was in fashion. Judging by her uncle's hair, just below the ear was in vogue.

Yet the longer locks suited Nic, reminding Morgan of a fable her mother told her as a child. The character named Samson was of Herculean strength. The secret to his strength was in his long hair. She knew this was not the case with Nic. Yet it was still an amusing thought that took her back to a happier time when her mother would read to her and her twin sister in the hour before bedtime. 

His strength came courtesy of years of fighting, and he was more likely a man who tossed fashion to the wind, not giving a care of what high society thought of him.

Morgan knew beneath that surface of ease lay a powerful man and it had nothing to do with his hair.

It surprised her that she had the urge to go to him and smooth back the lock falling over his forehead. She found it almost entertaining and definitely liberating that she should find her revelation to be reassuring. She guessed if she had to have a benefactor, it was best to have one who could back his claims of protection. Morgan instinctively knew not to doubt in this man’s ability to support such a claim.

Little escaping Nic’s attention, he comprehended her taking stock of him. He knew, even if there was a more relaxed smile on her face, there was no blind trust in her. If she came to trust him, it was because he had earned her trust.

It would come in time.

Nic pulled himself up from his resting place after finishing his evening meal.

“If you thought to bring a blanket then I suggest you go get it from your pack.”

It is going to be a cold night, Nic thought as he looked up at the cloudless evening sky.

Morgan could not dispute that observation having slept years in just such cold and dampness. He suggested they sleep close to share body warmth.

That was something new, she thought. 

“We’ll have no fire to keep warm or to keep the forest animals at bay,” Nic said softly, coming to stand by her.

Morgan had never slept under the stars. However, she had dreamed of how it could be. Many times, she dreamed of this very freedom as she stared beyond her tower window far into the night, its inky blackness broken only by distant, twinkling stars.

She jumped up and quickly brought back her cloak from her bag as well as the baby fine woolen blanket she judiciously packed.

He had made their bed roll on a soft bed of leaves, gathered when she tended the horses. Morgan debated as he reclined there on his side propped up on his elbow, his hand extended upward in invitation. “Come Morgan. I don't usually bite," he teased. He saw her hesitation. "Soldiers often join their sleeping rolls together." That was not usually the case, but it was the best he could come up with. "It is not a sign of weakness, but done out of need.”

She still did not move.

“Be reasonable. We need to get as much rest as possible. First light will be here before we know it, and tomorrow we need to put as much distance between them and us as possible. Trust me. I am not the enemy. Let me keep you warm.”

He watched her inch forward like a wild thing trying to make up its mind to bolt or to take the gift extended. She cautiously lowered herself to the ground. Then in a gesture surprising him, she offered part of her blanket.

“No, thank you. Wrap yourself in it. You will need the added protection. It’s going to be a cold one,” he said, glancing up at the cloudless sky broken only by the rising moon.

She settled down on the soft earth, turning her back to him and using her arm as a pillow. He did the same allowing her to feel some privacy.

He waited to hear her breathing signal her surrender to sleep. He had asked her to trust him and she had. Only those who trust can sleep in the presence of danger. His very fiber spoke of her life at risk. Yet, she had given into sleep, the most vulnerable of positions. He rolled over to face her before taking his own blanket and spreading it over both of them.

As the moon came and went the temperature dropped. It was a bone chilling cold even for him and he was certainly more prepared and acclimated to these conditions. Carefully gathering her in his arms, he brought her closer to his side. Pulling her into the curve of his body, she settled in. It was like finding the right piece to a jigsaw puzzle and the two individual pieces effortlessly coming together. He felt the pieces click into place.

Sometime later, Nic stretched, looking up at the heavens wondering why fate had placed this woman in his path. His friend, Connor once told him years ago that if he thought Fate was a bitch then he was really going to love her sister Destiny. Connor was right about Fate. Nic had as yet to meet her sister.

Morgan was just another burden as far as he was concerned. He really did not want a wife. All he wanted was to serve his King. Noble and corny as it sounded, it was the truth. Having a wife would require more than he was willing to give by dividing his loyalties between a wife and his King. He really did not want to go there, either. Besides, he needed to go home. All he had planned to do was to marry her and leave her at Seabridge. Now, that was unthinkable. Nevertheless, his own lands were in dire need of attention. Morgan just complicated things.

His own lands. 
It was a foreign thought.