Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) Read online

  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.”

  “Find 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 his 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.

  “Rarely 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.

  “I am,” she replied. “And not without cause. I aimed well and accurately with my last blade. I hit nothing. You must have nothing.”

  There was the sound of laughter, a splash and Morgan waited.

  “Have it your way, lad. The lasses have no complaints.”

  She rolled her eyes. He was the FitzHugh. Of course they had no complaints about bedding such a rich prize! She was going to take back what she’d thought about his being bright at this rate. “Perhaps you should take more educated lasses to your bed, then. They’d not be so easy to please, I think.”

  “Why would I do such a stupid thing? When I take a lass to my bed, it’s to learn them. I don’t want some other man’s incompetence spoiling my fun. Besides, I like educating my own women. Give me a maiden any day, I’ll return her a courtesan.”

  “You must have a problem finding, and keeping, servants to warm your bed with such a requirement,” she replied snidely.

  “Nay. They find my bed warm and inviting. Nary a complaint have I heard. I keep them until they’ve outlived their usefulness. Or until they whelp a bastard.”

  “You’ve sired bastards?” she asked, the shock filling her voice.

  “Not yet. I’m careful with my seed.”

  Morgan hadn’t one reply she could voice. She didn’t even know what he was talking about, although she had a very good guess.

  “Never you worry, lad, there’s lasses a-plenty in the world. There’ll even be a share for you, although you’ll not have first pick ’til your voice changes and you grow some hair on that bony chest of yours.”

  She was choking, but thanked God it didn’t make sound.

  “Enough of this. There’s a response to such talk, and no woman handy to use it on. You’d best tell all, lad. I’m short on patience, lost most of my whiskey, have a head that wants to lift itself from my neck, and thistles that need pulled. You wish to keep your talents hidden? Fair enough. I’ll find out sooner or later, although I wouldn’t test it on me again, if I were you.”

  The apparition-like body didn’t look like it had substance, let alone the threatening voice he was using. Morgan gulped.

  “I was na’ testing you,” she replied in a stiff tone that didn’t sound at all like her. She whipped the length of plaid cloth out, eyed a starting point and placed it against her waist. The cloth folded and draped as richly as she’d suspected it would. Morgan tucked it about her belt, double-folding the cloth at her front. Then, she bunched it into pleats all along the back, before bringing it forward again to pull the long end through her belt. She had enough to toss over her left shoulder, secure it through the back of the belt and make a short cape down her legs. She twisted her head to check the length, and noted with satisfaction that it brushed the backs of her calves, exactly where it should.

  “You was na’ just testing, you was showing it off. Had to be. Otherwise, you would ha’ killed me. Hand me a drying cloth.”

  She frowned at that, wondering first at the blunt truth of his words and secondly at the easy way he ordered her about. Then, she looked up. Her mouth dropped open. Shock was what held her immobile as he strode through the fog and foliage right toward her, and he didn’t look like any male she’d ever seen in her life.

  Zander FitzHugh was virile, healthy, toned, muscled and enormous. Everywhere. Even rising from a fresh-water stream into cold air he was impressive, and he wasn’t small in the least. Morgan forgot to swallow around the instant increase of moisture in her mouth and felt it choking her before she shut her mouth and then her eyes.

  “Well, look at you,” he said, “...attired in FitzHugh sett and like to make any number of maiden’s hearts a-twitter with such a fine spectacle. Your legs need a might bit more muscle, and your arms look like twigs, but your face is definitely a good feature. Boyish, yet manly at the same time. The lasses will go wild. They love an untried male.”

  He nudged her, and she moved back two steps with the force of it before opening her eyes on anything but him.

  “You look ready to be my squire, and I see you’ve got your tartan on proper this time. A vast improvement.”

  “
However did I miss?” she whispered, without thinking.

  His laughter wasn’t shrouded by mist now, and she felt such an unfamiliar heat that she knew she was blushing, and she never blushed. Never. Blushing was for young, virgin maidens, not for her, and definitely not in response to the man in front of her.

  “I wear a loin-wrap,” he replied. “I don it first...or I will, when I’m dried.”

  “A...what?” She couldn’t stay speaking with him when he was so casual about his own nakedness and she was feeling like every part of her own body was aware of it. The sun hadn’t been down long enough to hide any of it.

  “Fetch my drying cloth. Fetch my clothing, too. I’ll show you a loin-wrap. A good squire has his master’s needs already seen to, and wouldn’t need prodding,” he said softly.

  “I’ve not agreed to be your squire,” she repeated.

  “Would you like another dunking?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then we’re agreed you’ll be my squire?”

  “I’ll not swear fealty to you,” she replied, lifting her chin, although she wasn’t meeting his eyes. It seemed safer to concentrate on the birch behind him.

  “Not yet, perhaps, but in time, you will.”

  “Never.” Morgan set her teeth and moved to focus on his face. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, and she didn’t dare ask herself why. All she knew was she was shaking with the effort of keeping his gaze.

  He sighed. “We’ll start your training with the basic things, then. Serve your lord. He has requested his drying towel, but since you’ve left him standing in the night air, he’s no longer in need of it. Fetch his clothing instead. Now.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “Why do you think I let you keep your hair?” he stepped closer to ask it, and Morgan whitened. She only hoped it was as easily missed as her blush must have been. “You still wish to own it on the morrow?”