Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (13 page)

Then, he let her go. Morgan didn’t say a word.

The wide flight of steps ended in another courtyard, and then they were at
the stables. Morgan took in the vast amount of horseflesh all about her. The
Lord of Argylle appeared to maintain his own legion of servants just to care for
the horses. The noise and confusion was evident, as Zander’s group came to
a halt in the middle of the yard.

Morgan stepped back on
legs which seemed to be kneeless, in a jerking fashion, as
Zander dismounted. Her legs were still holding her up, although they weren’t working properly. He glanced down at her, then away. He had a nerve twitching in that chiseled jaw. He had also freshly scraped his beard. She knew,
because she’d heard the sounds of him doing it as they approached.

Morgan had to command herself not to reach out to touch him, and hated
herself anew for the weakness.

“You are to stay at my heels, Morgan. D
oona’ lose yourself.”

“Aye,” she answered.

“
Martin!” Zander barked loudly, startling her into four faltering steps
backward before she caught herself and actually managed to remain upright.
“There you are. See to Morgan. Not him! My horse!”

This last, as Martin had reached for her elbow. Morgan nearly gave it the
amusement it deserved, and then she had to force away the silly tears that started
up, just because another human was about to help her, without pitying her. She
was weak. That was it. She was weak from lack of sustenance, walking a day
and night, and she was weak from having to keep her back rigid to prevent
further trauma.

She convinced herself that she was weak from everything except the real
reason, and she looked at the straw-strewn ground with a kind of wonder. They had made a plateau of steps to
reach the stables. Amazing. She wondered if the straw littered ground was
earthen, or if there was more stone beneath the straw. It looked like dirt, but she could hardly bend down and check at the moment. They’d taken a space the size of a large village and walled it in with stone. This was a castle, then?

“Morgan!”

She raised her head, ignoring the dull throb of ache at the movement, and
saw him gesturing at her from across the span of servants and horses.
How did
he get clear over there?
she wondered, and started a shuffling walk to reach him. As
she did, she knew the ground was just that, ground, and they’d leveled off
the hill to make a courtyard within the walls.

“I told you to keep at my heels!”

Morgan tried to focus on him, but he had a torch right behind his head.
He sounded angry, but then again, he always sounded angry anymore. She
twisted up her nose, squinted against the light and regarded him.

“Well?” he asked.

“Turn about and show them, then,” she answered.

She received his exclamation of frustration, and then the punishment of
trying to keep up as he took steps two at a time. Morgan gave up after the
second one. She couldn’t lift her leg that high and her knees weren’t cooperating much. About the only good thing was the walls were uneven and rough. The
rock made excellent hand-holds for assisting what appeared to be a recalcitrant
squire, who didn’t have the strength left to serve his master.

Zander was gone when she reached the next level. It was probably quarters for the laird’s army. That was her first guess, and was borne out when
she was shoved aside by a burly sort with no patience.

“Out
of the way, lad!”

The uneven wall was just as hard as it felt. Morgan had that much
decided as she hit against it, opening a cut in her cheek. Then she was walking
forward, taking a guess at where the Earl of Argylle would place a guest.

Smoke stung her eyes, making them water yet again, and she rubbed a
sleeve across them, with an ugly gesture. She couldn’t cry
now
! She was deep in
the bowels of an English-loving Scottish laird’s castle, surrounded by fighting men, and disobeying her master again. Tears would be the final humiliation.

The corridor grew narrower as she walked along it. The doors on either
side grew more ornate at the same time, all oak with brass fittings, and then
there were tapestries. Morgan halted for a moment and looked. She couldn’t
crane her neck up, but she could see far down the corridor that there were
immense rugs, worked with needlework of all descriptions, blanketing the walls.
It was too dark in the torchlight to make them out, but it was rich. More rich
than she’d ever seen or believed existed.

Morgan kept pushing herself, stumbling along with one hand on the wall
to keep herself upright. She was probably approaching living quarters of some
kind. She wished she hadn’t annoyed Zander, and she hoped he wouldn’t
be more angered when she finally located him.

“
Who are you?”

Morgan halted, her eyes wide as a young girl came toward her, black hair flowing all about her, and wearing a bliant and over-dress of sunniest yellow
that was so
exquisite, Morgan’s mouth dropped open.

“
Well?”

She stood in front of her and waited. Morgan moved her hand from the tapestry-covered wall and stood
straight. The girl reached exactly to her chin. Then, the
girl giggled, sounding like a small bird.

“You can close your mouth, now. I’m properly gratified at your response
to my presence. I think I like it, but you must hasten away from here now. My maid will na’ allow me out long. She’ll suspect.”

“Suspect?” Morgan asked finally.

“That I’ve stolen away to a love-tryst.”

Morgan’s mouth fell open again. The girl trilled another giggle.

“I don’t have them, of course. I only threaten to have them. ’Tis the
only way I can escape my betrothal.”

“Your...betrothal?”

“To that great, hulking beast, Zander FitzHugh, of the Highland
FitzHughs. You don’t know him, do you?”

Morgan’s eyes closed on an agony severe enough to make the pain in her back disappear. It was centered in her chest and pumping into every piece of her
with every beat of her heart. She sucked in breath to counteract it, and when that didn’t work, she silently cursed everything and everyone. Soundly.

There was a purgatory on earth, and Zander had brought her right into it. As a KilCreggar who had failed to avenge her family, and as a woman who had
failed to kill what he made her feel, she was devastated, completely and totally.
She opened her eyes and hoped it didn’t show.

“I am his squire,” she finally answered
, with a harsh whisper of sound.

“Oh dear! This is worse. If Letty finds me talking to you, she’ll think the
worst! She’ll think you’re here for a reason!” She stopped, narrowed her eyes and looked Morgan over. “You aren’t here for a reason, are you?”

“I’m lost,” Morgan replied.

“Oh. Quick then. Over here. Take this passage, and the second door on the left leads to where they’ve put him. Quickly, I say!”

For a wench
who supposedly was a mouse, she wasn’t immune to grabbing a lad’s upper arm and pulling him along. Plato hadn’t a good enough
look at her, either. This girl was beautiful, she probably had a large dowry, and she was no mouse. Zander had done well for himself in the span of six days, since he’d kissed his squire, and turned her completely inside-out.

Morgan stumbled along behind Zander’s betrothed, feeling like a great,
awkward bull next to the petite frailty of her future mistress. The girl opened a door.

“You see?”

“Aye.”

Morgan didn’t even look. She just wanted the torment ended. She
wanted a hard cold floor to stretch out on, and she wanted oblivion. She could
care less about killing anyone, or anything, not even the FitzHugh laird.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Zander was standing in front of his fireplace, staring into the flames. He
whirled when she got the door opened, and he watched her slide inside to hold herself up on the door as it closed.

“
Where have you been?” He demanded it, and when she didn’t speak
right away, he was across the room, and glaring at her from an arm’s length away.

Morgan couldn’t meet his gaze. She had too much emotion right beneath the surface. “I got lost,” she replied.

“
What happened to your face?”

He was reaching for her cheek, and she pulled back, ignoring what she
used to think was pain, when her neck twinged at the movement. His hand
stopped shy of her cheek.

“I dinna’ move quickly enough,” she whispered.

“Who hit you?”

“’T
was no hit. I’m clumsy.”

“Clumsy? You?” He stepped back and looked her over. “What’s happened? Something has happened, hasn’t it? What?”

Useless, stupid, female tears flooded her eyes at the gentle tone he used.
She looked down at the same moment they trickled onto her cheeks before dripping off her chin. She watched them darken her blouse and the kilt band
across her chest.

“Oh, Morgan, pray cease this. I canna’ stand for it.”

His breath was at her forehead and she made fists of her hands.
He
couldn’t stand for it?
she wondered. She blinked until she could see again. Then
she raised her head to glare at him.

“
Back away, FitzHugh,” she spat, “and let me see what a great Highland
lord is given for rooms.”

He raised his eyebrows and both arms, and stepped back and to one side
of her. Then, he gestured to the luxury all about. Megan’s mouth dropped
open in awe.

There was a large bedstead along the wall
: the headboard, footboard, and
connecting mattress-support along the floor, made from what appeared to be the
same log. There was a mattress on it, and more than two blankets, if
the differing colors were any indication. There were tapestries covering the
walls, another one across the floor and more needlework on his linens, although it looked more like moths had been at work, since there were symmetrical holes
and gaps throughout.

There was a large chair across the room, with a footstool in front that
looked large enough to bed down on. They had given him another blanket across
that, and a fur covering of some kind draped across the back of his chair. There
was a huge fireplace covering the length of the opposite wall, although only a small blaze was kindled in it. There was a shield of some coat of arms above the fireplace and several torch brackets were on the walls, although none of them were lit at present.

The ceiling was beyond her scope of vision at the moment, but it looked
to be very high, if the shadow was any indication. There was also a
sturdy-looking table beside the chair, although the ornate carving underneath
seemed more to damage the sturdiness than accent it. They had given him a
silvered tray, covered with fruits ripe enough for the vine, and what appeared to be an entire loaf of bread sat next to his flagon, which probably held mead.
Morgan took it all in and then looked back at Zander.

“Well?” he asked.

“It’ll be too hot,” she answered.

He smiled and walked over to the table, lifting a bunch of grapes for her
inspection. “You hungry?”

Her belly answered for her with a loud rumble. Morgan flushed as they
both heard it. He laughed softly.

“Come along, Morgan, and taste of my feast. I canna’ have my own
champion wasting away on me.”

“Y
our own...?” Her voice didn’t finish it.

“I’ve accepted a challenge from the Earl of Cantor. He’s a Sassenach
bastard of the worst kind. He has a fencing master he’s brought with him. I
told you of him already.”

She tried to think. “I d
oona’ recall,” she finally answered.

“Come along. There’s more than I can eat, although if I needed more, I can simply open the door and get Martin to go for it.”

“Martin?” she asked.

“Of
course, Martin. I’ve lent his services to Plato, for the time being, but
he still squires for me, if I have need of him, anyway.”

“What of
me?” she asked.

“P
lato asked for you first, if that’s your question.” He wasn’t hiding the
anger very well, she noticed.

“I have na
e reason to wish to squire Plato, Master Zander, I was assuring myself of my position in your household. If you’ve need of foodstuffs, I will go
for them.”

“
As slowly as you obey? I would na’ trust you to return before it spoiled on me. Come along, Morgan lad, enough taunts. Join me. ’Tis a rich room they’ve given me. A very rich welcome.”

“You’re the future son-by-law. What else did you ken they’d give?”

He looked across at her. “You know about that?” he asked.

“I met your betrothed
,” she replied.

“Gwynneth? Truly?”

“She dinna’ tell me her name. I assume it to be Gwynneth if you say ’tis.”
Morgan gathered her courage and moved away from the support of the door.
The table was as far away as it looked. It was also waist-high, which was a good
thing. She could hardly bend down to pick up anything.

“
What do you think of her?”

She gathered some grapes without looking and popped one in her mouth,
as if considering. “She’s beauteous and young. Verra young. You like them
young, though, I recollect.”

“She remind you of
anyone?” Zander asked.

Morgan popped another grape into her mouth and sucked on it before she
broke the skin and ravished the sweetness from it. “No,” she replied.

“No? Think, lad. Black hair. Young. Beauteous. Fit. Active with
the mind. Untouched. That jog your memory?”

Morgan shrugged, cursing herself the moment she did so as she failed to
hide the reaction of pain. She choked on the grape before swallowing it whole.

“You still suffering?”

She had it under control before he finished asking, and looked at him with
her eyes half-lidded. “I’ve finished my meal, I think. I would seek my rest now.”

“Two grapes?”

She couldn’t afford to shrug, so she didn’t. She didn’t answer, either. S
he simply put the rest of her grapes down, and backed a step, then another.

“You canna’ move, can you?”

Morgan twisted her lips. “I moved to here. I moved from the camp. I
move.”

“I mean, you canna’ move to feint and parry, can you?”

“If you’re asking of a weakness, let me set your mind at rest. I’m na’
weak. I’m never weak. You set up a contest. I’m your squire. I will do what
you require.”

“I d
oona’ think you’re weak, Morgan. I think you’re the strongest,
bravest lad I’ve ever met. That is what I think.”

Oh God
!
Morgan sucked in the onslaught of sobs as viciously as she’d
ever done in her life, and for once was rewarded as her eyes only thought about
weeping before they cleared. If a FitzHugh thought that of her, perhaps the
KilCreggar dead wouldn’t walk the earth and search her out as punishment, after all. A FitzHugh praising a KilCreggar?

She smiled slowly. “It’s verra hot in your chamber,
Master Zander,” she
said.

“And...that
means?”

Something had changed, and she didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t
good, though. A log fell on his fire, sending a burst of light out onto the floor. Morgan backed another step.

“
Dinna’ your chamber come with a window?”

“Aye,” he replied.

She turned by moving her feet as he walked past her, went to
the end of his bed and pulled a tapestry aside. The fresh air was rewarding of
itself, even without the smell of the continuing rain.

“Now, answer my question. Straight, this time. Can you move enough
to fence?”

“I’m no slackard at fencing. I’m no slacker at anything I set my mind to,”
she answered.

“
But, can you move?”

“
What is the prize this time?” she asked.

“Self-respect. Twenty pounds sterling. Another squire.” He grinned.
“An English squire.”

Morgan considered him. “And what is the penalty for losing?”

“
What do you want it to be?” he asked.

“Death,” she answered.

His eyes widened, and then he took the flooring between them in three strides to grip her upper arms and yank her toward him. “Death?” he asked with
a shocked tone, then he said it again, only this time he was angry. “Death? You
want a man’s blood that badly? Why?”

“Doon
a’ touch me again, FitzHugh,” she whispered, through teeth
clenched against his assault.

He let her go, ignoring how she stumbled jerkily backward into the table
before finding her balance against it. The flagon he’d been drinking from, rattled at her collision with its support, then settled back against the silvered tray that held
the grapes and peaches and pears. Morgan watched Zander glare at her.

“F
or God’s sake, why?”

She had to look away then, and her eyes roved about the room before
settling on the open window.
Because death is the only mercy God is willing to
give me,
she thought. “I have my reasons,” she whispered.

“I’ll refuse the challenge. Martin!”

He strode over to the chamber door and hauled it open, hollering loudly
enough to wake everyone on the same level, and probably the ones above and below, too.

“Zander,” Morgan said softly.

He turned back to her. Morgan filled her eyes with how beloved he was,
and let herself feel every bit of it, held it to her breast, allowed it to fill her until
she swore she glowed, and then she shoved it away. The paradise he’d allowed her a glimpse of was just the pinnacle for a hellish descent into agony. She wanted him to know of it, too.

“Shut the door,” she finished.

He did.

“I will fight this English champion. I will na’ lose. If you d
oona’ wish his
death, then I will na’ give it to you. Besides....”
The only way I’ll lose is if I
continue living,
she finished in her mind.

“Besides...what?” he asked.

The door was knocked on and then both Martin and Plato were in the
chamber, finally making it appear normal-sized.

“You called for my squire?” Plato asked, his glance flicking to where
Morgan held herself up by the table, to Zander.

“
Morgan has a back injury.”

“You woke everyone in the castle to tell us of
that?” Plato looked from one to the other of them again. Then, he smacked a hand to his forehead.
“You’re either dense, or a very slow learner, Zander FitzHugh. Mother always did say she saved beauty for her final-born, but to the rest she gave wits. You should have held out for wits, I think.”

Zander shook his head. “Nay. Only to tell you of the rest. This back
injury…’twas I that gave it. I dinna’ mean to. I guess I’m a brute when it comes
to him.”

“I could have told you of
that,” Plato remarked.

“And I need to ask your help,” Zander continued.

“You want help now? With your squire? Good heavens, Morgan, what
are you doing to him, now?”

Zander was grinding his teeth. She could tell by his voice when he
answered. “He canna’ fence if we do not get him mobile enough. Have either of
you a suggestion? Something to try?”

“Call off the duel,” Plato said.

“
Morgan will na’ let me.”

Plato looked over at her then, and she watched his features soften. She
only hoped it wasn’t as noticeable for the others. Then, she asked herself why
she cared. Zander couldn’t possibly punish her any further than he already was.