True Highland Spirit (11 page)

She took her last breath and watched the Englishman run toward her to finish the kill. With a sick thud the man slumped and fell to the ground. A French soldier stood behind him. He stepped forward and grabbed the spear, wrenching it out of Morrigan’s shoulder.

Pain exploded through her. She cried out and collapsed, her knees refusing to hold. The world became fuzzy around the edges and she struggled to remain conscious.

“Morrigan!” The French knight lifted his visor, revealing the piercing blue eyes of Sir Dragonet.

Morrigan stared at her rescuer for a moment, the sounds of the battle fading away. Dragonet kneeled beside her and put his arm around her unhurt shoulder to prevent her from falling farther into the mud. He had saved her life.

“Ye are here,” she murmured, pushing off her helm.

He gave her a slow smile, but the worry in her eyes remained. “Yes, I am here. You are injured?”

Morrigan returned his smile with a faint one of her own. He had saved her. She reached up to touch his check to see if he was real. Morrigan took a deep breath—what was she doing? She needed to get control of herself.

“I am well,” she said, trying to sit up on her own. “A scratch. Nothing more.”

Movement behind Dragonet caught her eye. Another knight approached, his bloody sword in hand. In an instant, Morrigan flicked the knife Dragonet had given her into her hand and threw it at the throat of their attacker.

The knight lifted his shield in time and the knife stuck into the wood.

“Hello now. That could have killed me,” said the knight with a slight French accent.

Had she tried to kill a Frenchman? No, the colors on his hauberk were wrong. It was the clan of… Graham.

Morrigan groaned, of all the bad luck. She had tried to murder one of Graham’s men. That was hardly going to improve clan relations.

“Sorry about that,” mumbled Morrigan.

“No harm done,” said the knight cheerily. “I am Chaumont, and who might you be?”

“McNab,” said Morrigan in a voice hardly above a whisper. She glanced up to see his reaction but he merely bowed.

“This soldier needs a surgeon,” said Dragonet, easily lifting Morrigan in his arms, armor and all. At least he had not revealed her gender.

“I am fine,” Morrigan lied. “No surgeon necessary. Put me down!”

“Jacques?” asked Chaumont, ignoring Morrigan’s protests and addressing Dragonet. “Am I confused or did I know you as a minstrel?”

“
Oui
, I am Jacques. I am also Sir Dragonet, a knight for the duke.”

“Ah,” said Chaumont with a devilish grin. He looked at Dragonet and then at Morrigan. “I see.”

“I can walk,” demanded Morrigan, pushing herself out of Dragonet’s arms. Her legs were not as strong as she wanted, but she gritted her teeth and willed herself to stay upright. The pain in her shoulder was burning, blood trickling down the inside of her hauberk.

“This is a nice piece,” said Chaumont pulling the knife out of his shield. “Wherever did you get it?” he asked Morrigan, turning the knife Dragonet gave her over in his hands and rubbing his thumb over the symbol of the white cross.

“Dragonet,” muttered Morrigan without thinking. Damn but her shoulder was starting to throb.

Chaumont looked at her with bright eyes then again at Dragonet. “I see.” He stepped close and held out the knife to return it to her. He was older than she, but undeniably handsome. “I saw what you did, taking on three Englishmen at a time. I decided you must be very brave, very skilled, or very foolhardy.”

“I am a McNab. Foolhardy is our family creed.”

Chaumont laughed, a great merry sound. He placed the knife in her palm, then turned it over to kiss the back of her hand. “Until we meet again,
mademoiselle
.”

Chaumont strode away, leaving Morrigan gaping in his wake. Mademoiselle?

“How did he know?” She eyed Dragonet with suspicion.

“I do not know.” Dragonet met her eyes directly. “I have said nothing to anyone.”

Morrigan nodded. She believed him. Perhaps it was the look of truth in his eye, perhaps it was the screaming pain that dulled her mental faculties, but she believed him.

“Come, let us get you stitched,” said Dragonet.

Morrigan followed, or more precisely was discretely assisted back to the road where she was accosted by the hulking form of Lord Douglas. Douglas was a large man, with bushy black eyebrows and bushier beard. If he was impressive in person, he was doubly so with armor adding to his considerable size.

“Well done, well done, my lad,” Douglas praised, giving Morrigan a hearty slap on the back which sent waves of pain clear down to her toes. Dragonet tightened his hold around her waist and prevented her from falling when her knees buckled. Morrigan’s jaw clenched in pain, silencing a scathing insult regarding Douglas’s mother.

“We have captured the governor.” Douglas rubbed his hands together. “Ah, now that will be a pretty ransom for sure. Ye did well my lad to prevent him from escaping. If ye were not a McNab I’d knight ye!”

“I am sure their share of the ransom will be sufficient,” said Dragonet smoothly, preventing Morrigan from voicing something which probably would have required the Douglas to demand a duel.

“Well, well now,” sputtered Douglas.

“And ours as well. Later we will meet to discuss the details,” added Dragonet.

“Yes, yes of course.” Douglas turned and left, less happily than he arrived.

Despite the pain, Morrigan smiled. “Thank ye, I am feeling much improved. My men can help me from here.”

Dragonet paused but handed Morrigan over to one of her men. “I wish you a most speedy recovery.” He removed his helm and pushed back the padded cap, revealing his face. His expression was unreadable. He paused again as if he wished to say more, but Morrigan’s men were gathering and Dragonet’s men were watching.

Dragonet bowed and was gone.

Morrigan’s men helped her back to camp where she could wash her wound and find a surgeon. She knew that meant finding the clansman who was the least drunk to stitch the wound closed. Safe for the moment in her tent, she evaluated her wound. The spear had sliced through the top of her left shoulder. She had been pinned to the tree, but mostly by her clothes. It hurt and bled, but had not cut anything of importance and should soon heal.

Her stomach only rebelled once during the process of cleaning the wound so she considered the day a success. None of her men had been killed, they had earned a portion of a ransom, and she, thanks to the timely arrival of her minstrel, was still alive.

Not that he was
her
minstrel.

He wasn’t even a minstrel anymore. Not that she cared in the slightest.

Morrigan reached for the bottle. After a liberal dose of medicinal whiskey both outside to cleanse the wound and inside her to dull the pain, she called upon Willy to put in the stitches. Like everyone in the camp, he was drinking to celebrate their victory, but Willy held his liquor better than most so he was elected to stitch.

“Are ye hurt?” Andrew ran into her tent and stopped short at the sight of the gaping wound on her shoulder. He went pale and sank to his knees beside her as she sat on a bench. “Oh, Morrigan. Oh no.”

“It will be fine. It just needs some stitching,” said Morrigan, trying not to be shaken by her brother’s reaction. She glanced over at Willy, who was still trying to get the needle threaded. Not a good sign.

“Is it bad?” called a voice from outside the tent.

“Och aye, ’tis horrid. Come see,” called Andrew, jumping up to meet his friend.

“What? Nay!” said Morrigan but it was too late. In walked a young man, who appeared to be in his late teens. She quickly tried to cover herself up a bit more. True she had merely untied the top of her shirt and slid it down over her shoulder to reveal the wound, but it was hardly the way she met visitors.

“Morrigan, this is Gavin Patrick. He’s the nephew o’ the MacLaren,” said Andrew calmly, oblivious to her concerns.

“MacLaren!” Morrigan stared at Gavin. There was no clan who hated the McNabs more than the MacLarens. Except perhaps the Grahams.

“Gavin, this is my sister Morrigan,” continued Andrew.

“Andrew! Ye daft fool!” snapped Morrigan. “We are not on friendly terms wi’ the MacLarens, and I am not heralding that I am yer
sister
!”

“Och, true, sorry,” said Andrew, running his fingers through his hair, giving himself a rumpled schoolboy appearance. “But Gavin and I are friends now. He saved my life from hanging.”

“And he saved me from matrimony.” Gavin slapped Andrew’s back in a friendly manner.

Andrew gave him a foolish smile. “Ye dinna ken what ye are missing.”

Morrigan glared at the jovial lads. At least Andrew was well fed and happy. He had been outfitted in Campbell colors, complete with good armor and new boots. It was more than she had ever been able to give him.

“Ye finished threading that needle yet?” Morrigan asked Willy, who was lifting a bottle instead of a needle.

“No’ yet. Just another drink to steady me nerves.”

Andrew stepped closer. “I dinna think he is sober enough to thread a needle, let alone stitch yer shoulder.”

“Do ye care to try?” Morrigan asked her brother. Andrew blanched in reply.

“My stepfather, Chaumont, has experience with these things. I’ll get him.” Gavin dashed out of the tent before Morrigan could stop him.

“Now see what ye’ve done!” chastised Morrigan. “He will probably get MacLaren and we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Nay, MacLaren isna here. Gavin came wi’ Chaumont and the Grahams. According to Gavin, MacLaren said invading the English was a damn fool business and he would have naught to do wi’ it.”

Morrigan snorted. “He’s right.”

“Now, how is the patient,” said Chaumont, stepping into the tent, followed by Gavin and Dragonet.

“W-what? Nay!” yelled Morrigan. This was spinning out of control.

“You know my friend Dragon,
n’est-ce pas
? He was asking about your health, so I told him to come on in,” said Chaumont with a wink.

Morrigan cursed and spit on the ground. “I am fine. My man is about to put in a few stitches. There is naught to see here. Ye may all go now.”

Willy responded by passing out drunk. The tent was silent for a moment as everyone stared at the unconscious Highlander on the ground. So much for holding his whiskey. Willy began to snore.

“Allow me to offer my assistance,” said Chaumont with an artful bow. He picked up the needle and thread from the table and quickly threaded the needle.

“I also have some experience in the treatment of wounds, my lady,” said Dragonet, dropping all pretense of pretending she was a lad. “I am yours to command.”

“Gavin and Andrew, why do you not take our snoring friend here out to his friends? We would not want to trip over him on accident,” said Chaumont.

“Do ye wish me to stay, Morrie?” asked Andrew, his eyes large as he stared at the needle in Chaumont’s hands.

Morrigan sighed. She did want him to stay, but he was squeamish around wounds. She wished Archie was there. He was a fool, but he would not faint at the sight of blood.

“Nay, ye and Gavin go and take Willy wi’ ye. And remember, the wenches ye find at a camp like this are to be avoided, ye ken?”

Chaumont arched a brow at her.

“Myself included,” muttered Morrigan.

“Ye sure ye’ll be alright?” asked Andrew. He was a good lad.

“Aye. I have two French nursemaids to see to me.”

They waited as Gavin and Andrew lifted Willy off the ground and dragged him out of the tent.

“One of us should hold the lantern while the other places the stitches. Which one o’ us would you like do the deed?” asked Chaumont in a flirtatious manner.

Morrigan blushed in spite of herself. “Have ye both had experience wi’ stitching before?”

“I spent time with the Hospitallers, learning their trade,” said Dragonet. “If you please to hold this to your shoulder. It will stop the bleeding.” He handed her a clean, white handkerchief, and she complied.

“I have done my share of stitching,” boasted Chaumont. “You may have noticed how I stitched MacLaren’s face back together.”

“I have heard of his ugly scar. Ye will do the stitching.” Morrigan pointed to Dragonet. “Ye can hold the light.” She nodded to Chaumont.

Chaumont laughed. “A wise choice, my lady. A very wise choice indeed.”

“How did ye ken I was a lass?” she asked.

“Ah, the evidence of my misspent youth, I fear. Your appearance does not betray you, but, you must forgive me, I have a true gift for noticing a pretty female face, no matter how she disguises herself.”

“Ye boast at being a veritable knave?”

“Reformed, I assure you. Now let us see to your wound.” Chaumont held up the lantern.

Heat rushed through her when Dragonet brushed aside her shirt to reveal her naked shoulder. It was hardly a romantic gesture, but her response was unconscious and immediate. He examined the wound with gentle hands.