Page 14 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

“Ye knock on the door,” said Andrew, stepping back to let Dragonet go first. “’Tis Hogmanay and ye can be the first-foot.”

“I hope your fever has not returned, for I have no idea what you are saying.” Dragonet looked Andrew up and down. He was on his feet at least, though his arm was still in a sling, and Dragonet knew his wound was far from fully healed.

“’Tis the eve o’ the New Year. The first visitor is the first-foot. Go on wi’ ye, knock quick. I am mighty cold.” Andrew smiled through chattering teeth. He had lost a lot of weight during his convalescence.

Dragonet wondered if the cold had made Andrew delirious, but he obligingly knocked. He waited, a nervous buzz humming in his stomach. She would be there. Morrigan. The one person he should not see. Ever. She made him forget everything, his mission, his vows, his next breath. She was dangerous, and he would not have come, except that she was the last lead he had to find the silver chest.

Morrigan was the only person he knew who could tell him the location of the cave where the Templars had hidden their treasure so many years ago. He did not know if it was still there, but he had to find out. Dragonet had tried getting the information from Andrew, but other than to say he had heard of a cave he was not allowed to enter, Andrew knew nothing of it. Morrigan was Dragonet’s last chance.

After a pause, the door to the great hall was opened with a loud creak, and Dragonet stepped into the room filled with people. The hall was more festive than he remembered it, with fresh rushes on the floor and boughs of holly and ivy decorating the walls. The air was smoky but warm, a welcome relief from the bitter cold.

Two women stood to greet him. One had a shorter figure with a pleasant smile and rosy cheeks. The other was a tall, handsome woman who gaped at him like he was an apparition. He tried not to stare in return. She was dressed in a beautiful blue silk with gold embroidery. Dragonet was no expert in fashion, but even he could see the gown was a fine piece and no doubt quite dear. He decided the woman must be a stranger, because no McNab could afford such a fine piece.

The tall woman had large, dark eyes and long lashes. Her hair was dressed in lace and two long plaits that fell to her waist. Her gown clung nicely, revealing a small waist and shapely figure. He tore his gaze away from her to avoid gawking at her cleavage. She was striking and oddly familiar, but he was certain they had never met. A lady of her stature could not be forgotten.

Despite the number of people in the room, all conversations hushed and everyone focused on him. Was that what Andrew meant by being a first-foot?

“A happy New Year to you ladies,” said Dragonet with a graceful bow. When in doubt, charm with politeness.

“Welcome to McNab Hall, sir,” said the shorter, cheerful woman. “Here, come by the fire and warm yerself. ’Tis not often we get visitors this time o’ year.”

“I come with a gift I believe belongs to you.” Dragonet motioned to Andrew, who emerged from the shadows.

“Andrew!” shrieked the tall woman and ran to hug the shivering lad. “Why are ye here? Och, Alys, he’s been hurt, bring him to the fire.”

“Morrigan, I am well. Alys need no’ fuss over me,” Andrew protested.

Morrigan? Dragonet staggered back to catch his balance as if he had been physically struck.

“Wheesht!” Morrigan silenced all protests. “Sit in this chair by the fire and mind me proper. I’m no’ surprised ye got yerself hurt, going off wi’ those Campbells like a damn fool. I told ye naught would come o’ hanging after that Cait lass, but ye ne’er listen the way ye ought. I blame Archie for sending ye to university. Put daft notions in yer head.”

Yes, it was the same Morrigan. His beautiful Morrigan. For a few beats of his heart, everything was silent. He watched people crowd around the injured lad and jump to obey Morrigan’s commands. All eyes were on Andrew. All Dragonet could see was Morrigan.

The last time Dragonet saw Morrigan, she wore so many layers against the bitter chill she was little more than an amorphous blob. She could have been a woman, a man, or a bear for all the bundles showed of her shape. Tonight, Morrigan was a lady. Her waist was small and shapely, her figure trim, her hips rounded nicely, and her bosom… Dragonet tried to avoid staring at her luscious curves. Could it truly be Morrigan?

“Bring Andrew some food and hot wassail, now! Dinna talk to him; can ye no’ see he’s tired? Now eat this, ye ken? Ye look like death, and I canna say ye dinna deserve it!” Morrigan stood with one hand on her hip and the other on her sword hilt. It was indeed Morrigan.

The transformation was remarkable. Her thick hair was plaited down to her waist. Her gown was of fine silk. All worthy things to catch his eye, and yet his gaze wandered once more to her décolletage. Despite the importance of his quest, Dragonet decided what he truly needed to know was where she had been hiding those breasts. Morrigan turned to him, her eyes narrowing. Had she caught him gawking?

“What are ye standing there for? Come sit. Drink. Ye must be froze to the bone. Dinna ye have enough sense no’ to be traipsing about in the snow after dark? Bring a chair for Sir Dragonet, now, dammit!”

Dragonet complied with her orders, as did everyone else. She fussed over Andrew and hid her good intentions with criticism and complaint. Andrew began to look harried, but Dragonet was bemused. It was not her words but the meaning behind them that mattered.

Alys pressed a mug of hot wassail into his hand. “Thank ye for bringing our lad Andrew back home. My good sister will thank ye too when she finishes wi’ her fit. ’Tis her way o’ showing she cares, ye ken.”

Dragonet nodded. “I did not know Lady Morrigan had a sister.”

“I am lately married to Laird McNab.”

Dragonet inclined his head toward her. “Lady McNab.” She smiled and proceeded to quietly organize the festivities. Dragonet sipped the warm, soothing wassail, the cup thawing his frozen hands. Feeling returned to his fingers with a dull ache. He took another swig against the pain.

Andrew’s greeting was warm and long. It was clear he was well liked in the castle, and soon he was called upon to tell his harrowing tales of war and how he was injured. Andrew’s tale was a modest, sanitized version of the reality of the siege to take Berwick. He was trying to protect his clan from the ugliness of war. The unfortunate truth was the invasion had ended in defeat, and the sleeping giant of England had been awakened.

Many in the hall recognized Dragonet as the minstrel and asked him to play, but Morrigan chastised her clansmen, commenting on how dreadfully fatigued he appeared to be. It was not a compliment, but Dragonet was relieved not to be called upon to perform. After an hour of greeting, followed by drinking, followed by stories, followed by more drinking, Dragonet was feeling warm and cozy and quite tired. Andrew’s eyes were half open, if they were open at all.

“Time for bed,” Morrigan said in her direct manner. “Alys, have ye prepared his room?”

“Aye, the rooms are prepared for both our surprise visitors. Come now, Andrew my lad, ye look mighty tired.” Alys gently helped Andrew from the chair and led him to his chamber.

Morrigan glanced at Dragonet, as if he was nothing but an afterthought. “Come, I’ll show ye the room if ye care to have it.” Morrigan stomped off and Dragonet jumped up to follow her.

Unfortunately, his presence had been marked by several lasses in the castle who had been flirting shamelessly and chose that moment for a drunken pounce.

“Dinna follow her,” said one flame-haired wench, grabbing his arm. “All she has is a bed; she’ll no’ give ye what I can offer.” She squeezed her breasts and licked her lips.

“Thank you for that kindly offer but…”

“Nay, he dinna want yer ill-used arse,” squawked a black-haired wench who had long since lost her head covering. “Come wi’ me, sugar. I ken what a knight like ye wants.”

“Thank you, but no. All I want is to sleep.” Dragonet disengaged himself from the clutches of the amorous drunk and hustled after Morrigan, worried he had lost her. He need not have been concerned, since the sounds of cursing led him to her directly.

“Damn, stupid thing. How do people walk in this fool gown?” Morrigan was doubled over on the castle stairs, trying to disentangle the hem of her gown from her feet.

“I believe you must lift your skirts when walking up stairs to avoid treading on the hem of your gown,” said Dragonet, leaning against the stone wall behind her.

Morrigan straightened and whirled around to face him. “Ye wear gowns much do ye? Perhaps tomorrow ye can wear one to supper and show me how it’s done.”

Dragonet merely smiled. He had learned from wearing his monk’s robes, but that was not a topic open for conversation. Morrigan glared at him, but her cheeks were rosy.

“Well ye offered yer advice, now what do ye want?” demanded Morrigan.

“You mentioned a room?”

“So ye dinna wish to bed one o’ those wenches?”

“I am greatly tired. All I want is to sleep.”

“Have them come for ye in the morn. They can service ye after ye’re rested.”

“I do not wish to be… serviced.”

Morrigan shrugged and continued up the stairs, skirts in hand. “’Tis no concern o’ mine. I dinna ken why ye should tell me about it.”

Dragonet followed her up four flights of the winding staircase to the floor where the family lived. Torches flickered in their iron holders, leaving long, black trails of smoke on the walls. They passed an open door to a solar, and a few doors farther, Morrigan stopped at another open door.

“Here is yer room.” She stopped at the threshold as if wary to enter, even for a moment.

Dragonet walked past her into the room. It was in deep shadow, the only light coming from the flickering torches in the hall. “The room is very nice. I thank you.”

“Thank Alys.”

“I will do as you suggest. She is a new addition to your family?”

“Aye, Archie wed her several months ago. One o’ the few things he got right.”

“She seems a kind woman.”

Morrigan nodded but remained in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the door frame. Dragonet waited for her to speak.

“I want to thank ye for bringing Andrew home. It is a kindness I…” Morrigan’s voice trailed off and she looked down, wiping the palms of her hands on her silk gown. “But why?” Her gaze reached him again, her eyes large and black in the dimly lit room. “Why would ye leave yer fellow knights to bring him all the way back to the Highlands?”

Dragonet had anticipated that question and gave a ready answer. “The town of Berwick, it was taken, but not the castle. We planned a siege, but they were well equipped and could have lasted through the winter. We learned King Edward had amassed an army to march against us, eighty thousand men, experienced soldiers all. To stand against them, it would be folly.”

“So ye left?”

“I fear they all did. The Duke of Argitaine decided to withdraw once the hope of success had waned. After that the clans, they slipped away one by one.”

“Like rats leaving a sinking ship.” Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest, temporarily blocking his view from the one thing he should not be looking at. “Did I no’ warn that would happen? But would anyone listen to me?”

“Your judgments have been proven correct, my lady.”

“Lot o’ good that does anyone now. But why are ye here? Why no’ return to France wi’ yer fellow knights?”

“I promised to you I would look after Andrew.”

“Ye certainly took yer promise seriously.”

“He is a good lad. It was not difficult to want to help.” His promise to Morrigan was not the only reason he was there, but he was accustomed to revealing only half-truths, though it never made him as uncomfortable as it did then. Dragonet looked down, avoiding her eye. “I felt it wrong to leave, after I had encouraged the clans to go to war.”

Morrigan snorted and began to pace out into the hall and back to the doorway, still never crossing the threshold. “What do those arrogant Frenchies care if they cause pain and suffering for us? Why be concerned about people they feel are infinitely below their notice? Damn nobility, they care naught for the lives they destroy.”

“I cannot defend the duke’s decision, but I will offer my apologies most sincere.”

Morrigan stopped, her eyes locked on his. “Why are ye here Dragonet? Why care for my brother and travel all this way?”

Again Dragonet was uncomfortable but not unprepared in his answer. “I found Chaumont and Gavin taking Andrew to see the Mother Enid. Naturally, I accompanied them to lend my assistance to his care.”

“I still canna believe Chaumont and Gavin would help us. The MacLarens have always hated the McNabs.”

“It does not appear Gavin realizes he is a MacLaren, nor Andrew a McNab.”

“They did forge an ill-conceived friendship,” Morrigan conceded.

“Ill-conceived or no, Gavin helped take Andrew to the Mother Enid for the medicine that could save him. I think also Chaumont was desirous to take Gavin away from the war going poorly. He discharged the Graham soldiers and helped Gavin take Andrew away from danger.”

“I ne’er thought I would be beholden to a MacLaren.” Morrigan scowled at the prospect. “But that still does not explain why ye brought Andrew here from the convent.”

Dragonet again avoided her eye. “Andrew wished to be home, and I thought it right to oblige him. I did not wish for him to travel alone. I gave you my word I would look out for him, so of course I provided my aid. Or do you think it is only the Scots who know how to keep their word?”

“N-no, I ne’er meant to say that,” said Morrigan.

“You have a low opinion of Frenchmen, I understand, but there are a poor few who have some regard for their honor.”

“I ne’er meant to question yer word,” said Morrigan, flustered.

His calculated attack had worked to throw her off the offensive, though he did not gain much satisfaction from the ruse. In one glorious, dreadful moment he had the impulse to tell her everything and beg for her assistance in finding the cave and the treasure he sought. The difficulties such a confession would bring crashed down on him, silencing his rash impulse.

Morrigan averted her gaze and fiddled with the laces on the sleeves of her gown. “I am in yer debt. If ever there is anything I can do for ye…” Morrigan stepped closer and looked up at him, her brown eyes large in the gloom. Dragonet’s heart skipped a beat. What was she offering?

Morrigan cleared her throat and stepped back, changing the subject. “Ye dinna recognize me tonight, I warrant.”

“No, I confess at first I did not.”

“’Twas Alys’s fault. She pestered me until I conceded. What… um… what do ye think o’ her work?”

“Beautiful.” Dragonet answered her question with the truth.

Morrigan glanced down and smoothed away invisible wrinkles. “The gown is verra fine.”

“The gown, it is beautiful too.”

Color sprung to Morrigan’s cheeks, even the dim light could not hide her blush. It was quite charming. She could fight like a warrior, but still blushed like a maiden at a compliment. Dragonet was flooded with the desire to take her in his arms, to kiss her once more and not let her go.

“Was there any other reason ye came here?” Morrigan’s voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“Yes.” Dragonet’s heart beat fast. It was the truth, more than the truth. The other truth was he had come to see her. Morrigan. His lady. He took a step toward her, but could not reach her. The unspoken truth of who he was and why he had come posed an insurmountable barrier, separating them forever.

“My chamber is next door.” Morrigan inclined her head to the right. “If ye need anything…” Morrigan gave him a small smile, honest and trusting.

He wished to be worthy of that trust, but how could he tell her the truth? The monks who had searched for the treasure before him had been killed. If Morrigan realized something of value was in that cave, her life could be in danger too. It would be best to get the information without arousing her suspicion. Trouble was, she was already arousing something in him.

“I… I would like…” Dragonet was generally not at a loss for words, but then usually his heart was not beating so hard he feared it would crack a rib. “If you please to come in?”

“If ye wish.” Morrigan slowly stepped over the threshold into the sparse room. She began to bite a fingernail, glanced up at him with sudden consciousness of what she was doing, and whipped her hands behind her back.

Dragonet took a quick breath. “Have you been well? Has your shoulder healed?”

“Aye. See for yerself.” Morrigan slid down her gown to reveal her wounded shoulder, graced with a red scar.

Dragonet stepped to her on shaky legs and traced the scar with a fingertip. “It has healed well.” It was sweet torture to touch her. He wanted more.

“Thanks to ye. I shudder to think o’ what Willy would have done to me.”

Dragonet smiled. “Comparing my work to Willy, I could hardly fail to impress.”

“You did have the benefit o’ being sober.”

“And conscious.”

The corners of Morrigan’s mouth twitched. “Yes, I decided it helps. From now on I will demand any who put stitches in me be at least able to stand unaided.”

“A wise decision, my lady.”

Morrigan treated him to a rare smile and sat down on the bed. “And ye? What did ye learn from the campaign?”

Dragonet ignored his internal warnings and sat beside her. “War is a poor way to settle a disagreement.”

“But ye knew that already.”

“I learned that snow is cold. And rain here is cold. And I learned my fingers and toes, they do not care for it overmuch.”

“Yer blood is too thin, my poor French friend.” Morrigan took his hands in hers, sending ripples of excitement through him. “Ye need to stay a few more winters, and ye will toughen up.”

“Toughen me or mark my end?”

Morrigan cocked her head and leveled an appraising glance. “I do not ken what to make o’ ye, Dragon. I do know ye have no’ shared wi’ me much o’ yer life or yer reasons for being here.”

“My reasons…”

Morrigan squeezed his hand to stop him. “Yer reasons are yer own… for now,” she added with a sly glance. “I am happy to have my brother returned to me, and I am pleased to see ye.”

“I am well pleased to see you, my lady. I must say, I do appreciate your new look.”

“Ye look nice too,” she said without looking at him. Once again she fussed with the ties on her sleeves. “I dinna ken what to say now.” Her eyes flashed with accusation.

Taken aback, Dragonet scrambled to ascertain how he had offended her. “You need not say anything. You are a most lovely hostess.”

“I’m no’ yer hostess, Alys is,” grumbled Morrigan. “I’m yer… yer… what am I to ye?”

A shock of warning pulsed through Dragonet. He must tread carefully. “I find you a most pleasing companion.”

“Ye’d be the only one.”

“I am pleased to hear it.”

“Look now, are ye going to kiss me or no’? We kiss every time we meet, and now ye’re here, but I dinna ken how to get to the kissing part.”

Dragonet could not help but smile. She frowned at him and he succumbed to laughter, her forthright manner breaking through the tension.

“Are ye laughing at me?”

“Never have I met anyone like you, so completely without falsehood or pretense.”

“Or shame.”

Dragonet smiled at her in the dim light of the torchlight flickering from the hall. She was utterly unique and was surprisingly becoming in a gown. His attention had been captured earlier by her cleavage, but it was her eyes that held him in her power.

Before he arrived that night, he had every intention of avoiding physical contact. He should not toy with the affections of a lady, especially since it was not in his power to marry. Yet one look at her in the new gown, and the battle was lost. Besides, he doubted her emotions were engaged, as his were. She was a tough one, Morrigan McNab. Her heart was not likely to be easily touched.

The torchlight danced in her black eyes. She was his one desire, more than the silver box, more than proving himself to his father. She was all he could see. He leaned closer to her as she leaned in to him. They met with a kiss, sweet and tasting of wassail. He moved slowly, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer even as she deepened the kiss. She was indeed willing, sliding onto his lap with ease. She fit nicely in his arms, like she belonged there.

“Close the door and let us go to bed,” she murmured. “And ye can tell me all yer secrets.”

“And will you tell me yours?” he whispered.

“Aye, I will tell ye anything.”

This was everything he wanted. Everything he needed. He could get the information while taking the woman who set him ablaze to bed. It was perfect. His rational mind screamed in warning, but he was no longer thinking with his brain. He stood to shut the door.

“Ye can start wi’ the beginning,” said Morrigan. “Tell me about yer mother and father. Are they living? Is yer father a knight like ye?”

His father. Jumping into a frozen lake naked could not have shocked him with such searing cold. His father would take advantage of her offer. It was everything he wanted, and yet even his passion-drenched mind he knew sleeping with her could cause her trouble. He would not leave Morrigan the way his father had left his mother. Dragonet opened the door and turned slowly to her.

Morrigan’s smile faded in the emptiness of his silence. “Is something the matter?”

“The journey, it has been long. I am greatly tired. I beg your forgiveness, for nothing would give me greater pleasure than spending more time with you, but I fear tonight I would be poor company.”

Her jaw hardened and her eyes grew black and cold. She put her hand on the hilt of her sword and Dragonet instinctively took a step back.

“Now that you mention it, I am also quite fatigued,” said Morrigan, her voice flat. “’Tis been a long night, and we all need sleep. I have no candle for ye, I fear. I do hope Alys changed the ticking, for last time I checked that mattress was filled wi’ bed bugs. Good night to ye then.”

Morrigan swept past him and slammed the door closed, leaving him alone in his room of utter darkness. Dragonet collapsed on the pallet and hoped for the best. Instead of a lady for a bed partner he had chosen bedbugs.