Page 2 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

Morrigan dunked her head in the water basin again, trying to get the mud out of her ears. Rolling around in the muck, and other substances she would rather not consider, was hardly good for her general appeal. Her brother had dropped off the minstrel as close to their home as he dared and gave him strict instructions to follow the road to McNab Hall. They rode off in the opposite direction, then doubled back and raced to the hall.

Archie gave excited instructions to the cook and provided him the boar to roast. News of their minstrel’s arrival spread like fever through the castle, infecting the generally glum residents with uncharacteristic anticipation. The news of their success on the road was relayed with more reservation, since the true nature of the McNabs’ extracurricular revenue source was a well-known secret.

In appreciation of their guest’s arrival, people broke out their Sunday clothes and did a cursory wash. Despite her fear that inviting the minstrel was a poor idea at best—for if he identified Archie as the leader of the band of thieves, he could spread that news far and wide—even Morrigan felt compelled to make herself presentable. Though if anyone asked, she would cite the mud as the reason, certainly not the warmth of the minstrel’s smile. Other lasses would surely have swooned to be in close proximity to such an attractive man. Good thing she was immune to that sort of rot. She doubted he even knew she was a girl.

Morrigan donned her usual attire, a long, loose tunic belted at the waist, and trews over her long legs. Underneath she bound her chest with a wide strip of linen. She found the evidence of her womanhood cumbersome in her present occupation. Since she was doing a man’s job, it was easier to look the part. Morrigan pulled on a pair of black leather boots and wrapped her one vanity, her long, brown hair, into a cap. She was thin and tall, standing at eye level or higher than most men in her clan. Only her brothers and a few others beat her height. Unless one knew otherwise, she looked to the world like a young lad. A young, thieving lad.

Ever since Morrigan took up the sword, she had dressed as a man. Archie had tolerated it when she was young, but in her teen years he had demanded she cease her militant ways and put on a skirt. She had replied that when he could best her at the lists, she would give up her sword. Morrigan absently traced the etched design on her scabbard with her left hand. Her sword was still at her side. Not that Archie was unskilled at the martial arts, but Morrigan could still best him, and every other McNab warrior for that matter.

Morrigan briefly considered putting on something feminine, in honor of their musical guest, and for the amusement of shocking her clan. She opened a trunk at the foot of her bed, but the only gown she could find was one she wore when she was ten, the year her mother died. Had it truly been so many years? Morrigan slammed the trunk shut. If she had been born a man, it would not have been so bad, but as a lass… Morrigan shook her head. Since she had been born a lady, her life by anyone’s estimation was a pathetic travesty.

Morrigan stomped into the great hall, so named only because it was the largest room in the tower castle, not for any intrinsic greatness. A few faded tapestries hung on the walls, the ones of any value had long since been sold to support the clan. Rushes of undetermined age covered the floor. Since Morrigan could not recall the last time they were changed, it had undoubtedly been too long. The trick was not to let one’s feet sink below the top layer to the slimy, stone floor underneath. The central hearth of the room was large, built in grander times. The small peat fire smoldering in the gaping hearth was a salient reminder of the unlucky clan’s poverty.

Passing by the lower tables on her way to the head table, Morrigan was ignored by men and women alike. Since she was the sister of their laird, they could do little about her existence in the hall, but the clan made it clear they did not approve of her gender-confused attire. According to the clan, and particularly the women of the clan, she should remain a lady, even if the clan starved without her aid. They would eat the game she caught, spend the coin she stole, but even if her support was all that stood between them and starvation, they would never accept her.

Morrigan understood their rejection. Long ago she decided she would sacrifice herself to support the clan. As chatelaine of the castle, it was her job to do everything she could to protect and support the clan. For Morrigan, that meant utilizing her one true gift: skill with a sword. Yet taking up the sword meant being ostracized from the clan she supported. She hated it. But there was no other way.

Morrigan sat at the table, noting that someone had bothered to put on tablecloths. The rumor of a minstrel brought out the hopes, and generally disregarded table manners, of the McNabs.

The minstrel entered the hall shortly after Morrigan. Unlike his previous hosts, who granted him the dubious honor of trudging along behind their horses, the minstrel in McNab Hall was treated as an honored guest, sitting just off the high table itself. Men and women crowded around him asking questions and preventing him from eating one of the best meals McNab Hall had seen in a long time. The minstrel’s fine features and easy smile may have played a role in the attraction. Serving wenches refilled his cup, leaning low on the table and spilling out more than just whiskey.

Morrigan considered leaving the spectacle, but the smell of roasting pig proved too tempting even for her to ignore. Cook had risen to new heights in the preparation of the meal. She suspected that there would be meager days ahead, since they were most likely eating all the food in their larder in just one day. Villagers had come in from the surrounding areas, and many freshly scrubbed faces could be seen around the full tables. Morrigan turned to her brother beside her, intending to voice her complaint, but Archie’s eyes were glowing.

“’Tis wondrous, no?” he asked.

“Aye. ’Tis is the best night we e’er had!” replied her younger brother, Andrew, taking a healthy bite of roasted meat. Andrew had not been with them on the raiding party. It was one of the few things Archie and Morrigan agreed upon. They were sending Andrew to university in Edinburgh and would never allow him to join in their thieving ways. Their young brother was to be the salvation of their clan.

The great hall was filled with the unusual smell of delicious food and the utterly foreign sound of laughter. Before Morrigan’s eyes, men brought logs to the fire and coaxed a blaze unseen for years. Memories of long ago flashed through her and formed a lump in her throat. It was different once, when her parents were alive. Music had filled the hall. It was before poverty had made them desperate, before her mother’s death had killed every ounce of joy she had ever known.

Morrigan closed her eyes to dispel the ghosts, but the music continued to play. Opening her eyes, she saw that Jacques stood before the crowd, playing a familiar tune on his lyre. His hands swept skillfully over the instrument, producing a rich melody, pure and true. Never before had she heard anything more beautiful. He was a tall man, well proportioned and trim. Everything about him was smooth, from his fluid movements to his silky voice. The hall silenced to hear him, ensnared in the melodic web he spun.

The music was familiar; soothing ballads of lovers or rousing songs of Scottish victories over the evil English invaders. People cheered at the victories of the Scots, cried to the sorrowful ballads of unrequited love, and danced to the lively tunes. Morrigan listened with quiet enjoyment, appreciating the skill of the minstrel, until unwanted memories marred the beautiful melody like a dissonant chord.

Music sliced through her with sharp pleasure. The minstrel had chosen a painfully familiar tune. The haunting melody he strummed on the lyre touched her deeply, penetrating her carefully wrought barriers. Morrigan clenched her jaw, trying to keep the emotions at bay. She needed to escape before anyone noticed the bewitching effect the music had on her.

Morrigan stood from the table and made her way to the door. No one noticed. Morrigan, the lass who feared neither death nor pain, who never ran from a fight, who never looked at a man but to mock him, turned and fled up the tower stairs.

Morrigan chose the east tower because she wished to be alone. The top floor was dirty and damp, with the faint odor of mold. It was a perfect fit for her mood. One corner was drier than the rest, and Morrigan plunked herself down on a stool, leaning back against the wall and placing her candle on the alcove in the wall beside her. Something squeaked in the moldy rushes. With a healthy curse aimed at men and rodents (one being no better than the other), she put her booted feet up on a crate to avoid having them nibbled by hungry pests.

Taking perverse pleasure in teasing herself, she wondered which of the serving wenches the minstrel would bed tonight. From the way those lasses stared at him with hungry eyes, there might be a fight for him. Perhaps he would simply line them up and pleasure them in turn. Indeed, no doubt that would be how he would spend his night.

Morrigan tried to distract her thoughts from the melody he played, but the painful refrain sang softly in her mind. She fought valiantly against it, but the memory surfaced unbidden and unwanted. She was a little girl, and her father played the lyre as her mother sang. It was the same song, the same sad love story. Tears that threatened spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away in frustration, but two more followed, and soon it was pointless to fight the flood. She missed her mother and her father, dead these twelve years. She missed what might have been. Had her mother been alive, Morrigan would be married with children of her own, not some wretched thief. More tears spilled over the life she could never have.

Morrigan gave herself a slap, wiped away her tears, and kicked a mouse, who had succumbed to the tempting smell of leather, off her boot. She pushed the emotions back down where they belonged, buried somewhere under her spleen. To cheer herself, she engaged in a rousing game of mentally listing her elder brother’s many faults. His deficiencies being many in her estimation, she warmed to her task and successfully chased away any remnants of emotional vulnerability with the comforting chill of cynicism.

So wrapped in her internal musing, she failed to hear footsteps on the stair. The door swung open, and Morrigan vaulted to her feet, drawing her sword. She froze at the sight. In the doorway stood the minstrel, the tip of her sword at his throat.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I am disturbing you. I shall take my leave.” The wide-eyed minstrel took a step away from her blade.

“What are ye doing here, minstrel?” Morrigan growled, but she lowered her sword as he posed no threat. “Are ye lost?”

“It is clear I must be, for I was told this tower was not in use.”

“’Tis not. Why do ye seek it?”

“I wish only for a place to rest before I leave on the morrow.”

“But why here? Did McNab no’ offer ye a place to sleep by the fire? If that dinna suit ye, I am sure ye had no lack of offers for a warm bed.”

The minstrel gave a slight smile and a shrug. “I confess I have received several of the offers most charming, but of some charms a little is more than enough. I found I wished to withdraw to a quiet place for some peace.”

Morrigan snorted. “Tired of being haggled over like the last good mackerel at a fish market?”

The minstrel laughed. “It is true what you say. If you have decided not to run me through, I will indulge my most terrible curiosity and ask why you, too, are in this abandoned place.”

Morrigan sheathed her sword and motioned to the pitch blackness of the open window. “I was enjoying the view.”

“The view?” The minstrel strode to the window and gazed out into the inky darkness. “Ah yes, the view. It is an uncommon sight, no?”

Morrigan’s lips twitched upward into a half smile, half smirk. The more she tried not to smile, the more she failed at the endeavor.

“Banished are you, or running away?” asked the minstrel with a smile.

“Something like that,” said Morrigan.

“Should I take my leave? I saw you leave the great hall and thought perhaps you had an appointment of a charming nature.”

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. He saw her leave? He was observant. Of course he assumed her to be a lad, so his eyes were not all that sharp. “Nay, I came to be alone.”

“My choice of ballads was not to your liking?”

Morrigan shook her head and searched for a safer topic. “I enjoy a livelier tune.”

The minstrel leaned against the wall and put up one foot against the stones. He swung around his lyre and plucked a jaunty tune, singing bawdy lyrics. Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. As long as he kept his musical selections to risqué tavern songs, she was on solid ground.

“Ye are skilled, minstrel. Where did ye learn?”

“The monastery where I was raised,” said Jacques with a gleam in his eye.

“Yer French monasteries must take a more liberal view toward their hymns. I have yet to hear an English monk perform a tune as ye just played.”

“Perhaps I should not have left, but I have found an enlightening repertoire of musical delights in my travels.”

Morrigan sat back down on her stool. “I am sure ye have.” Her eyes ran down the polished wood lyre in his hands. It had clearly seen some travel, but underneath was a beautiful instrument, its tone clear and sure. “I used to play, years ago it was.”

“Did you now? Here, let us see what you can do.” Jacques handed over the instrument with a smile.

Though she wished to touch it, Morrigan accepted it slowly. She had played long ago, back when her father taught her. Back in a time best forgotten.

“I doubt I remember anything.”

Jacques grabbed the crate and sat next to her. “Give it but a try,” he encouraged.

Morrigan plucked each string, the notes clear and pure. It was indeed a fine instrument. Finding the position for her left hand was difficult. She had grown since the last time she held a lyre and the position she remembered was off. The note she played was flat and sour.

“Ugh. I dinna remember.”

“Your fingering is off is all.” Jacques reached around her with his left hand and demonstrated the correct fingering.

Morrigan flushed at the weight of his arm on her shoulders. He was warm and smelled of woodsmoke from standing near the hearth. She stole a glance at the minstrel who leaned close to her. His hair was black and straight, with a tendency to fall over one eye. He was clean shaven, and despite his itinerant lifestyle, he obviously took care of himself. His eyes were a clear, deep blue, so bright she had never seen the like.

“…and those are the main chords,” Jacques finished.

Had he been talking? Heat raced up Morrigan’s spine. What had he said? Something about chords?

“Try the first one,” he prompted.

“Um…” Morrigan took a wild guess and grimaced at the sour tone.

“Here, let me show you again.” The minstrel leaned closer, moving her fingers into the correct positions.

Morrigan ignored the tingling sensation his touch put on her hand and focused on the lyre. She would not make a fool of herself. Plucking the strings, she thrilled in having found the right note. Slowly the memories of her past lessons came back and she played a halting tune. She stopped the moment she realized what she was doing. It was the same damn love song.

“You are doing well,” encouraged Jacques.

Morrigan turned her face toward him. He was close. So close she could see faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes. Her heart did an odd flutter and skipped along merrily. His lips were full and drew her closer. She leaned toward him without thinking.

“Ah, well…” Jacques stood abruptly and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I… you…” He narrowed his eyes and stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”

Morrigan stood and took pity on him. She removed her cap, letting her dark brown hair fall down to her waist.

“ Mademoiselle! ” His eyes went wide, gleaming blue.

Morrigan simply nodded, her lips twitching at his reaction.

The minstrel looked up at the heavens. “ Merci! ” He shook his head and gave her a wry grin. “It becomes clear now to me. No lad could be so pretty.”

Pretty? No man had ever called her pretty, at least none who had the courage to make it known to her. She was the laird’s sister… who dressed as a man and carried a sword. People feared her. There was power in that.

This was a different kind of power. The air crackled around her; she was in control. She took a step toward him. He looked delicious and smelled intoxicating. She was light-headed, like she had hit the whiskey a bit too hard. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, demanding to be set free. She paused, unsure what to do next. Surely this moment called for bold action. But what?

He took a step toward her. His eyes seemed to glow brighter. He reached for the lyre she still held in her hand and took it from her, setting it on the crate. His eyes never left hers.

“Am I to know your name?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Morrigan, McNab’s sister.” She took another step toward him so that their boots touched at the toe. She was slightly surprised to find she had to look up at him. He was a tall man, this minstrel.

“Morrigan,” Jacques repeated.

“I was named after a horrible warrior she-demon. My mother almost died in the birthing.”

“Morrigan the warrior,” he whispered.

They stood close, neither moving. Even the wind that whistled through the tower seemed to hold its breath.

Without thinking, she pounced on the minstrel like a bird of prey on a hapless rabbit. She jumped up on tiptoe and grabbed his face with both hands, planting a firm kiss on his full lips. He stood frozen for a moment, and then started to put his arms around her. Morrigan broke free and stepped back. Her mind spun. Her brain sizzled. What had she just done?

Morrigan bolted for the door, but Jacques caught her hand in the doorway.

“I… I have offended you?” His face was concerned.

“Ye—” Morrigan wanted to give him a scathing rebuke. The best defense against embarrassment and shame was to come out swinging. “I’ve ne’er enjoyed anything more.” Morrigan ran down the stairs wondering why in the name of St. Andrew she had told him the truth. What power did he hold over her?

Beware minstrels.