Page 30 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

Morrigan sat by Dragonet’s bedside, willing him to wake. He was sleeping but was so still and pale, she put her hand on his chest to make sure he still breathed. Morrigan leaned her head against the cool wall and waited.

It took two days to get him back to St. Margaret’s. The cart Morrigan’s men found proved useful, and they traveled without ceasing, changing horses and drivers as they could. By unspoken consensus they all went, Morrigan and her men, the duke and his knights; even Archie, Chaumont, and MacLaren returned with them.

Dragonet lay in the cart and said very little, not complaining, but also not resisting the plan to take him to the convent. His shoulder was not his only injury; he also sported a gash on the back of his thigh where the armor did not cover and a large bump on the head.

Dragonet lost a lot of blood, but Mother Enid was reassuring. He slipped into unconsciousness shortly after he arrived, and woke only once since. Mother Enid reported he had asked for Morrigan in the night, and Morrigan was determined to be at his side the next time he woke.

“Is he awake, mademoiselle ?” asked Chaumont. He strolled into the small cell like he belonged there and leaned his shoulder against the wall in a casual manner.

Morrigan tried to think of a caustic remark, but she was tired, and Chaumont was too agreeable to grouse at for long. “He sleeps still.”

“I was talking to the duke. Dragonet’s defense was impressive.”

“Foolish,” said Morrigan. “He should have left the duke and protected himself. He got hurt because he stood in harm’s way.”

“Ah, I have labored under the false assumption that standing in harm’s way was the job of the soldier. I thank thee for the enlightenment.” Chaumont’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“Piss off.” She lacked the energy to devise an articulate retort.

Chaumont laughed heartily.

Dragonet stirred, and Morrigan immediately grabbed his hand.

“Jacques?” she asked. He mumbled something, and Morrigan leaned in closer.

“What does he say?” asked Chaumont, leaning closer too.

“He says he wants ye to go f—”

“Morrigan!” Dragonet rasped.

She stopped mid-sentence. “Aye?”

“Be nice.”

“’Tis not in my nature.”

“I sincerely disagree.” He squeezed her hand and gave her a weak smile.

“Ye’re hoping I’ll be nice and forget what ye did to me. Dinna think I’ll ever forgive ye for leaving me naked the way ye did!” said Morrigan, forgetting they were not alone.

“Well now!” exclaimed Chaumont. “I do believe my breakfast is calling. I’ll be back to visit with you later, Brother.”

Morrigan winced as he quit the room. “I suppose I could have phrased that better.”

Dragonet clapped his hand over his eyes. “So much for discretion.”

“I’m sorry, but it is all yer fault. Ye had no right to seduce and poison me!”

“I beg you to acquit me of the charge of seduction, but of the rest I am most certainly guilty.”

“Ye bedded me so ye could stick me wi’ my own sleeping potion!”

“I do apologize. I know what I did was unpardonable, but you are alive, and that was my only concern.”

“Well… well, that was right nice of ye.” Morrigan frowned when she said it.

“Anytime.”

“Not a chance.”

“ Bonjour .”

Morrigan swirled around at the sound to see a tall man enter the room. He was dressed in black robes embroidered with gold thread. He must be a priest of some sort, but she had never seen one so finely dressed. He was middle aged and rather handsome, though his carriage and slight sneer revealed a cold heart.

Dragonet started at the sight of the man, his eyes open wide. His already pale skin turned white. Never had Morrigan seen Dragonet afraid, but he was. He struggled to sit.

“Who are you?” Morrigan put her hand on her sword hilt.

The man eyed her with contempt. He spoke French to Dragonet, who had managed to sit up in bed.

“He is the bishop of Troyes,” said Dragonet in a voice that wavered.

The

bishop

of… Dragonet’s father? It was Morrigan’s turn to be astounded. Remembering herself, she bowed low until she could get her expression under control. She must not reveal she knew anything.

The man spoke again, and Dragonet nodded.

“He wishes you to leave us,” Dragonet said. His voice was calm again, but Morrigan knew he was distressed. How did such a man get here?

“He just took a sleeping draft,” said Morrigan, pushing Dragonet back down to his bed. Dragonet glanced at her, a question in his worried eyes. With a quick flick of her hand, she pulled out her hair pin and stabbed his shoulder as she pretended to pull up the covers. “All’s fair,” she whispered.

“He is injured. He needs to sleep,” she said to the bishop.

The bishop did not speak to her, but rather continued to address Dragonet in French. Dragonet answered in French, but his eyes started to droop.

“He should have no visitors; he has taken a sleeping draft,” said Morrigan.

Dragonet said something in French she hoped was a translation. The bishop glared at her and pointed to the door. Morrigan was a bit surprised at how much she felt compelled to comply, but held her ground.

“He canna speak to ye,” said Morrigan. She needed to give Dragonet time to recover from his wounds and time to grow accustomed to the fact that his father the bishop had traveled all the way to Scotland. No good could come from that unexpected visitor. Dragonet needed time.

The bishop spoke louder to Dragonet, but he had already fallen unconscious. He stood over Dragonet, his face a scowl. Morrigan kept her hand on the hilt of her sword, prepared to draw if he displayed the least amount of aggression. Instead he turned to her and raked her with his eyes. He took a step back as if not wanting to sully himself with her presence.

“You will send for me when he wakes,” the bishop said in perfect English.

He swept from the room, and Morrigan collapsed back into the chair. What did that man want?

She put her hand on Dragonet’s chest, taking comfort in the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. What were they to do?

***

Morrigan woke to a slight shake of her shoulder.

“Let us get you some rest,” said Mother Enid.

Morrigan stood and stretched, her muscles, cold and stiff from sleeping in the chair. “How is he?”

“He sleeps. His color has improved, and there are no signs of fever. Rest is the best thing for him. You also need sleep.”

“Nay, I will stay until he wakes.”

Mother Enid shook her head. “You must sleep. Come, let me lean on your arm as we walk. I am not as young as once I was. Sister Lucinda will watch over him tonight.”

Sister Lucinda, a thin lady with the deep lines of many years etched into her face, glided into the room and sat in the chair that Morrigan vacated. Mother Enid took Morrigan’s arm and gently led her to the door. Morrigan tried to think of some argument to stay, but she knew Mother Enid was right. She was tired, and there was nothing she could do watching over a sleeping man.

She allowed Mother Enid to lead her down the long hallway of the convent’s guest house. Their pace was slow, and Mother Enid indeed leaned heavily on her arm. Their journey was not a long one, but at the pace they were traveling it would take some time. Morrigan realized it was an opportunity to ask the good nun a question.

“Mother Enid. What must a person do to be forgiven by God?”

“You are concerned about a particular sin, my child?”

Morrigan sighed. Why could nuns not answer a question directly? “Well… aye.” She glanced back at Dragonet’s room.

“Your young monk is quite handsome, no?”

Morrigan stiffened. “Ye know?”

“He may have said some things in his sleep…” hinted Mother Enid.

“Then ye ken I am a sinner of sinners. I defiled a monk!”

“Ah, to be young again,” said Mother Enid with a wistful smile.

It was not the reaction Morrigan expected. “Ye defiled monks too?”

“Oh no, not monks. Dukes!” Mother Enid gave her a conspiratorial smile.

Morrigan stopped and stared at the elderly nun. “Ye and a duke…?”

“I had the body for it many years ago. Do you doubt me?”

“N-no, I…” Was a nun defending her bad reputation? “Ye’re making my head hurt. Are ye saying what I did wasna a sin?”

“Oh yes, it was quite a sin. Sleeping with the duke was also a sin, and the cost was more than I could bear. I found myself with child and ailing. I cried out to God for mercy, promising to become a nun if I was spared. I lived, as you see, and became a nun.”

Morrigan’s stomach churned. “Are ye saying I must become a nun ? Dammit, I knew there was no hope for me. I thought if I died in battle, I might be spared, but a nun? There’s no way.”

Mother Enid’s lips twitched, and she appeared to be fighting against laughter. Morrigan scowled. What was funny about her damnation?

“You could die in battle a thousand times, and you still would not be spared,” said the good nun.

“Well, that’s lovely. Thank ye.”

“Fortunately, it is not necessary. Christ took our sins and our punishment. All we must do is repent and believe, and we will be forgiven.”

Morrigan turned back to Mother Enid slowly, trying to make sense of her words. “So if all ye have to do is believe, why did ye become a nun?”

This time Mother Enid did laugh. “Oh, Morrigan, you are a delight. Here is your room. Go see Father Patrick tomorrow and say your confession. You’ll be alright. God loves you, my child.”

“Where can I find Father Patrick?”

Five minutes later Morrigan barged into the sleeping cell of Father Patrick. “Get up, old man. I need to say my confession.”

“Wh-what is this outrage?” The sleeping man sat up from his pallet, his eyes squinting against the light of Morrigan’s offending candle. “I will see ye tomorrow at the appointed time.”

“Nay, I have much to confess, probably take all night.”

“Go away, ye heathen!”

“That’s why I’m here!” Morrigan drew a knife. “Now get up and hear my confession, dammit!”