Page 5 of True Highland Spirit (The Highlander #3)

“What? How?” Morrigan sputtered.

“I am at your service.” The minstrel smiled as if he had offered to pick up a dropped handkerchief.

Morrigan dropped her end of the beast, causing the back end to be jerked from his hands. “I left ye tied to a tree. How are ye here?”

“Yes, my apologies for causing you any unwanted surprise. But see you?” He drew back his sleeve and revealed a sheath for a knife. “I could not remain comfortable while a lady was in need.”

“I am no lady.” Morrigan spat on the ground for emphasis. “Ye’re free now. Ye can go and tell everyone I tried to kill the bishop.”

“Ah, but then I would have to say why I, too, was in the garden, and I do not know what my reason might be.”

“Why are ye still here? Ye could run away.”

The minstrel gave a quick smile that did not reach his eyes. “Yes, perhaps I should go as you say. But then, I am not sure if the bishop is friend or foe. Can you say why you pointed at him the loaded crossbow?”

“I do not know what my reason might be,” Morrigan repeated.

They looked at each other in the dim light of the moon. Morrigan considered drawing her sword or reaching for her crossbow, but her heart was not in it. Besides, she was not sure if she could best him, a chilling thought indeed.

“What will you do with it?” Jacques asked.

“Wi’ what?”

“The deer.”

“Eat it.” Morrigan’s stomach grumbled with emphasis. It had been a long while since she had eaten meat. Too long.

The minstrel began picking up pieces of wood and small sticks.

“What are ye doing?” asked Morrigan.

“Me, I like my meat cooked. And you?”

By unspoken consensus, Jacques started a fire while Morrigan prepared the meal. It was shoddy work at best, but she was able to carve out some steaks and soon they were both holding meat sizzling on sticks over the fire.

The dancing firelight and the welcoming smell of roasting meat enticed Morrigan to relax. She struggled to stay on guard. She did not know the man beside her. She clearly had underestimated his abilities. She did not attempt to disarm him, nor did he ask for the return of his sword. It was a tentative peace at best, forged over the prospect of a good meal. But something needed to be done. A quick glance at his sword in the firelight revealed intricate metalwork and a jeweled scabbard. Why would a minstrel carry such a sword?

“Who are ye?” she demanded. “Ye are not a traveling minstrel, are ye?”

The man shook his head. “I am Sir Dragonet, at your service.”

“A French knight ?”

“I serve the Duke of Argitaine.”

“But why are ye here? And why disguise yerself as a minstrel? And why…” Morrigan broke off. She was going to ask about what happened in the tower, but she could not, would not speak of it.

The French knight sighed. “I most humbly ask your pardon for the deception. The Duke of Argitaine plans to make war on the English with the help of the Scots. The English have won much in France. We seek to attack them along their northern border—”

“And have the English make war against the Scots instead,” Morrigan added, her eyes narrowing.

“And take the fight to the English,” Dragonet continued. “The duke must know those clans who will support him and those who would betray, so he sent minstrels, such as myself, to determine without revealing themselves, if it might please the clan to join the campaign.”

“Ye’re a spy.”

Dragonet ignored her. “By the singing of different ballads, even those songs which were critical of England, I could judge how it was received and discover their true feelings toward England.”

“And you also took time to talk to the natives, earn their trust, and find out what information ye could.” Morrigan flushed hot. The stick of meat in her hands drooped toward the flames, causing the fat to spit and pop.

Sir Dragonet avoided her eye and instead carefully turned his slab of meat on the stick. “Yes, it is as you say.”

“So everything ye said and did was a lie.” Morrigan’s voice was cold.

The knight’s head bowed slightly, as if her words had stung him. “I have deceived people, yes. But to you, Lady Morrigan, my words and actions have been true.”

Morrigan sputtered and nearly lost her dinner to the flames. “Look at me, ye daft French knight. I am no lady! I have worked and fought and stole like a man ever since I first picked up a blade. Dinna mistake me for something I’m not. I have faults indeed, but at least I have never pretended to be someone I’m not.”

Morrigan’s words spilled out like a bubbling pot boiling over. She could tolerate people responding to her with rejection and fear. What she could not abide was a French knight with a polished manner and sweet words that bordered on… kindness.

The knight became fascinated with his meal, inspecting his roasting job, blowing on it, and taking a bite. The flickering light from the campfire cast him in a warm hue. He was handsome. Strikingly so. A day’s stubble showed on his face, a contrast to his soft, full lips. He paused for a moment in his eating, staring into the fire, his black hair falling over one eye.

“Your roast, you like it well done?”

Her meat was on fire. “Oh!” She jerked it out of the flames but the stick was also ablaze. Her sudden movement caused the stick to break and her roast to fall into the fire. “Damn!” Morrigan scrambled up to find a new stick, something to rescue her meal.

In a flash, Dragonet stood and while she bent over to grab another stick, he deftly drew his own sword, belted at her side. He skewered the flaming meat with his sword, blew out the flames, and held it out to her.

“It is edible, I believe.” Dragonet stood before her, pointing his sword at her heart.

Morrigan’s gaze traveled down the sword to the man holding it. A single lunge would kill her. She waited, her eyes focused on his.

“Or you could have mine, if you prefer.” Somehow he managed to say it with sincerity, not sarcasm.

With a slow, fluid movement Morrigan drew her knife and removed the meat. Instantly, he lowered the sword and wiped it clean on a handkerchief.

“What is it ye want from me?” Morrigan asked. No one showed mercy without wanting something in return.

The French knight sat back down, placed his sword on his far side, picked up his own meal, and began eating again. Morrigan gave up and sat a few feet away, taking on the challenge of eating her own charred meal. Their silence was only broken by the occasional pop from the fire, bursting orange sparks into the sky.

“Did he hurt you?” Dragonet asked softly.

“What do ye speak of?”

“The bishop. Would you tell me why you wish to kill him?”

Morrigan shook her head. She could not speak of it.

“If I can be of service to you, I will help you as I am able.”

“Why would ye care?”

Dragonet finished his meal and tossed the stick into the waning flames. “The bishop, we must know if he can be trusted. Many lives hang in the balance. If he should betray us to the English…” Dragonet let his words hang a moment before continuing. “If you know a reason why he should not be trusted, I am eager in hearing you.”

“Is that what ye were doing in the bushes? Spying on him?”

“But of course. Though if called to testify, I am compelled to warn you, I will disavow all recollection of this conversation.”

“’Tis fair.” Morrigan nodded. “I can speak no ill word against the bishop. In truth I have ne’er met him.”

“I beg you would forgive my curiosity, but why hold a crossbow to his back?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I had my reasons.”

“You decided to spare him?”

Morrigan frowned, but said nothing.

Dragonet slid closer to her. “Please tell me your reasons. You are not one to do anything without cause.”

“How would ye ken anything about me? Maybe I simply enjoy watching a man die.”

“If such was the case, you should have opened your eyes while you pointed the crossbow. No, you are no murderer. You must have a reason most desperate.”

“My reasons are my own.”

“Is it related to your brother being with the bishop?”

Morrigan’s eyes flew open before she could check her response.

“You were not aware?” The French knight regarded her carefully.

It was pointless to lie. “Nay.” Her brother no doubt received the same message—was he trying to kill the bishop too? Morrigan considered her words. “What were the circumstances of ye seeing him wi’ the bishop.”

“They appeared to be breaking bread together.”

Morrigan applied herself once more to her charcoal dinner. It would never do to look too interested. One thing for certain was she needed to talk to Archie before trying to kill the bishop again. A sense of relief flooded Morrigan, a reprieve from the heavy burden she had dragged for the past month. The man beside her was the one loose end. She glanced sideways at the French knight. In the orange light of the fire he seemed to softly glow.

What was she to do with such a man?

“Will ye tell yer duke or anyone what ye saw o’ me tonight?” Morrigan asked the knight beside her without giving him a glance. She instead focused on finding a bite of meat that was not charred, as if her dinner was her foremost concern.

“If I wished to sound the alarm, I would have done so the moment I saw you.”

“Why dinna ye call out?”

“I also was in the bushes.”

Morrigan nodded. “Ye dinna wish to get yerself caught.”

“And…” Dragonet paused, picking up another stick and poking at the fire. “And I recognized you.”

A strange sensation flooded through Morrigan. She shook it off. “Why should that matter?”

Dragonet shrugged. “It did.” He poked another burning log. “It does.”

Morrigan was flooded again with that rush of something warm and tingly. She decided it must be anger. With every word he reminded her of their kiss in the tower. Was he trying to manipulate her into talking more freely? Was he trying to suggest his emotions had been engaged after a brief encounter? It was nothing but lies.

“Dinna try to sweet-talk me, I’ll have none o’ it,” growled Morrigan. “Save yer honey-dipped, forked tongue for someone more gullible. Yer latest conquest may swoon at yer feet, but I assure ye I am no’ so easily fooled.”

Dragonet did not look up from his fascinating work of randomly poking at the fire, but he appeared to decrease somewhat in size, as if her words had deflated him. “I beg your pardon, my lady, if my words give offense.”

“I am no lady!” Morrigan’s voice raised, her exasperation growing. He looked up at her, his eyes glinting in the firelight. She sputtered over her words. “Ye dinna ken who I am.” She turned back to the fire. “Ye can ne’er ken what hides in the heart o’ another. What secrets they may conceal.”

The knight beside her took a sharp breath but said nothing. The leaves around them rustled in the unseen wind, causing the fire to heighten and pop flaming sparks into the air. She was too close to him, both of them sitting beside each other on the ground by the fire. She should pull away, but made no effort to move.

“You speak the truth.” Dragonet’s words finally broke the silence. “You never know the deceit that poisons the heart of man.” His head was bowed toward the fire, his voice soft and low.

His words tugged at her like unshed tears. She shifted her position and her hand brushed against his. She was surprised at the contact with his warm hand, but did not move away. His dark eyes met hers. His lips parted with an unspoken question.

“I…” Morrigan bit her lip trying to think of some explanation. “Speaking o’ deceit, show me the knife ye conceal.”

He lifted his hand into hers and slowly rolled back his sleeve, revealing a small harness strapped to his wrist. His eyes never left hers, the question in them remaining.

Morrigan swallowed on a dry throat. With both hands, she explored the harness he wore and the blade it concealed.

“I have ne’er seen the like. Did ye make it yerself?” Morrigan tried to focus on the knife, but her hands ran over the leather harness, the steel and leather hilt, his warm hand with well-worn calluses on his palm and fingers. The marks of a swordsman.

“Y-yes.” The French knight’s voice wavered. His eyes were wide and black in the dim light.

“’Tis well done,” she said softly. “But how do ye draw it?”

With a quick flick of his wrist the knife was in his hand.

Morrigan froze. The blade was pointed toward her. With cold insight she realized she had gotten too close. Her life may be the cost.

“Do ye mean to kill me, knight?” Morrigan quietly placed her hand on her sword hilt.

Dragonet frowned and shook his head, sheathing the knife with another flick. “Never would I harm you.”

“But I saw ye in the courtyard o’ the bishop. I could tell someone what I saw.”

“Who would you tell? And if you did, I would deny it. A thousand pardons, my lady, but I doubt they would take your word over mine.”

Morrigan flinched at the truth of his words. “’Tis the first time my bad reputation e’er kept me alive.”

“No harm will come to you at my hand, Lady Morrigan.” Dragonet’s eyes pierced into hers. He spoke the words like a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”

At the core of her being, Morrigan knew his words to be true. With cold dread she realized she trusted him, and trust was a dangerous emotion. She pushed it away like refuse and mentally scrambled for the guarded suspicion that kept her alive. “Do ye carry a blade on the other wrist as well?”

“ Oui .” He held out his other hand, but he made no effort to roll back the sleeve, so she slowly rolled the fabric of his sleeve up, revealing the smooth, leather harness beneath. She ran her hands down the leather harness, admiring much more than the concealed knife.

Morrigan turned his hand over in the guise of inspecting the straps, but really to put her hand in his. His warm hand closed around her fingers gently, a friendly gesture and more. The other hand also held the smooth calluses of a swordsman. He used both hands in battle. What else could he do with those hands?

Desire swept through her, hot and powerful. All that she denied herself pounded through her veins. She chose the life of a warrior to help her clan, but the sweet pleasures of a mate, a husband, these she had forsaken. She fought against the powerful emotion with little success. She should not feel desire toward anyone, especially not some French minstrel, spy, knight… hell, she did not even know who he was.

Morrigan unstrapped the leather buckles, taking the dagger from his wrist. It was a nice piece, a good weight in her hand. On the handle of the dagger was a black circle with a white cross—a crest of some sort?

“Ye should no’ let a lady disarm ye.” She pointed the blade at his chest only a few inches away.

“But you assured me you were no lady.” His voice was low and smooth. In one quick movement he grabbed her wrist and struck the blade into his own chest.

Morrigan cried out and pulled back the blade, surprised and shocked by the movement. He had stabbed himself in the chest, yet he appeared uninjured. Her fingers flew to his chest, exploring the smooth, hard surface. Too hard. She slipped a hand down his shirt.

“Leather armor,” said Morrigan shaking her head. Who was he? “Ye came dressed for battle?”

Dragonet shrugged. “It is habit, I suppose.”

“Do ye always dress this way? Were ye armed like this when we…”

“Yes.” The answer was simple but the implications were large. He had held her, kissed her, with knives strapped to each wrist. He could have killed her.

“Are ye disarmed now?”

“No.” A faint smile crept onto his face. “Are you?”

She tried to resist returning the smile and failed. “Nay.”

“Let us start with the obvious.” Dragonet assessed her person carefully, causing a wave of heat wherever he cast his eye. “You hold my knife in your hand, you have your table knife, the dagger you took from me earlier, a short sword by your side, and a crossbow within reach.” He did a double take at the crossbow and raised his eyebrows. “When did you reload it? I amend myself. It is a loaded crossbow by your side.”

Morrigan could not help but smile. “And ye, sir knight, have a sword by yer side, yer table knife, another knife strapped to yer wrist, and I would guess yet another in yer boot.”

“But of course.” Dragonet pulled a long, thin knife from his boot and tossed it in front of the fire.

“A misericorde , mercy giver.” Morrigan was impressed. The blade could slip through the gaps in a man’s armor to deliver the fatal blow.

“I would surmise it is the same for you?” said Dragonet.

Morrigan nodded and tossed the knife from her boot beside his, her blade a blunt instrument compared to his elegant weapon.

“And now, my lady, have you more weapons upon you?”

Morrigan nodded with a sly smile. They played an amusing game, one she knew she should not play, which made it all the more appealing.

“Ah, then let me take a guess. More knives?” Dragonet asked.

Morrigan shook her head.

Dragonet searched her with his eyes and shook his head. “Without a more thorough search of your person, I shall not discover your secrets.”

Morrigan smiled and pulled out a small ax that was strapped to her outer thigh and concealed under her long tunic. She threw it beside the knives. “And ye, sir knight. Do I ken all yer secrets?”

Dragonet shook his head, the reflected flames of the fire dancing in his eyes. “I invite you to discover them as you may.”

Morrigan looked him over but no additional weapons were in sight. Her pulse raced, and she wondered if she had the courage to act out the dreams that had plagued her since meeting her deceptive minstrel. She put her hand to his chest. She dared.

Morrigan ran her hands over his chest and frowned. Slowly pulling up his tunic, she found what she was looking for. Strapped to his leather armor in front and along the sides were a series of small throwing knives. These served a dual purpose of being a weapon and also additional steel plates to enhance his armor. She slowly pulled each one out, throwing them onto the growing pile of weapons.

When she finished she pushed him softly to the ground. He lay on his back without resistance, but she could see he caught his breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his armor.

Above him, Morrigan was in control. She moved her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, making a show of searching for more weapons, but in truth delighting in the feel of him. He was a tall, lithe man, but his muscles were pronounced and solid.

“And now?” asked Morrigan. “Have I disarmed ye?”

Dragonet closed his eyes and shook his head no.

Morrigan’s pulse quickened further, and she ran her hands down the outside of his far thigh. She found nothing, so she moved on to the thigh next to her, trying to keep her hands from trembling. Under his tunic, strapped to his outer thigh, was a rondel dagger. She added it to the pile.

He never moved, but his body drew her to him. She lay on her side beside him, unable to pull away. Without opening his eyes he wrapped one arm around her, and she snuggled closer, laying her head on his shoulder. It was wonderful and oh, so wrong. The air around them crackled with danger.

“And now do I ken all yer secrets?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

“No. But you have all my weapons.” He reached his other arm around her. “And have I disarmed… what is this?” He pulled a small war hammer attached to her belt at her back. He tossed it on the pile with a flick of his hand. “In all my travels I have never met anyone like you, Lady Morrigan. And now, have I discovered all your weapons?”

“Nay.”

Dragonet gave a soft growl and ran his hands over her back and neck and down both arms, sending happy shivers down her spine.

“I fear searching your person further,” said Dragonet with a slow smile. “For if I give offense, you may use this concealed weapon against me.”

Morrigan reached up and unwound the leather rope with two wooden ends that bound her hair. Her long brown hair spilled over him, and she showed him what was in her hand.

“A garotte ! To strangle impertinent men no doubt. Truth, but you do live up to your namesake.”

Morrigan stiffened. She was not sure being called a demon warrior fell in the category of a compliment.

“A beautiful warrior.” He amended, running his fingers through her hair, softly massaging her head and neck.

The sensations he produced were wickedly arousing. She wanted him. Right there on the forest floor. She knew she should not be anywhere near him, but her rational brain faded into irrelevance and raw desire took hold. She ran her hand over his chest, wishing she could feel more than the hardened leather of his armor.

She pressed herself closer until her cheek rested against his, the rough stubble stinging her skin. Turning her head, her lips touched his, soft and warm. He held her closer, and she kissed him, unsure at first, then bolder and harder. He pressed her to him, one arm around her waist, his other hand in her hair. Her world spun, and she broke the kiss, gulping the cool moist air.

“What is this?” Dragonet asked, finding something in her thick hair.

“No!” said Morrigan, but it was too late. He had found her hair pin and pulled out the small concealed dagger from its sheath. “Careful!”

“Is it poison?” he asked, holding the tiny blade no bigger than a pin.

Morrigan sat up and gingerly took the small dagger from him, replacing it into her larger hair ornament where it belonged. It was one weapon she had not wished to reveal. What was she doing kissing him?

“’Tis a powerful sleeping draft,” she explained. “The hair clasp belonged to my mother. She said it had saved her life once and told me to wear it always.” She looked away from him; she must break the spell.

The fire before them waned into embers. Despite being hot a moment ago, the night air cut the chill through to her bones. Dragonet sat up beside her. Glancing over at him she saw a stranger once more. Reason had taken hold.

“I should go see to my brother,” said Morrigan, her voice flat. It was hardly her first choice of how to spend her evening.

Dragonet took a deep breath and let it out again. “Then all that remains is to wish you a good evening, Lady Morrigan, and thank you for not killing me.”

“Dinna mention it. In truth,” said Morrigan, busying herself by collecting her weapons and strapping them back into place, “I think it would be best if we pretended this night never happened.”

“As you wish, my lady,” said Dragonet without looking at her. He, too, collected his knives and replaced them with a deft hand.

Dragonet was first to his feet. He collected his sword and cloak, and bowed her a farewell.

“Wait,” said Morrigan scrambling to stand up. “Here is yer wrist knife.”

“Keep it,” said Sir Dragonet and disappeared into the darkness.