True Highland Spirit (19 page)

One thing for sure, she was not going to make a fool out of herself again. She would not be asking for more kisses, only to be rebuffed. If he was interested in her, he was going to have to prove it.

Morrigan put her hand on the door latch but did not enter. She never ran from battle, but these feelings threatened to hurt her in ways she had no way to treat. In truth, her stomach was doing more unhappy flips standing outside the solar than when preparing for battle. At least in war she knew what to expect. This was uncharted territory.

“Ye going to open that door? This tray is getting mighty heavy.”

Morrigan spun around to find Alys holding a large tray laden with breakfast.

“Aye, sorry,” mumbled Morrigan, opening the door and helping her sister-in-law with the tray.

Dragonet was indeed in the room, standing by the window. He bowed when the ladies entered, a practiced art, smooth and graceful. He wore a linen shirt under a linen surcoat of bright blue with patterns embroidered along the edges with yellow thread. Under that he wore snug-fitting woolen hose and black leather boots. His clothes fit him well, hugging his tall, trim frame.

Morrigan tripped over the hem of her gown and fell to the floor in an ungraceful heap. Dragonet leapt to her side and caught the tray before it fell, helping Alys to put it on the table.

“My sir, ye are quick and I thank ye. Well now, some o’ the cider has spilled, but that is all.” Alys bustled around the table setting places and sopping up the mess.

“Are you hurt?” Dragonet asked Morrigan, who was sitting on the floor.

Morrigan was hoping she would open her eyes and find she had not fallen to the floor like a drunken whore at the feet of the man who made her heart skip a beat. Or perhaps she would die of mortification and thus be spared this awkward moment. She opened her eyes, but she was still on the floor, Dragonet offering a hand to help her up. She was not even wearing her sword to fall on.

Morrigan sighed and accepted his offered hand. He helped her to her feet with a smile. She felt tingly at his touch and grimaced in return. How could she recover her dignity after that shocking display?

“Yer hands are cold,” Morrigan muttered. “Ye should put on yer woolens.”

“I fear I lack a proper wardrobe. In France the climate is much more temperate.”

“Och, ye poor dear,” cried Alys, grasping both his hands. “Ye are near froze to death.” She felt up his arms and reached up to cup his face. Morrigan sat at the table, trying not to be jealous of her sister. “Ye need a proper plaid, ye do. ’Tis the least we can do.” Alys hustled out of the room, leaving Morrigan and Dragonet at the table.

“I did not mean to suggest she should clothe me,” said Dragonet, apologetically.

Morrigan shrugged. “Alys lives to dress the unsuspecting and needful. She will be greatly disappointed if ye refuse her.”

“Then I shall accept with grace. I am guessing you also were the recipient of her attentions this morning.”

Morrigan looked down at her red woolen kirtle. “Aye. She put my regular clothes in the wash. It was this or run around in my chemise.”

“A wise choice.” Dragonet broke a round loaf of bread in half and offered her some. Morrigan accepted, wondering about its meaning. Then she wondered at what point she had become a simpering lass, looking for deeper meaning in every action of a man. She of all people should know most of men’s actions had no deeper meaning whatsoever. Morrigan focused back on her porridge. Nothing could squelch amour like a bowl of oats.

“Here now, this will keep ye warm, I warrant.” Alys bustled back into the solar and wrapped one of Archie’s plaids, a large blanket made of thick woven wool, around Dragonet and pinned it at the shoulder. It hung around him like a cloak of red and black and green plaid.

Alys sat down to her breakfast and ate fast, all the while looking cheerfully at both Morrigan and Dragonet. Morrigan, being accustomed to Alys’s usual cheerful self, could plainly see Alys was more than just happy, she was positively giddy, in a calculating sort of way.

“Well now, much to do today. May I take the tray back down to the kitchen?” Alys stood and took the tray with her. Morrigan was only half finished with her porridge but let it go.

“Morrigan dear, I know ye be verra busy today, but could ye stay and keep Sir Dragonet company? I have much to do today, what wi’ it being the eighth day of Christmas and the first day of the New Year. The feast must be prepared, ye ken. I hope it is no’ too much of an imposition, but we owe Sir Dragonet so much, what wi’ his saving our dear Andrew’s life.”

Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. “As ye wish.” It was nicely played. Alys had given neither of them the option of escaping each other’s company.

“Verra good. I will send for ye when the midday meal is ready, but I fear I may no’ be able to see ye at all this morning, for I am quite overcome wi’ work.”

Morrigan stood and called her bluff. “Perhaps I should help ye if ye are so burdened.”

“Och, nay! Stay and keep our guest company. It would set my heart at ease. Good morn to ye sir.” Alys spun out the door of the solar with the large tray on her shoulder and a dazzling smile on her lips.

Morrigan turned back to Dragonet and inhaled sharply, unprepared for the sudden wave of desire that rushed through her. If she thought he was handsome before, he was doubly so with her brother’s plaid pinned at his shoulder. He looked better in plaid than any clansman she knew. He wore the colors like he belonged there. Like he belonged to her.

“I hope I am not keeping you from your duties,” said Dragonet.

Morrigan shook her head, her mouth too dry to speak.

“This is a pleasant room.”

Morrigan glanced around. It was nothing more than a simple room.

Dragonet looked around too, as if searching for something to break the awkward silence. “You must get quite a bit of snow in the winter.”

Morrigan nodded. She had become mute. She struggled for something to say to fill the gaping maw of silence, but her brain disappointed her by only thinking of how attractive his eyes were and how kissable were his full lips. Since both of these topics were exactly the type of conversation she was determined to avoid, she struggled to find safe ground. What did a lass talk about with a lad? Having not been a lass very long, she had no answer, and the dreadful silence continued.

Morrigan strained to think of something intelligent to say. Had wearing a gown made her soft in the head? What did practitioners of polite conversation say? Having never asked herself that question, she struggled with the answer. She must say something!

“How is yer mother?” Morrigan asked, relieved to have said anything. There! That was polite.

“Deceased,” said Dragonet.

Morrigan slumped into a chair by the fire. She might as well go back to bed. Nothing she could say could recover from that.

“Backgammon or chess?” asked Dragonet, motioning toward two boxes on a side table.

“I despise backgammon.”

“Chess it is! Do you enjoy playing?” asked Dragonet, dragging the side table to where Morrigan sat by the fire. The table had a chessboard pattern worked into squares of stained wood. Dragonet began putting the pieces onto the board.

“I play rarely.”

“Good, then we should be evenly matched.”

“Perhaps then we should play for stakes?”

Dragonet paused and met her eyes.

“I may not play often,” explained Morrigan, a smile playing on her lips, “but I play verra well.”

“As you wish,” said Dragonet slowly. “I have but little coin on me.”

“Nay, I’ll no’ take yer money. What else could we play for?”

Dragonet stared at her for a moment in silence, his face impassive. “Truth.”

“Truth?”

“Whoever wins, the other must answer truthfully any question they pose. I would like to get to know you better.”

“Playing for the truth. An interesting choice. I agree to yer stakes, though I confess I thought ye’d ask for something a little less academic, like articles of clothing.”

Dragonet blinked. “Is that an option?”

Morrigan scrunched up her nose. “’Tis a cold day, we best not.”

Dragonet sat in the chair opposite hers. “I confess I am quite warm now.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Very, very warm.”

“Need to go roll in the snow?”

“You are wicked when you jest, my lady.”

“I am wicked all the time.”

Morrigan turned her attention to the game, at least that is what she tried to do. In truth she was too busy trying to determine whether she would rather win or lose to put much effort into the game. What question would he ask her? What question would she ask him? She knew what she wanted to know, but could she ask it directly?

Morrigan played poorly, her mind otherwise engaged. Dragonet also appeared to be distracted or a poor player.

“Ye were no’ fibbing. Ye do play poorly,” said Morrigan. “Check.”

“I must be distracted by my worthy opponent.” Dragonet moved his king out of check.

Distracted? What did that mean? Morrigan moved a piece at random.

“Checkmate,” said Dragonet.

Morrigan blinked at the board. She did not see that coming, although she barely noted the board the entire game. Her heart beat a little faster. What would his question be? Dragonet leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips.

“Well? Do ye have a question for me?” asked Morrigan, more excited about his question than she had been about the game.

“Why did you start dressing like a man and going raiding with your brother?”

Morrigan let out a great whoosh of air as if she had been punched in the gut. “What makes ye think I was a raider?”

“I was traveling with the hunting party you attacked, do you not remember? You have surprised me a few times, I confess, but I am not so blind I did not recognize my captors as my host.”

“I knew Archie was a fool to bring ye back here,” muttered Morrigan.

“I was glad to be here.”

Morrigan scowled and said nothing.

“Come now, it is the time for the truth. We made a wager. Your honor is at stake, my lady.”

“Little value in that.” Morrigan took a deep breath. How to begin? “I took up a wooden sword for play as a child. I only had the two brothers, ye ken, so if I wanted to play, I had to join their games. At first it was all a jest, but I enjoyed the exercise and found I was good at it. Verra good. My mother kept me in hand until she died in my tenth year.”

Morrigan shifted in her chair. She did not speak of her mother often. “My father passed also, so a few years later Archie tried to do right by me and arranged a marriage for me to a rich landowner. A McGregor. He came to claim his bride, but when I saw him…” Morrigan gestured in the air. “He was old and fat and had a bushy moustache that collected food when he ate. I doubt he ever cleaned it.”

“Dreadful,” commented Dragonet.

“Aye, he was. He stood in the great hall, falling down drunk, and boasted how I was going to have such a big shock on our wedding night because he was such a great man. He then offered to expose his greatness to one of the serving wenches so she could be the judge of his manliness.”

Dragonet frowned. “Your brother, what did he do?”

Morrigan shrugged. “I dinna give him time to figure it out. I got my sword, a real one mind ye, and charged the fat bastard, chasing him out o’ the castle. I yelled that my sword was even bigger than his, and he would get a big shock on our wedding night because I would make sure he would no’ live to see the morn.”

Dragonet pressed his lips together in a vain attempt not to laugh.

“Ye find my poor manners amusing.”

Dragonet chuckled. “Poor manners. I suppose that is one way to describe it. Good for you. If more women were like you, the men would be better behaved.”

“If more women were like me, there would be fewer men to trouble with.”

Dragonet laughed again. “Do continue, what happened next?”

“McGregor decided he would not like so much to marry me. The wedding was canceled and the story spread. Even ten years later there is no’ a man from here to England who would take a chance on marriage wi’ me.”

The smile faded from Dragonet’s face. “I see.”

“Archie was disappointed. He ne’er chastised me for what I had done, but he did explain that the clan was in a bad situation. We were verra poor, and it was going to be a hungry winter. My marriage would have helped the clan. It was my duty to wed him.”

“No.” Dragonet shook his head.

“Aye, it was. Many a lass finds herself married at twelve to a man she would no’ choose, but she does it. It was my duty to marry that bastard and I should have done so. But…” Morrigan sat back in her chair. It was tiring telling the tale. She had never spoken about it to anyone. There had never been a need, everyone knew what she was and what she had done.

“I was determined to pay back my clan for shirking my responsibility, so I dressed as a lad, strapped on a sword, and…” Morrigan pressed her lips together trying to avoid a smile. “I snuck onto the McGregors’ land and stole fifty head o’ sheep.”