True Highland Spirit (34 page)

“Starve them!” All eyes turned to Morrigan. “Dinna try to stop them from coming into Scotland. Let them come, but take every scrap o’ food, every cow, pig, and sheep, and give them naught to eat. Let them try to live off the land wi’ that many mouths to feed. Take all the wood, burn the houses if you must, but leave them no way to find fuel either. I like my Englishmen cold and hungry.”

There were loud, unpleasant grumblings as the assembled crowd considered the idea.

“I like it,” pronounced MacLaren, much to the surprise of Dragonet and many in the room. “An army travels on its stomach. Without food they canna go far. But we need time to get all the food and people, out o’ harm’s way. King Edward winna take kindly to being inconvenienced.”

“Send a message saying we wish to concede,” said Morrigan. “While one of us negotiates the surrender, the rest scourge the land.”

“Nay!” Many voices raised together in protest. “’Tis no’ honorable!”

“Do you want your honor, or is it your freedom you wish to retain?” asked Dragonet. “Sometimes, you need to consider the needs of the whole, not simply your own personal honor.” He looked at the duke when he spoke. The duke gave him a faint smile in return. Dragonet glanced across the room, and Morrigan gave him the smallest of nods in recognition.

“I will go,” stated Douglas. “I will keep King Edward busy negotiating terms, then break it off and run. Much as it pains me, ye need to destroy everything in his path. Let us give him as poor a reception as we are able.”

The men continued to talk about plans and strategies, and Dragonet continued to watch Morrigan. She took a keen interest in the proceedings and never again looked at him. Even when someone next to him spoke, she still averted her eyes. It took a lot of effort to give him absolutely no notice.

At last the meeting appeared to break up. Morrigan stomped from the tent and he followed. Why, he could not rightly say. She was a bright flame, and he was but a lowly moth.

Morrigan led him to a deserted area between some buildings and turned to face him. “What do ye want?” she demanded, her hands on her hips.

“Do you plan to march with the Scots against the English?”

“Aye, o’ course.”

“But… Andrew.”

“I have ne’er been good at tending the sick. I will speak to my messenger when he returns tomorrow to ensure the medicine was delivered and that Andrew is improving.”

“I suppose it would be fruitless to beg you to stay home and not march out to war.”

“Quite pointless.”

“Go home, Morrigan. I beg your pardon, but I will reveal you if I must. I need to know you are safe.”

Morrigan crossed her arms over her chest. “Go ahead, tell whoever ye wish. MacLaren already knows it. They will no’ be sending me and my men away this time, not when they are desperate for troops. Besides, what is safe about returning to the Highlands? If the English take control o’ Scotland, do ye think we would no’ suffer? Would ye save me from the quick death of the sword to condemn me to the long suffering o’ starvation?”

Dragonet groaned and knew he had lost. “You will be the death of me, you.”

“I am sorry to hear it. Do ye wish to say good-bye again?” Morrigan gave him a sly smile.

“No, I shall see you again. I… I will be joining the Duke of Argitaine in the fight against the English.”

“Ye will?”

He
was?
“Yes.” Having come to that conclusion a few seconds before, Dragonet reviewed it and found it to his liking.

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Ye are no’ going simply because I am, are ye?”

Yes
. Dragonet cleared his throat. “It is a matter of honor.” It was a true statement. He could not allow the duke to return to the fight, let alone Morrigan, without doing his best to protect them both.

Morrigan stepped easily toward him, but the voices of slightly inebriated men got louder until two stumbled past them between the tents.

“This is no’ good-bye,” said Morrigan, and was gone.

***

Morrigan slipped into his tent unseen. It was a poor choice, but she had to know. She had questions she must ask. She found him bent over a map and a candle.

“I wish to ask ye something.”

Laird MacLaren stood up, his hand on his long knife. He stilled and glared at her, his mouth curling in disgust. “What are ye about, McNab?”

“Ye spent many years in France, aye?

“Aye. How does that concern ye?”

“I wish for ye to translate something somebody said to me.” She had to know what Dragonet had said to her. Was he staying in the fight because of her? What were his true feelings? It could make no difference… but she must know.

MacLaren raised an eyebrow. “Why me?”

“I believe ye would tell me the truth. Our clans may no’ be on friendly terms but I ken ye to be an honorable man. Ye also dinna care to protect me from unpleasant news if it is so.”

MacLaren gave a curt nod and Morrigan interpreted it as permission to proceed.

“What does ‘ma sherry’ mean?”

The corners of MacLaren’s mouth twitched up. “‘
Ma
chérie
’ is ‘my dear.’”

“What about ‘moan pateet tray shur’?

MacLaren winced. “Yer French is as lacking as yer choice in clothing. Is this the best yer brother can clothe ye?”

Morrigan folded her arms across her chest as if to protect herself from view. “I dinna come for fashion advice. Translation, please.”

“‘
Mon petit trésor
’ is ‘my little treasure.’ Do ye have an admirer?”

Morrigan pretended not to hear him, though her cheeks burned in evidence to the contrary. Despite her embarrassment she was determined to know what Dragonet had said to her that night. The night they made love. What were his true emotions? Had it been survival or something more? And why would he join the war against the English? What could he possibly hope to gain? She must know.

“What is ‘Shuh ta dore. Shuh tem’?

“‘I adore ye. I love ye.’”

Morrigan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Nay, no’ me. That’s what ‘
Je
t’adore. Je t’aime
’ means. Who is speaking this to ye?”

Morrigan shook her head to reject the question. Dragonet said he loved her?
Love?

“If Chaumont has said that to ye, I swear I will—”

“Nay, ’twas no’ Chaumont. He is in love wi’ his wife. Can ye no’ see that?”

MacLaren scowled. “He better be.”

“What does ‘shuhn puh pah veevr sohn twah’ mean?”

MacLaren frowned, his eyebrows knit together in a fierce scowl. “‘
Je ne peux pas vivre sans toi
’?”

“Aye.” Morrigan waited, her hands clenched, her breath stilled. What had Dragonet revealed in the throes of passion?

“Words men utter in a war camp where women are scarce should ne’er be trusted,” said MacLaren.

“Aye, I ken,” exclaimed Morrigan, her pulse starting to race. “What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘I cannot live wi’out ye.’”

Morrigan exhaled. She took a shaky step back with knees that were suddenly weak. Dragonet’s words revealed no great secret, except that he was a man who loved her. Except he was a monk. So none of it was simple.

“Who has been plying ye wi’ talk of love?”

Morrigan shook her head. “Thank ye. Ye have helped me.” She turned to leave.

“Morrigan!” MacLaren commanded, and she turned back. “Where are yer brothers?”

She did not know why he asked, but he had answered her questions, so she felt obliged. “Archie is on pilgrimage and Andrew is recovering from wounds he received at Berwick.”

“Have ye no uncles, a man who can care for ye?”

Morrigan glared back at him. “I can take care o’ myself.”

“Ye should no’ trust sweet words from a man. Most o’ the time they only want to lift up yer skirts…” He glanced again at her men’s attire. “So to speak.”

“I understand. I think he spoke his native tongue because he did no’ wish me to know his true feelings.”

“A Frenchman, is he?”

“Nay!” she said with too much emphasis.

“If ye want I should have words wi’ someone…”

“Nay!” Morrigan stepped forward into the light. “I pray ye would do no such thing. This is what I was trying to avoid. This is why I came to ye. Our clans hate each other, remember?”

“I dinna hate ye, Morrigan. I am a Highlander. Ye are a Highland lass. Ye shoud’na be running about in men’s clothing, fending off sweet-talking Frenchman. If yer clan canna protect ye, I will see it done.”

Morrigan paused, trying to comprehend his speech. “Ye would protect me? A McNab?”

MacLaren gave a curt nod.

“Ye surprise me,” Morrigan said softly. It had been her strongest belief that all decent people despised her and would never lift a finger for her aid. Lady Aila had surprised her, but Morrigan reasoned a few people must be of a saintly disposition. But Laird MacLaren had also offered help, and she could not mistake him for a saint. Her head spun. Perhaps everything she knew about the world was false. “I thank ye for the offer. I will let ye know if I am in need.”

Morrigan bowed and left the tent more confused than when she entered.

Morrigan’s plan had worked.

Yet it came at a terrible cost. Douglas had negotiated with the English for a week, stalling the invasion before sneaking out of the English camp one morning. When King Edward discovered he had been double-crossed, his anger burned against the Scots quite literally. He invaded Scotland, but no one marched against his massive army. Instead he found abandoned towns and empty granaries. Frustrated by his poor reception and his lack of easy provisions for his army, he put the town to the torch in retaliation.

King Edward marched into Scotland but was hindered by the constant need to find food for his army. The English had nothing for the troops to eat save what they could carry with them. The Scots made sure any hunting party or supply line was harassed sufficiently to be ineffective. Still, Edward pushed into Scotland, burning everything in sight.

Morrigan had seen Dragonet but little in the past few weeks. He stayed with the Duke of Argitaine, she with her clan. Harry and Willy had joined her along with several other men. When it came to setting up an ambush, they had much to teach the other clans. She was glad to be of use, though not to have lived such a dishonorable life.

“If King Edward reaches Edinburgh, he can be resupplied. He must not be allowed to take the town,” said Douglas to a group of clan leaders. They huddled around a small brazier in the darkness of the tent.

“We canna win against him in an open fight,” said one laird.

“We dinna have to win, but rather prevent the English from marching forward. We must hold them. They are nearing starvation. They will verra soon need to return to England.”

Morrigan understood what needed to be done. She did not like it, but the English must be stopped. It was going to be a direct fight, nasty and brutal, the kind where a single soldier of great courage could turn the tide. She could be that soldier.

Morrigan walked slowly back to her tent and told her men the plan. Cold resignation permeated the tent. Everyone knew what was to come, and nobody spoke much. Fear had made them mute. They ate their last meal and turned in early. Sleep was important before a battle, if it would come.

Morrigan lay awake on her cot in her tent, waiting for the right time. Tomorrow’s fight loomed heavy and dark in her mind. She was not much for praying, but in consideration of tomorrow’s labors, she prayed for the safety of her clan, for Andrew, for Archie… and for Dragonet. She did not have the gall to pray for herself, but ever since finding the shroud she wondered if perhaps she too could find forgiveness. It seemed impossible. She knew all too well the darkness in her soul.

She needed to do something to gain forgiveness, something big—a large sacrifice that could win her the absolution. Tomorrow would be her chance. Tomorrow she would show her courage and help deliver Scotland from the English. If she sacrificed herself on the battlefield, surely she could save herself from the fires of hell.

Unless, of course, God sided with the English. Morrigan considered that idea but rejected it. God simply could not be an Englishman… and if he was, she would not care for heaven overmuch.

Morrigan slipped off of her cozy cot, the cold almost forcing her back into the warm blankets. Her muscles moaned their complaint, but Morrigan ignored it. Tomorrow would be about sacrifice, but tonight was for herself.

It was her last chance for love.

Morrigan dressed quickly and tugged on her boots. She wrapped herself in a wool blanket and a bearskin cloak. Creeping out of her tent, she hustled across the camp. She didn’t need to fear anyone seeing her. The cold and the dark had driven everyone into their tents for the night.

She paused outside the tent. Was she truly going to do it? Wind blew hard, whipping stinging sleet against her cheek. She pulled back the tent flap and slipped inside. Total darkness surrounded her. She walked slowly, her hands in front of her.