True Highland Spirit (36 page)

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed and intensity, she chased after the building sensation of pure power. With a rush of hot pleasure, she grasped his shoulders and cried out, even as he shuddered beneath her. Waves of joy swept through her, rippling through to her core.

“Oh, I… oh…” She collapsed on top of him.

He rolled her over onto her back and lay on his side next to her, an arm and a leg holding her tight. “I love you too.”

“Aye, love, that is what I meant,” mumbled Morrigan. Every muscle in her body was so relaxed she doubted she could ever move again. She would be happy to lie in bed with him forever.

“I would do anything for you. Anything. You know that.”

“Aye, I ken.”

He wrapped his fingers into her hair, massaging her head.

“Careful,” she mumbled.

“Yes, I am. To save your life I would do anything. Forgive me, Morrigan, but…”

Morrigan opened a sleepy eye. What was he talking about? She felt a tiny pin prick on her shoulder. “No!” she cried with the instant realization of what he had done.

She fought against the spreading numbness and lost. Succumbing to the poison, she drifted swiftly into nothingness.

Archie McNab breathed the fresh air of Scotland. He was home, or closer to it than he had been in months. He had been to France and Italy. He had been to Rome and stayed with a man who actually had an audience with the pope. He had given his testimony before cardinals. He was not the same man.

“’Ere ye go, sir,” said a stable lad, handing him a fresh mount. Archie had returned from abroad with the bishop of Glasgow and some new friends, or at least traveling companions. His pleasant overtures had been largely rebuffed by the group of black-robed men who joined them on the return trip to Scotland. Archie did not take it personally. The bishop said men of the Inquisition were often like that.

Archie swung up in the saddle and spurred his fresh mount forward. The wind blew cold, stinging slush onto his face. It felt like home. He urged his horse faster through the slop. It was unfortunate conditions for a man who wanted speed, forcing him to stop frequently to clear the poor beast’s shoes from the packed snow and ice.

They had returned to St. Margaret’s two days before and learned of the final offensive of the English toward Edinburgh and of the Scots’ desperate attempt to stop them. McNab rushed to join the campaign, determined to be part of the mix. He wanted to defend Scotland against the English as much as any Highlander, perhaps more since he had broader perspectives.

Fortunately for his timing, the snow turned to rain and he was able to ride across the still-frozen ground with considerable speed. As he neared Edinburgh, he hit the fog, thick and cold on his exposed face. He pushed ahead more slowly, making sure he did not miss the road.

Ahead he heard the shouts of men and clash of swords. He started to spur his horse into the melee, but reconsidered and eased up, taking a more careful approach. He emerged on a slight rise. Below him, English and Scots fought hard. Some were mounted, some not. It was difficult to see the full extent of the battle in the thick mist. Archie considered drawing his sword and charging, but reached for his bow instead.

Twang!
His shot hit home and an Englishman fell to the ground. The Scot who had been fighting the now-dead Englishman looked around, confused. Archie smiled; in the fog he was nearly invisible, a decidedly good thing when fighting a war one hopes to survive. He shot a few more English with similar effect.

“Hold ’em lads!” roared a familiar voice. MacLaren emerged from the curtain of mist. The muscles in Archie’s stomach clenched at the sight of him. MacLaren hated him with a passion. Admittedly with good reason, but still, the man was determined to make Archie’s already difficult life even harder.

MacLaren fought two attackers with his massive sword. Archie hated the man. He had everything Archie wanted. He
was
everything Archie wanted. MacLaren got the girl, the inheritance, the respect, the honor. Archie got nothing but derision and disregard.

A third joined in the attack on the massive man. MacLaren was good, but no man could hold his own forever. Sir Chaumont came into view, always at MacLaren’s right hand. He was also hard-pressed and unable to help MacLaren. It was inevitable; with so many against him the big man was going down.

Archie pulled back on his bowstring. He was a careful shot, and he knew how to aim for the gaps in a man’s armor.

Twang!

His target fell to the ground.

***

Morrigan awoke naked, covered by a mass of blankets. She was having the most pleasant dream involving Dragonet, herself, and several pounds of gingerbread. She opened an unwilling eye, still groggy. She was actually hot under so many layers, but that was not what woke her. Her pounding head, that’s what woke her.

“Ow!” She sat up slowly. Her head hurt like blazes, and much to her disappointment there was neither Dragonet nor gingerbread in the tent. Which she could see perfectly because… it was the middle of the day!

“Damnation!” She was late for the war.

Morrigan flung the covers aside to get dressed, ignoring the shock of cold that stung her skin. Rummaging around on the floor and bed, she could not readily find her clothes, and so she cursed again, which did nothing to improve her situation. Forcing herself to slow down, she looked through every blanket, taking one to wrap around herself against the frigid temperatures as she searched.

Where were her clothes? Why had Dragonet not woken her when he left? Memories both sweet and disturbing came flooding back. He had tricked her! He had bedded her with the purpose of getting her to lower her guard so he could prick her with her own poisoned hair pin. And he had taken her clothes to prevent her from joining the battle, the French bastard.

“Hell and blazes!” Morrigan cursed. When she found that rat bastard, she was going to make him pay. She was going to make him suffer. She was… ideas more sensual than sadistic warmed her cold skin. She cursed again, flinging the traitorous thoughts from her weak brain.

If he thought he could keep her in the tent by taking her clothes, he had underestimated her resolve. She marched to the door flap of the tent. She could fight in a blanket just as well as anything.

She took one step barefoot into the slushy snow and retreated into the tent. Boots. She could fight in a blanket if she had boots. Morrigan sat back down on the pile of blankets.

“Where did ye put my boots, ye double-crossing bastard?” Morrigan put her elbows on her knees and propped up her head with her hands. Dragonet did not want her to go to war, that much was clear. He was trying to save her, not play a prank. He would not wish her to go outside without clothes, but he would want to slow her down, which meant her clothes must be somewhere in the tent.

Morrigan began a careful search of the tent. The tent itself was large, intended for many people. A canvas divider separated the tent into two rooms. She had only traveled as far as the first room, where Dragonet had laid sleeping. Beyond that was a second section of the tent, filled with many comforts a traveling duke may find to be essential. There were several more elevated cots for sleeping, blankets, a table and chairs with dishes and goblets. A chest was in one corner, a wooden, boxed chess set on top. She took a deep breath and began her search.

She found her tunic first. It had been stuffed high on a tent pole. Her breeches were in the chess box. One boot was in a chest; the other was hidden under a cot. Her woolen hose she found stuffed into a mug… She pitied the man who would drink from it next. With careful searching, she located each article of clothing until she finally found her cloak rolled up in a pillowcase.

Dragonet must have taken a long time hiding her clothes in the dark. He was the most devious, kindest man she had ever met. No one, not even her brothers, had gone to such lengths to try to save her. Everyone else was either afraid of her or did not care. He cared and was not afraid of her wrath.

For one stunning moment she considered not leaving the tent, but rather waiting for him to return. Perhaps in much the same condition as when he left. She could devise a sweet torture to punish him for his crimes. Morrigan smiled but shook her head to dispel the notion. It was not in her nature to sit and wait for others to do the work. Besides, Dragonet may need her help. The thought got her moving.

Morrigan ran from the tent. She must collect her armor and, more importantly, her weapons. The snow had begun to melt, turning it into several inches of freezing slop. Thick fog had rolled in, making it difficult to find her way in the maze of tents and the slick conditions. She wondered what her men must have thought when they awoke to find her gone. Her absence was going to be difficult to explain. After a few wrong turns, she found her desired tent and burst inside.

“Harry! Willie!” Her men were all still in the tent. “What are ye doing here?”

“Waiting for ye, like he told us to!” said Harry.

“Like he what?” Morrigan was genuinely confused.

“Sir Dragonet came and said ye had taken ill in the night and we were to wait for word about ye here. He said we must take ye back to St. Margaret’s for ye were so ill. Are ye well, lass?”

“Damn his eyes!” cursed Morrigan.

“We repaired a wagon to take ye back to the convent,” said Harry.

“No, I am well enough. Gather the men. We must join the forces against the English.”

Neither of the men moved. They exchanged a glance.

“I said get going!” shouted Morrigan.

“Sir Dragonet said ye might say that, but it was all part o’ yer illness. He said we was to take ye back to the convent by any means.”

Morrigan grabbed her sword and drew the blade, pointing it at Harry. “Ye wish to try?”

“Methinks she has recovered,” said Willie.

The men left to gather the others for battle, and Morrigan struggled to quickly pull on her armor. A padded doublet and a studded hauberk, helmet, and gauntlets would have to do. She took more time to ensure she was appropriately armed. Morrigan cursed throughout the process, knowing she was losing precious time. Dragonet had even tried to turn her own men against her. Wicked, wonderful man.

Morrigan mounted her horse and rode toward the battle. Her head cleared a bit with the exercise and brisk, cool air, but it still irritated her with a dull ache. It was late in the day, Dragonet had worked his mischief well, but there may still be time to die gloriously. She was determined to find a way, or at least find Dragonet and show him her full appreciation for sticking her with sleeping potion. He had better be in good condition when she found him or… she urged her mount faster.

She and her men did not travel far down the road to Edinburgh before she came across the first casualties. A few men were driving a cart back to camp holding the injured. Morrigan ran her eyes over each one to make sure Dragonet was not in the mix. It was a gruesome display of blood and gore.

“How goes the battle?” she asked the cart driver.

“Them bastards have no’ gained Edinburgh yet, but our lads are hard pressed. Hard to see in all this bloomin’ slop.”

Morrigan trotted forward using some caution. It was difficult to see more than a few feet ahead of her in the thick, dense fog. She followed the sounds of clashing steel with more success. She came upon a Scot losing a sword fight with an English soldier and dispatched the soldier before riding on. Again and again she came across small groups of men fighting hand to hand. Apparently the battle lines had become blurred in the blinding mist and groups of soldiers were fighting on the ground. One positive thing about the current conditions was it eliminated the English advantage of the longbow. With no ability to aim in the fog, they could not fire for fear of killing their own soldiers.

Morrigan pressed on, joining the fight every chance she could. Sometimes they came across small groups of Scots resting before going back into the fight. Often they found the dead and dying, evidence of the bloody cost of war.

Through the impenetrable mist floated fragments of French words. Morrigan froze, straining to hear the direction of the voices. Suddenly the voices turned to shouts and the unmistakable clash of metal. Morrigan spurred her mount toward to the commotion, sword drawn.

Breaking through the murky fog, she found the band of Frenchmen on foot surrounded by about thirty English, determined to take the duke hostage. They were attacked hard, some mounted, some on foot. Dragonet and the three knights surrounded their liege, determined to die to protect the duke. From the look of things, dying bravely would soon be their fate.

Morrigan shrieked an unholy battle cry and flew into the fray, swinging a battle-ax, followed by her small band of Scots. The effect of the ghostly figures charging out of the misty shroud was dramatic. Several English ran away, believing they were being overrun, others were startled, giving the French an opportunity to take advantage.

Though still outnumbered, Morrigan attacked with vengeance; all her frustrations, all her anger, all her confusion and shame roared to the surface in blind fury. She attacked without mercy, focusing her energy on the two English soldiers who were attacking Dragonet.