True Highland Spirit (7 page)

“’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.

Knife in hand, Sir Dragonet fashioned himself new bootstraps to replace the ones he had sliced to escape being bound to the tree. Morrigan was no fool when it came to a knot. It had been a long shuffle with loose boots through the woods back to his room at the inn. Fortunately, the inn’s host was able to procure him some leather he could easily make into straps. Unfortunately, bootstraps were hardly his biggest concern.

Dragonet lay on his clean, straw pallet in the little room afforded by the inn and willed himself to sleep. Images of Morrigan were all he could see. He tried to clear his mind, think of something else, anything else, but the memory of her hands on his body seared paths of molten heat where she had touched him. No one had ever touched him like that before. He wanted more.

Dragonet jumped out of bed and splashed some cold water from a basin on his face. How could he let it happen? Avoiding feminine wiles had not been a problem while he lived in the monastery. It had been more difficult when he assumed the role of a minstrel, but he had been careful around members of the opposite sex, never to get too close, never to be alone with one. He had defenses against regular women, ladies, serving wenches, anything wearing a skirt. Yet Morrigan slipped past his defenses like his mercy giver blade sliced through gaps in armor, leaving a man dead.

It was hardly his fault. With Morrigan’s height, thin build, and the loose men’s clothing giving her an amorphous shape, she appeared to be nothing more than an ill-tempered lad. Too late, he discovered her baggy clothes hid a shapely body. When he wrapped her in his arms, he could feel the beautiful woman beneath the disguise.

Morrigan’s hair was surprisingly soft and thick, and her large, dark eyes were framed by long eyelashes. She could be a beauty if she wished. So why did she chase people away with her sarcasm and militant ways? Whatever her reasons, he could accept it. She may scare away lesser men with her sharp tongue and walking arsenal, but beneath was a lady of infinite passion and seductive sorrow. Anger he understood. Pain he knew. He feared neither.

Morrigan was a rare treasure, one hiding in plain view, and he was the only one who could see her. She was a secret. His secret. And he was a master of secrets.

Heat flushed through him and his breath came faster, showing in the night chill of the room. Fiery tongues of desire lapped his skin. She was his alone. No one would ever know. She would be his. Except…