The McKinnon (9 page)

Both horses were trudging behind them, their reins tied to Trojan. Nic had securely tied all their supplies to the horses' backs.

All right, she thought, so he got two horses and food. Maybe it was a decent trade, especially if she could talk him into letting her have Trojan for stud a time or two. She would ask when the time was right.

Nic had not spoken two words since they had mounted up and headed east after her near rape in the woods. That was just fine with her.

Her shock had given way to anger, and anger eventually to pensiveness.

She wondered what drove a man like Nic, realizing again, she knew nothing about him. The fact that she wanted to know more was a surprise. Where was home for him? Did he have family? Where had his travels taken him? What was his business at Seabridge? Her mind continued to reel, understanding it was just morbid curiosity driving her. She was no longer upset with him having already forgiven him his threat of beating her within an inch of her life. Things said in the heat of battle, and their encounter could certainly fall in that category, should not be held against someone.

She let it go.

However, what she could not let go was the call of nature.

She loathed asking him to stop. Nevertheless, her discomfort was just about at critical levels as she tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the woods.

He stopped. What else could he do?

She was not sure if it was for her benefit or the horses, but she slid from the horse and headed for the trees. When she reappeared he spoke.

“Because of your little encounter earlier today, and the time it cost us, we will not make the King’s Court by nightfall unless we ride our horses until they drop.” 

“Well, my bath is surely not worth the death of your precious warhorse, my Lord,” she said tossing the sarcastic comment back at him then doing a perfect curtsy.

It was then Morgan realized she had spoken as her hand involuntarily flew to cover her mouth. No shoving those words back in where they came from, she rightfully reasoned. And now he knew she wasn't mute.

She looked into Nic's eyes, and their gazes locked. She heard him laugh softly as he turned away from her.

He had known, but how could he? Then she remembered her telling him to go to hell.

"So I see the cat no longer has your tongue." Nic went on before she could comment. “We will bed here for the night,” he said as he began to unload the horses of the necessary supplies. “It seems a good spot and I believe there is a pool of water close. Take the horses there, Morgan.”

Again, it was a beautiful place. Trees on three sides ringed the open area and large, ancient boulders dotted the new spring green grass carpeting the clearing. The sun was setting, a beautiful display of orange tinged with pink and deeper shades of red. Loving this time of day Morgan felt it had a peace all its own, a finality of a sorts. As if to promise that sleep would come and bring peace.

Morgan waited for the horses to drink their fill. The pond was not large, but did have clean and clear spring-fed waters. That cleansing water called to her with an invitation too promising and strong to resist. The late afternoon was still warm and she felt filthy. 

She smelled of him, of blood, and death. She smelled of something more primal: fear.

The need to get clean overwhelmed her as she stood there. The debate was short.

After securing the horses, Morgan tore her clothes off, not caring that the action was destroying them. That was done with full intent. She would never wear them again. Quickly stripping down and moving to the horses, she reached into the saddlebag to pull out the bar of precious hand-milled soap found one night while exploring her mother’s old rooms. She clutched it to her and closing her eyes as she remembered the night she first discovered the treasure and how she had hidden it away from her uncle for fear he would take it from her. Sometimes, she would pull the bar out just to smell it then her Mother’s face would swim before her mind’s eye. The soap's sweet aroma was fading with time along with her memories of her mother's young and beautiful face. 

It was all Lester's fault, she thought. He was really the bastard in this circumstance and not Nic. Her losing her memories and her losing faith was squarely on her uncle's shoulders. He could take her physical wealth, but he was never going to take her spirit.

"Keep the faith, heart-of-my-heart."  
The soft voice whispered just before Morgan opened her eyes. "It's hard, Mamma, but I'll try," she promised, softly.

Knowing time was short, Morgan walked into the cool waters beckoning her. Dipping beneath the shimmering surface the water caressed just as it had as a child. She reemerged on the opposite bank then dipped back under to return to the bank closest to the horses.

Coming out of that water felt like a rebirth, she felt the cleansing, emerging a stronger woman for what had happened. She survived. She would continue to survive. She was Morgan Pembridge, Sixth Duchess of Seabridge, ancestor to the mighty and fearless Viking people. More importantly, she was her mother's daughter.

She would keep the faith and tomorrow was a new day.

After dressing in what was now the only garment she owned, she took the filthy clothes and tucked them into a hollowed log. She did not want to leave any evidence of them being here just in case the search party was behind them. Besides, she never wanted to look at the clothes again. They would only serve to remind her of what almost happened today.

It was her fault. She had disobeyed an order.

She vowed the event would never be repeated. She would depend on Nic’s authority. He would see to her survival as long as she trusted him with her life. Could she really do that?

Somehow, it just felt right.

Hurrying back to camp, Morgan tried to formulate her apology in her mind for her disobedience. "
I'm sorry, Nic,
" just did not seem adequate.

She saw him waiting. Having taken up sentry at the edge of the camp, he was casually leaning against a tree, his booted foot drawn up to rest on the trunk. His unbound shirt laces left his shirt open at the neck revealing more skin on a man than she had ever seen. She forced herself not to stare because that would be rude. But she could not look away to save her life. His allure was so strong and there was an air of danger and sensuality clinging to him. Stricken once more at how beautiful he was, Morgan quickly brought her eyes back to his face to see him smugly smiling, one eyebrow raised. 

"I think I can save it," she said to cover her misstep then looked at his shirt, again. "Take it off and I will wash it."

Nic pushed off the tree then dropped the blade of grass he had been running through his fingers. “Well, I see you found the pool and made good use of it. Lucky for us, we did not need The King’s Court after all for that bath." Nic pulled his shirt over his head and handed it to her. "Be a good boy and see what you can do with this and when you're done lay out our supper while I go bathe.”

He was warming to the idea of his spirited, if unconventional bride. On his way to the stream, Nic pondered the transformation the bath had brought in her. Free of the grime her face was nothing short of beautiful, but not in a classical way. Her coloring was wrong to be considered fashionable, and she was much too tall, her hair much too short, and her body much too thin for the current standard of beauty. However, Nic was never one to hold to fashion in his clothes or in his women. And she was his woman for better or worse by the king’s decree. However, she was beautiful in a way that held his interest all the same.

He had to hand it to her. She had not fallen apart today. Most women he knew would have been in hysterics. She did have spirit and guts, and that was something many well-seasoned men lacked. He smiled thinking about the way she had cursed the corpse of her attacker. Quite colorful and imaginative he admitted then smiled.

Nic swam several laps across the shallow pool. It felt good to have some exercise, even if it was not nearly enough. He was accustom to more physically intense workouts than he was getting and it was beginning to make him edgy. That edginess was not in the favor of his current traveling companion.

Completing his bath he returned to the camp. Morgan was showing to be true to the new duties as his squire. She had gathered firewood, made the sleeping pallets, and laid out a fresh shirt, along side the meats and bread.

They sat next to each other and shared sips of the mulled wine from the skin then they ate in silence, leaning up against a fallen log. Fearing any moment that the questions would start, she knew there would be no appeasing him once they did.

The questions did not come. He waited for her to talk. He would not pressure her at the moment. The day was traumatic enough. He would not add to it. So, they sat in companionable silence looking into the fire.

Finally declaring it was time for bed, Nic placed the wine skin back into the pack, doused the fire with one move and made the gesture for her to follow suit as he covered himself with his blanket. She had retrieved her cloak and blanket from her saddlebag earlier so she rolled up in them and bedded down for the night. Turning her back to Nic, she stared into the low glowing ashes, sighed then fidgeted to find a comfortable position.

She did not do as good a job of the under bedding as Nic had done the night before. It was lumpy, but it would have to do. Finally finding a passable spot, Morgan began to relax and could tell Nic was still awake. He did not turn away from her as he had the night before, but instead lay on his back cushioning his head on his forearms and looked at the stars.

Sometime later, a small voice barely discernible broke his thoughts.

"I'm sorry."

Nic could not help but smile. She could not be silent; after all, she was a woman.

"I've already let it go, Morgan. You should, too."

"I'll try," she said after a few minutes. “Good night, Sir Nic.”

“Good night, Morgan,” he said softly, matching her tone.

Then as the night’s silence stretched on, the small voice intruded into his thoughts again.

“Sir Nic?” she quietly asked  just in case he was sleeping.

“Yes, Morgan?”

“I know I’m not your horse, but thank you for being there for me today.”

In that instant, whether realizing it or not, he had just lost the first battle of his life, feeling the fissures begin to form in the ice around his heart.

Nic waited for the steady rhythm of her breathing to signal she had fallen into a deeper sleep. Gathering her to him, he wondered how holding her could feel so right. She fit so perfectly onto the curve of his arms. With each breath he took, he inhaled the feminine smell of the soap she used to bathe. It haunted him as they had sat in silence that evening by the fire. Lavender and vanilla…not many women wore the scent. It was very expensive and even fewer could carry it off. On her, it was subtle, mixing with her unique scent, working well with her natural body chemistry.

He placed his chin on top of her head rubbing his cheek to her hair. He had noticed how her hair looked soft and silky with just a touch of wave to it. As Nic brushed his lips against the baby fine hair, thoughts came unbidden of how her hair must have looked before she cut it. Long, dark and wrapped around him as they slept intertwined.

He remembered how she looked that afternoon as she bathed. He had followed her to be sure she was not going to run. Unlike tonight, he was still uncertain of her intent, and she had all the horses packed with enough supplies to last her days should she decide to make a break. Standing there watching her, he had known the moment she had decided to take a bath. He had seen her expression of longing as she stood by the pools edge. He knew he should have gone back to camp to give her privacy, yet Nic needed to be sure she was going to be all right and that no one else was a threat to her.

She had torn her clothes from her body, uncaring she was turning them into rags. It touched his heart to hear the sounds of anger and impotent rage coming from her as she stripped the garments away. She threw them to the ground, as if they represented something more foul then what they were, and he watched as she stomped on them in fury and frustration. He had known in that instant, she was remembering the earlier attack and maybe something more. Worried for her, Nic stayed and was beginning to see that under her shell of control was a fragile woman, but a woman with a strong spirit, too. She was going to be fine. She was a survivor and he respected her for that strong spirit.

He remembered his moments of indecision. If he went to her to give her comfort then she would have known he had discovered her secret. If he did nothing, she would continue to carry the burden alone. He decided her secret needed to be maintained for just a little longer. He could always sooth her wounded spirit, later. He knew things didn't go away that easily, no matter if he did insinuate she needed to let it go.

Lying there, Nic wondered why he even cared she carried her anguish alone. He should not be worried if she hurt emotionally, but he did. That was not part of the responsibility of his position as her husband and protector. His responsibility was for her physical safety and well-being only. No one expected him to do more for his wife than to see to her safety and to give her children. Moreover, he dared anyone to doubt he would do his duty by her. He had no other choice as a knight of the realm and as her husband.

Morgan began to move and moan in her sleep. Nic wondered what demons she harbored. Pulling her closer, he soothed her with soft words as he looked into her lovely face so trusting in sleep. Unconsciously moving to adjust her body against his, he brushed away the veil of silk from her cheek. He felt something deep inside him stir to life. His long dead heart began to beat.

“Be easy, my sweet. You're safe. I won't let the monsters or dragons get you this night,” he said tenderly kissing the side of her forehead.

Strange that he should feel that to be a vow. He was beginning to discover he was also not without his demons to wrestle. As Morgan settled, her breathing becoming regular, Nic drifted into sleep giving over to the effects of the warmth and rightness of Morgan’s body pressed to his.