“What is it you want, Nic?”
“I’m asking you to take a leap of faith and place your trust in me even if I have yet to earn it.”
Nic waited. She said nothing, committed to nothing.
He had more to say. “You must tell me why you’re so afraid of Brentwood and why you’re running from Seabridge. If you want me to protect you, then I have to know what kind of battlements I’m up against.”
He had been wise in grabbing the reins of her horse. Nic saw the sudden emotions flash across her face. What he saw wasn’t necessarily fear, but it certainly was suspicion. As transparent as she was to him, he knew her first reaction was to run. He knew it right away.
“Nay, Morgan, trying to run again is too dangerous. I’m not the enemy and what’s more, when you search your heart, you know it.”
He waited for her acknowledgment which came in the form of the simple nod of her head. “You’re under my protection and can trust me. You’re as safe with me as if in your father’s arms. Even if I don’t own you, as you’ve so eloquently reminded me last night, I’ve sworn to protect you, lad, something I’ll do to my death if need be.”
“Where is this going?” Morgan asked.
“I must know who and what I face, or I’ll face that enemy blind.”
Morgan studied her companion’s face. All she saw when she looked into his eyes was the truth. Should she tell him? She wanted to.
How had they gone from strangers to her wanting to confide in him in so short a time? She still knew nothing about him. Yet she really did know all she needed to know. He was decent and honorable. She wanted to share her concerns with him, but the minute she did she would lose the advantage. She would no longer be able to masquerade as a squire, and even if he might not know she was the Duchess of Seabridge, he would know she wasn’t a boy. It would change everything.
On the other hand, if she withheld the information, then he would blindly walk into a confrontation with her uncle.
Nic saw the inner struggle. He knew what she felt was her dilemma. If she told him, her cover was blown. He didn’t dare tip his hand and let her know he already knew she was a woman. He didn’t want a confrontation arising from her realizing he had known. She would think that he had played her for a fool, which was far from the truth.
He was learning not to corner her, but pressure her he would.
“You must tell me, Morgan. If I’m to protect you, I must have the truth.”
Morgan wasn’t ready to give in as she looked away.
Nic shook his head and sighed. It was just as he thought. Morgan told him nothing and everything with her look, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to know, and he would have the truth before it was all done and over with.
It would have to wait. Fate stepped back in.
“Bloody hell!” Nic suddenly cursed. He tensed and in a flash, put his spurs to Trojan. “Hang on!”
Like she really had any other choice.
Chapter 17
Still gripping Morgan’s horse’s reins, Nic pulled her along, leaving her to hold on for dear life. Then she figured out why he was in such a hurry just as an arrow whizzed by her head. The second one passed through flesh. She screamed from the searing pain that followed.
Nic, unaware one of the arrows had connected with tender flesh, was making a line for the woods to find what cover he could.
He pulled her unceremoniously from Salt’s back. “Quickly! Hide in that underbrush. Don’t, and I repeat, don’t come out no matter what you think you see or hear! Stay hidden, but if they capture you, lad, fight with everything you’ve got! Don’t go quietly! Now, go!”
Dumbfounded, Morgan found herself pushed under the brush as Nic wheeled around, and with a great war cry, began to engage the assailants. She couldn’t see anything past the underbrush. Nevertheless, she certainly was beginning to grasp what was going on around her as she heard one man fall, and then another.
She didn’t know how many were attacking them, but Nic had just killed another man, making three dead for sure. The man fell close enough for her to see the dirt under his nails of the hand Nic had severed before dealing the deathblow. That hand was still clutching a dagger. Without thinking, she reached out and pried the dagger from the dead man’s fingers. In doing so, she edged out far enough to see the extent of the battle raging around her.
Oh, God, he needs help! Her only thought was for him.
Morgan felt his skill was more than average, and he was exceptionally good with a sword. But nobody could stand against three more men alone, she thought.
Without thinking, Morgan scrambled out from under the brush, rushing the closest man. With one fluid movement, she plunged the dagger into one of the killing points that Nic had shown her just the night before. The man fell, clutching his throat, gasping for the breath that would never come.
Without breaking stride, she scooped up the dying man’s sword and rushed the next man. Catching him off guard, she briefly had the advantage. Coming in low and fast, Morgan pushed her shoulder into the tackle, putting the man on his back. Unfortunately, she fell on top of him. In one swift countermovement, he rolled her onto her back. She dropped the sword in the process.
Straddling her, he pressed her fully into the soft forest floor, bearing his full weight on her abdomen. She couldn’t breathe from the crushing weight, and his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat. She knew that she could never win this fight. The man had the advantage of strength and size. This adversary would kill her if she didn’t stay alive long enough to give Nic time to kill the man, but he was engaged in his own deathly fight.
Their entanglement was a fierce and a swiftly moving battle. Both men knew only one would walk away. She prayed it would be Nic, but she remembered that God helps those who help themselves.
Morgan had narrowed her vision. Her focus trained to tuning out everything excluding the man on top of her. Nic was on his own.
“Fight with everything you’ve got,” Nic had said.
She was doing just that. Her attacker had just sliced her face, and she managed a lucky shot to the man’s right eye, snapping his head and upper body back, giving her a clear shot to his chest. By some twist of fate, he dropped the dagger. She quickly picked it up.
Fight with everything you’ve got…. Nic’s words echoed in her head. Don’t go quietly.
She plunged the dagger in as deeply as she could but it wasn’t enough to kill him. She twisted the knife as he grabbed her around the throat again. He began to squeeze in earnest, slowly choking the life from her body, crushing her airway. Morgan gasped for breath; black circles hovered in front of her eyes.
She knew she was dying. Her airway was collapsing.
Fight, damn it, fight, her brain screamed to her oxygen-deprived muscles. The burning in her lungs was increasing as if she had inhaled hot coals. Reaching up, she found the strength to pull the dagger out of his chest and sliced his wrist. The slice was just enough for him to release his death grip around her throat. He batted the knife from her hand. She drew in a great gulp of air as her hands were instinctively flailing around for anything she could use for a weapon.
As if guided by a higher power, her hand touched something cold and rough.
Her assailant hit her again, and then, from somewhere deep within her, she began to feel her power rise. Her will to live was strong. Stronger than she even thought possible. She wanted to live! She wanted to live! Live to see the sunset. Live to have children. Live to grow old.
“Now, Morgan!” Her mother’s voice filled her with courage and strength as she grabbed the stone. Either he would die or she would, and it wasn’t going to be her! She had to make that one shot count or he would surely deliver the killing blow. With all the strength remaining in her, she swung hard. Morgan felt the hard stone connect with softer bone and heard the breaking of the man’s skull.
The momentum of the blow forced him off of her, relieving the crush to her chest. The man rolled one more time, and Morgan pl
unged the dagger into his throat, making sure he would never rise again. He would hurt her no more.
Morgan painstakingly got to her knees just in time to see Nic strike the deadly blow to his opponent, whose head was severed from his neck.
On the forest floor, with blood running down her face and shoulder, she wondered why she was losing so much blood. Then she realized that the arrow must have struck an artery, a fatal wound if not treated quickly.
With the danger of the attack past, Morgan knew she was in trouble. Looking up at Nic, who stood frozen in his last move of attack, their gazes locked in the deadly quiet of the forest. All she heard was Nic’s ragged and labored breathing and the pounding of her heart in her ears. Morgan’s vision was narrowing. The sight of Nic was fading fast.
“Help me.”
Her tiny voice broke through his fog.
With all strength gone, Morgan was no longer able hold herself up and shook uncontrollably as she collapsed to the forest floor. Nic saw she was losing blood at an alarming rate. Too soon she would go into shock.
“Don’t dare die on me, Morgan,” he commanded as he went into action.
“Another command I may not be able to follow,” she said before falling unconscious.
Nic was in agony as he quickly did a field dressing to stem the bleeding. How many times had he dressed a wound for one of his fallen men? A hundred? A thousand? It had never been more important than this minute for him to do it right.
Scooping her unconscious body off the forest floor, he whistled for Trojan. It was miraculous that Salt and Vernon hadn’t fled. Trojan would have had no choice except to follow with their bridles still attached to his. Nic carried Morgan to his mount. It wasn’t the most gentle of movements, and he thanked God that she was unconscious as he flung her over his horse’s neck and mounted behind her. Then he gently turned her and cradled her in his arms. She was bleeding, but not as freely. That was lucky, and he would take what luck he could find.
He had to get her to safety, but where? London was too far and going back to the inn would surely deliver her back into the arms of her uncle.
Featherstone Castle, he thought.
Nic pushed the horses unmercifully. There was no choice. Morgan’s life was at stake.
Chapter 18
“Open the gates!” The shout of the sentry echoed through the bailey. “It’s Sir Nic. Hurry, man, and open the gates!”
The guardsman turned to his son who had come running at the sound of the commotion. “Quick, lad, run. Go get Connor.”
Nic rode Trojan full tilt into the courtyard of the home of his friend Lord Connor Holden, Earl of Featherstone. He came to an abrupt halt just feet from the main doorway as Connor stepped through it with sword in hand, ready for battle.
When he saw his close friend, Connor ran to Nic, then reached up to take Morgan as Nic handed his precious bundle to him. Connor took her into his arms, allowing Nic to dismount. Nic quickly took her back into his arms, wanting to carry Morgan into the castle. She was his burden and he would bear it gladly.
Connor was more than just a little surprised and shocked to see Nic with a bloody, unconscious boy in his arms.
“Nic, what in God’s holy name happened? You look as if you’ve the devil on your heels and had a fight or two with him along the way. Come, inside. What can I do?” Connor quickly led his friend and the bundle he carried into the castle and behind the walls to safety.
Nic bellowed his command to the servants. Without a backward glance, he took the stone steps two at a time. He didn’t wait to see if the housekeeper carried out his orders. “I need warmed blankets, boiling water, clean bandages, a bath, a fine needle, and silk thread brought to my chamber!”
He had no doubt they would obey his orders. He was a long-standing friend and frequent visitor. He made his way to his usual chamber with Connor just steps behind.
With gentleness one would never think a man as large as Nic could muster, he placed Morgan on top of the coverlets, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t alone in the room.
He began to rub her arms to get the warmth back into them, being careful of her wounds. Quietly, soothingly, he began to speak.
“Come on, Morgan. Come back to me. Morgan?” He paused. “Morgan?” He waited in vain for a response he feared wasn’t to come. “Come on. Please, come back to me.”
Nothing came from her. She didn’t stir. The bright red blood covering her body stood out in stark contrast to the crisp white of the cool linen sheets. She was still as death.
So much blood, Nic thought. Too much blood.
“You’re a fighter! Fight, damn it! Fight! Where are the blankets and water?” Nic shouted.
Connor found this scene remarkable. He had known Nic for the better part of his life, and he had never before seen the man anything except cool and collected. He was the one usually losing his patience. Connor had never seen Nic this emotional and surely never emotional over a squire. Something about this scene didn’t fit.
Connor put words to his misgivings.
“Nic, you left me a week ago. Now, you show back up on my doorstep with a boy who you have grown attached to quickly. Care to tell me what exactly is going on here?”
Nic turned to face his friend who was leaning against the doorframe of the room, his massive bulk nearly filling the door opening. Except for his younger brother Cullen, Connor was the only man Nic knew who could match his size and build.
“Nay now, Connor. I must get Morgan revived first. Her safety is paramount.”
“Her?” Connor looked at his friend, his dark head tilted to the right, his left eyebrow raised in surprise. “Hmmm, well that explains at least one thing.”
Connor pushed away from the doorframe to make way for the servants. The kitchen boys were bringing in the tub, along with the food and extra blankets that Nic had demanded.
Connor was beginning to see just how dirty and bloody Nic was, too.
“Nic, my friend, let Mary take care of Morgan while you tend to your own needs. It would be best.”
“Nay, if Morgan wakes up, it’ll be to unfamiliar surroundings. I need to be here to ensure there’s no fight. I don’t want the bleeding to start again. That’s something we can’t afford.”
Connor was looking at his longtime friend with an expression of puzzlement.
Nic continued. He didn’t want Connor pressuring him for answers, and certainly not with an audience looking on. Saying that Connor was an impatient man was a huge understatement, like saying the sun was only mildly necessary for life.
“It’s a story even I don’t have all the pieces to just yet, my friend. Nevertheless, trust me in this, Connor. Morgan needs me to be here.”
Connor was beginning to think Nic needed to be here, too, even if the man wasn’t aware of his reasons. Connor also noted Nic didn’t refer to Morgan as she in front of the house staff. He would respect Nic’s obvious wish for this piece of information to remain a secret. At least for the moment, it would remain between the two of them.
“Is any of that blood on you yours?” Connor knew it would be like his friend to neglect his own needs and place his total focus on the woman.
Nic looked at Morgan’s swollen and purple face, then examined the arrow wound on her upper shoulder. He was thankful that the bleeding had stopped. His dressing had preserved her life, and if infection didn’t set in, it might have saved her arm, too.
“None to speak of, nay, just minor cuts. Morgan took the worst of it. I could use some fresh clothes.”
“You know what is mine is yours, my friend, you’ve but to ask what you need. I’ll have Keegan bring them to you. When you feel you can leave your squire for a time, I’ll be in my solar.”
With a nod from Nic, Connor left the room in search of his valet.
In the meantime, while waiting for fresh clothes, Nic tended Morgan’s wounds as best as he could and prayed. After bolting the chamber door, he stripped his bloody clothes off, then his bride’s. Gathering her in
his arms, he padded over to the extra-large bronze tub filled with bucket after bucket of clean, hot water. She still felt cold against his naked flesh. Needing to raise her body temperature, Nic gently lowered himself into the hot water, cradling her and tenderly washing her as a mother would a young child. Her bloody clothes gone, Morgan looked fragile, especially with her wounds.
Her narrow waist was showing signs of bruising, especially around her rib cage where she had taken the full weight of the man straddling her. He ran his hands down each side, probing for cracked or broken bones. Satisfied she suffered none, Nic moved his attentions to her face. Her beautiful features were purple, her eyes swollen shut from the blows. The knife wound from her hairline to her jaw was deep and jagged. The tiny stitches he used to bring the seam together would help to lessen the scar, but she would bear it always.
For her it would be a constant reminder of this horrific day.
For him it would be an invariable testament of how close he came to losing her, punctuating his failure to protect her.
“I’m verray sorry, Morgan. I should never’ve let this happen to you.” He apologized, gently brushing his lips to her forehead.
Her soft lips were bloody and swollen from the blows her attacker had inflicted on her. The finger marks were visible along the column of her graceful neck, showing ugly and purple against white tender flesh.
Her shoulder was a mess. The arrow had taken a chunk of her upper arm, severing the artery as it passed through. There was nothing to do for it except keep it clean.
All this was damning evidence against him of just how close he had come to losing her. When she improved, he would choke her himself for her impulsive actions, even though her response had been brave. This was twice she had disobeyed him. Both times, it nearly cost her life.
He remembered her final words before falling unconscious, “Another command I may not be able to follow.” A tiny smile of irony grabbed his lips.
However, he was grateful for those actions. He probably could have taken them all on and killed them. They weren’t highly trained, but a ragtag group of highwaymen. Yet he felt sure it wouldn’t have happened without a great degree of harm to him personally. It was by her actions alone that he walked away from the encounter with just a couple of minor wounds.