“Do we have an agreement?” Nic asked, all banter aside. An agreement was an agreement, and he would hold up his end as long as the young man held to his.
The boy nodded.
“Excellent, we agree then.” Nic gathered his horse and brought the stallion back with surprising ease. “However, first, I have a stop to make. I have to tie up some business, and then we’re on to my lands just south of the border of Scotland. Unfortunately, this business can’t wait,” Nic said, then pursed his lips. “Nasty business, too,” he said under his breath, caring not if the lad heard him.
King Henry wanted him to marry. That was the nasty business, but necessary when the king decrees it, Nic supposed. He had no real desire to take a wife and never had wanted a wife as far back as he could remember. However, one doesn’t disobey a king and live comfortably to tell of it. Consequently, he would marry.
Living with his bride had not been one of Henry’s stipulations.
He knew it was a technicality, and one that Henry would eventually see through. However, until that time came, he was still a free man.
“I need to stop at Seabridge,” Nic said as he turned to mount his horse.
Morgan felt her jaw drop. She had agreed to act as the knight’s squire because he said they were heading north. It was in the opposite direction from London. Nevertheless, Morgan had faith. She would get to London eventually, and her uncle would never think to look for her in the northern country. It would give her time to regroup. And survive past her twenty-first birthday.
But now Sir Nic was going to Seabridge?
Oh, no, she thought. Not after all she went through to escape. She would kill herself before letting her uncle get his hands on her again. The end result would be the same; she would just make it quicker.
Nic saw the color drain away and panic play across the boy’s face.
Seabridge’s stables were legendary. The horse was magnificent. It came together for him in a single thought: that horse belongs to Lord Brentwood.
Yet there could be another logical explanation besides theft. However, if the boy’s a thief, there would be hell to pay, he thought. Stealing from Lester Brentwood would be a death sentence for a boy like this one. Moreover, Nic bet such a death would be slow and agonizing. The pleasure would only be one-sided.
“You’re afraid.” Nic knew it was an understatement. Terror poured off this boy in waves.
The boy nodded, dropping his gaze to the forest floor, he squeezed his eyes tightly against the very fear Nic so accurately and acutely saw in him.
“Why? Surely, monsters don’t live there, but only mere flesh and bone which can be conquered. I’ve met Lord Brentwood, and even though his dealings are a bit severe for my taste, he has a reputation of being fair when dealing with his tenants.” Nic wasn’t so sure that reputation was still accurate.
The boy shook his head slowly. Nic no longer wondered if there was a monster that lurked under the surface of fine silk and velvet.
Nic took the boy by the shoulders. “If there is no just cause, son, I’ll see to it he never touches you. But, I need to know and I need you to be honest. Did you steal that horse?”
The boy shook his head again before placing his hand over his heart in a gesture Nic understood to be a promise of the truthfulness of his words and softly patted his chest as to say he’s mine.
“All right, for some strange reason, I believe you.” Nic looked him square in the eyes. Then he cocked his head to the side in thought. “Will I be forced to surrender you or defend you, lad?”
Morgan knew it was a rhetorical question. They both knew surrender or defense was inevitable.
Nic dropped his hands from the boy’s shoulders with a sigh. “The day’s not getting any younger. Whether I like it or not, I must go. Can you show me the quickest route and trust that I’ll keep you safely out of the way?”
Morgan nodded.
Fate had stepped in for her and she seized the opportunity. If he didn’t know the way, she would lead him as far from his destination as possible. Every step to the east was another step closer to true freedom. She had no idea what she would face on the journey ahead.
More precisely, she didn’t care.
The unknown was exactly that, the unknown. She knew for certain what she was leaving behind.
For her it would be certain death.
Chapter 6
The sun was low in the sky when Nic finally stopped to rest their horses. They had been steadily making their way inland. They were far enough inland that the trees were thickening, the underbrush growing to a dense mass of tangles. They had long since left the coastal region, moving on a steady path eastward.
He knew it.
He just didn’t care where they were heading because neither one of them wanted to go to Seabridge for two very different reasons. So, yes, he knew. And if the sun that was setting to his back hadn’t tipped him off, then the fact he could no longer smell the sea did. However, he continued to let this young lad lead the way. He was in no real hurry to meet his new bride. She had been in Brentwood’s care for seven years, what were a couple more days?
He was also curious about this youngster. He was almost too pretty to be a boy, and he had such long and graceful limbs. Nic had never had a passion for young boys; nevertheless, the boy inexplicably drew him. Something just didn’t feel right, and time would tell, he felt certain. Time had taught Nic to listen to his gut when it spoke, and that gut was telling him there was something he was missing.
Up ahead and unaware of his scrutiny, Morgan was having issues of her own. Her headache was proving a distraction from the man who blindly followed her lead. She had almost forgotten he was even there.
“I introduced myself earlier, but I’m not sure you remember. I’m Sir Nic McKinnon. Do you have a name, lad?” Nic asked, bringing his warhorse alongside to her own yet keeping a respectable distance between the two beasts.
The message Morgan tried to convey was a cross between, “That is a dumb question” and “For God’s sake, don’t distract me while I’m trying to keep from falling on my bum.”
Nic almost laughed. “Of course you have a name. Are you able to write your letters? If not, then I’ll just give you a name you like. However, if you can write, then spell your name out on my hand.” They stopped in the road, and Nic held out his palm.
Nodding, Morgan reached across and took his hand in hers. Taking a deep breath, she rolled the dice. Banking on him never putting the Duchess of Seabridge and the dirty, scruffy peasant together as one in the same, she wrote and then looked at him.
“M... O... R... G... A... N... Morgan,” Nic said, rolling the name round on his tongue. “A good Welsh name. I believe it means Sea-Born.”
Then realization came as he sat on his warhorse, striking him like a physical blow. Nic hoped the revelation wasn’t reflected in his face. Could this waif staring at him be his sea-born bride? Was this dirty, scruffy urchin the prize for his long and faithful service to the king? What had he done recently to anger Henry to the point that his king would pawn this woman off on him? The list of possible actions was actually pretty long when he really gave it thought. Still, he had never known Henry to be petty or vindictive in his punishment when he had pissed him off. Nic supposed there was always a first.
Then he stilled his mind. He let the emotion of the moment go and looked at her, staring into the beautiful green eyes, too large for her overly thin face. He looked past the shortly cropped hair that was as dark as the deepest midnight. Looking past the dirt, he took in the high cheekbones, the perfect bone structure of her delicate features.
He had no doubt she was a female. The soft curves barely discernible under the groom’s clothing just clinched the argument he was having with himself.
All right, he thought, I’ll play along for now and see where this takes us.
She obviously had some reason to run and take on a disguise to do it. Had King Henry’s decree reached her and she fled out of fear of him
? Nic was aware of his far-flung reputation. He knew he was the best in the king’s forces.
Men sought him out to fight, always thinking to topple him from his standing. Women at court sought after him for vastly different reasons. The air of danger and emotional unavailability hanging about him was a mighty lure, proving irresistible to many.
However, those attachments came with a price that Nic was never willing to pay.
He figured if he wanted a close, meaningful relationship, he would get another horse.
No, he thought. The notion of going back to Seabridge singularly terrified her. He could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t running from him, but from a more terrifying predator. Lord Brentwood or someone at the castle was the only explanation that he could reason out. Why else would a young woman of her standing be willing to risk life on the run as opposed to a safe and comfortably pampered lifestyle behind castle walls?
He had heard rumors the last few months of Brentwood’s unusual tastes in the bedroom and tales of unfortunate women who had to have physicians summoned after a night spent in Lord Brentwood’s company. Nic knew the nobleman’s tastes had become more perverted and physically violent. So much so that Henry asked him to leave the court shortly after he himself left.
Nevertheless, surely Lester wouldn’t be so idiotic as to misuse his ward. Such a notion was inconceivable even to a hardened soldier like him. Common court whores were one thing, and even that he didn’t approve. Morgan was certainly not in that category of woman. She was a gentle woman born and bred. She was a duchess, for Christ’s sake, and short of a princess, it didn’t get much higher a birth.
What was more to the point was that kind of abuse would bring on King Henry’s rage. Henry was widely known for his kindness to women and tolerated little of that kind of behavior in or of his subjects. Lester Brentwood was already teetering on the wrong side of Henry’s good graces, and the king had personally placed Morgan in the care of her uncle with the express promise that her well-being be seen to at all costs. If Nic found the situation to be otherwise, the hell and fire that would rain down on Brentwood would soon become legendary. Nic didn’t have his reputation for no good reason.
However, before Nic could continue his train of thought, his battle-honed senses piqued. Sensing the danger, Nic reacted even before feeling the hoofbeats tearing up ground at breakneck speed. A complement of no fewer than ten men, by his estimation, were nearly on them. Jumping from his horse, he dragged her along with him.
“Don’t make a sound,” he commanded as he hurried his young charge and their mounts into the woods as deeply as possible to avoid detection.
Morgan was too frightened to react. Frozen in fear, he pulled her back against him. Placing one arm around her waist with the horse’s reins still held tightly in his fist, she felt him place his other hand over her mouth. Quickly realizing his mistake, Nic pulled his hand away but didn’t release her. She couldn’t have made a sound if she wanted to, but she just might run. Nic couldn’t chance it. It was classic fight or flight, and flight was his bet at the moment.
“Ease your breathing, Morgan. They’re on us,” Nic whispered in her ear. She felt the heated breath as the soft-spoken words touched her, and their meaning was clear.
Nic went deadly still, freezing in place.
So did Morgan.
Morgan held her breath as two columns of horses passed no more than twenty feet from their hiding place, pushing their mounts at a speed that would eventually kill the animals.
Damn them! she thought. They’re going to kill my horses! Morgan took a step toward them.
Nic jerked her back. “Let them go.”
So the search has begun, he thought.
Her thoughts mirrored his. The search was on.
It was obvious to Morgan they knew she was gone. The fantasy of her escaping without someone noticing was exactly that, a fantasy. Obviously, her uncle was back at the castle.
Morgan realized that if she couldn’t control her fear, it would control her. So she told herself she wouldn’t feel fear, not any more. Anger made her less of a victim, and she refused to be that any longer. She let her anger roil within her. She let the dark emotion spring up in her so sharply that she began to tremble uncontrollably with the force and desire to kill her uncle. She hated Lester for having no regard for any life, animal or human.
Nic, still clutching her to him, felt this reaction to the search party, saw her gray and drawn features, and cursed under his breath. He counted twelve men in total, each bearing the blue and gold flying dragon. It was the crest of the Duchess of Seabridge.
A fierce and foreign feeling settled within him.
He was a knight of the realm, by God, sworn to protect the king and his subjects.
However, above all else, he would allow no one to harm what belonged to a McKinnon, and she was his for better or worse.
“We can’t remain on the main road if there’s a search party already on the loose. Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’ll double back the way we came and follow the stream rather than the roadway,” Nic stated with a bit more anger than warranted. If he had doubts about the origins of her concerns, those were put to rest. No one sends out that large of a search party for a petty horse thief.
They needed to find a safe haven to make camp and soon. Darkness was descending rapidly, and he had no desire to be out in the open after dark. The search party was only a small part of the necessity to find shelter.
Blindly, Morgan followed, not questioning his decision to place her in front of him on his mount. Fearing Demon was being left behind in the haste to put distance between them and the search party, Morgan glanced back to be sure he was behind them. Losing him would leave her completely at Nic’s mercy. She saw that Nic was aware of her movements, and Morgan guessed correctly that he understood her concern. The animal was her freedom.
“He’s still with us, lad,” Nic reassured her.
Quickening the pace, Nic turned them around, doubling back on their previous path. It would cost them valuable time; nevertheless, the action was necessary if he was going to successfully skirt the men set on taking Morgan back to a place she obviously didn’t want to be.
Veering off the road and moving into the woods, Nic followed the stream that he had heard earlier running parallel to the road. It seemed the most prudent action since pushing forward wasn’t an option.
It was nearing dark when he found an ideal grove of trees to make camp for the night.
Fate is still feeling generous, he thought.
Nic was aware that Morgan had quickly decided it was in her best interest to follow his lead without question, and he counted his blessings. He needed to be free of distraction if he were to keep them alive. At this point, he didn’t look or smell any better than she did and could quite easily be misconstrued as her kidnapper.
Again, Nic doubted his decision to travel alone and without backup. His friend Connor had almost insisted on joining him, but he had refused. And now Connor wasn’t with him, and Nic would have to make do. He prayed his cockiness didn’t cost Morgan her life.
He dismounted, pulling Morgan down after him. He spoke quietly, knowing voices carry on the wind.
“See to the horses. I’ll make camp.”
Morgan nodded. She had some idea of what to do. The rest she would muddle through. She figured acting like she knew what she was doing was half the battle won.
Nic didn’t waste energy or time gathering firewood. There wouldn’t be a fire tonight, he decided. Firelight and the smell of smoke might draw attention they didn’t need.
“I have cold meat, cheese, and bread in the right side of the saddle pack. Bring it once you water and feed the mounts.”
Morgan looked around and tentatively touched his sleeve to gain his attention. She looked up into his eyes, smiled, and nodded in approval of the spot he had chosen for them to pass the night. Nic felt his toes curl at the transformation of her face.
Good Lord, he th
ought. Nic feared that if she flashed that dimpled smile at the wrong time, they would be in big trouble. There wasn’t a soul who wouldn’t see through her disguise.
“Morgan, go tend our horses. The hour grows late.” Not waiting for her answer, Nic turned her in the direction of the stream.
Standing at the edge of the stream, Morgan wholeheartedly agreed with his choice. To her untrained eye, the area was beautiful. How was she to know that for Nic it was simply the most defensible fortification he could find on short notice?
After flailing around in the bog, she needed a bath but settled for washing what muck she could off her arms and face without getting in the water. Full immersion would have to wait; the horses came first.
As directed, she began to gather the tall grass from around the stream, surveying her surroundings as she went. Just because she couldn’t bathe, didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate the beauty around her. It was a lovely spot. The clear water was gently running, bubbling and soothing as the last of the birds began seeking their roosts for the night. The trees seemed enchanted and gave her a sense of wonder, as she had never seen trees so large with their canopies reaching heavenward, and trunks so wide it would take four grown men with arms stretched wide to surround them. It was an ancient, enchanted place and she wanted to stay here forever.
Turning in circles, Morgan tossed her head back and spread her arms wide as if trying to touch the treetops. Laughing for the first time in ages, she fell dizzy to the ground.
Nic watched her from a safe distance, marveling at the joy so obvious on her face at just being here in this beautiful place.
When had he lost that capacity?
When had he last possessed the ability to be in awe of the beauty of nature? When had he lost the joy to live for the moment, not worry about the past, or fret about what he couldn’t change, or keep reaching for a future that wasn’t yet set? When had he stopped accepting, or worse, stopped noticing the small joys life had to offer.
He couldn’t recall.
His life had not been his own since joining the service of his king. Life had evolved into nothing more than one battle after another of either wits or strength. There had been precious little time for smelling the flowers, figuratively or literally. Was he jealous of the childlike innocence he sensed in his bride? No, not precisely.