Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) (19 page)

She wished she hadn’t, for she didn’t need paint for how pale she went
the moment his eyes touched hers. Nor was he in the back in the audience. He
was on the front row, and rising again.

Plato had to pull him back down that time, and use words to reach him.
The play was continuing about her, but Morgan had no sense of space or time. It
was lucky she had no further lines that Act. All she had was the all-consuming
gaze of the man fifteen-odd feet from her, and displaying such masculine desire
and passion, every person in the room had to be aware of it. Morgan certainly
was.

Her eyes did not move from his until the curtain closed with the same
stuttering movement it used to open. She was not needed until Act Five, so she went back to her antechamber to await. Phineas was the FitzHugh waiting for her there. Morgan looked at him from the doorway, and watched him smile. And her
mind went absolutely black.

“Can I get that kiss now?” he asked.

Then, she was running. She didn’t care where, or how far. She was
brought up short by Plato, and his restraining arms about her middle did nothing except gain him a struggle.

“Hold,
Morgan! Hold! You canna’ go out into the masses like this!
You canna’! Stop! They will na’ know the illusion. They will na’ know the part you play! There are too many. They will discover the truth, and take what belongs to my brother! Cease!”

His brother?
At the recollection of a horror so vast, the struggling began anew. Plato tightened his arms, squeezing off her breath, and making his own
labored and harsh.

“Morgan, cease this! I will hurt you if you d
oona’ cease this! Cease this,
I say! Cease this! Damn you! I will na’ let you do this to my brother. I will na’!
Now, cease this and get back into the play. Zander will be expecting you. He is
close to seeing the truth for himself. Do you ken, Morgan? He is seeing it for himself. You canna’ run from that.”

“The FitzHugh...,” she whispered.

“Aye. Zander FitzHugh. He loves you, lass.”

“
Lass?” she repeated, whispering the word.

“You d
oona’ look much like a lad in this. You doona’ feel like one, either. If the crowds outside see this, you will na’ remain innocent long. They will tear
you apart. You ken?”

“Zander?” she whispered again.

“You’ve quieted. Thank the heavens. I would na’ like to hurt you, but if
Zander sees me, with you, like this, he will be hurting me. You ken?”

Rivulets of
emotion cascaded over her, and Morgan grew stock-still.
Zander FitzHugh was the FitzHugh she loved. Zander. It was his brother
Phineas whom she would kill.

“Zander?” she whispered again.

“
He is a devil to keep hold on, and he’ll be storming the stage next. I
would na’ wander far next time.”

“Next time?” she questioned.

“The play isna’ finished.”

“I will na’ finish it,” Morgan replied. She knew now what she was going
to do. And acting like a woman in a silly production wasn’t it.

“You will finish it. You will finish all of it
.”

“You canna’ force me, Plato FitzHugh. Now unhand me.”

He had her gripped with both arms and held against his chest, and off the
ground, and his arms were every bit as hard and muscled as Zander’s were. He probably had just as thick a chest, too. “I can more than force you, lass. I can
take you. Any man you come across, dressed like this, can. You ken?”

“
Where is my
feile-breacan
?
My shirt? My boots, then?”

“In my possession. You be a good girl and finish this, and I’ll see them
given back. You have my word.”

Morgan closed her eyes. The experience of being held in Plato’s arms
wasn’t pleasant, she decided, and it wasn’t unpleasant. It just wasn’t anything.
She opened her eyes.

“You’re every inch a lass, too,” he whispered when her eyes met his.
“You are very desirable, too. I see my brother’s attraction, but I doona’ see his blindness. You ken that much, too?”

“Put me down,” she responded. “Or I’ll tell of
this.”

“It might be worth having my throat slit by Zander if you tell. You’ve
teats, too. I can feel them, just as I can feel how your heartbeat quickens when I
speak like this.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed further and she pulled her lips back. She was
rapidly deciding that she didn’t like anything about being a woman. “Doona’
think me stupid, FitzHugh. I will na’ tell my master, Zander. He may not believe
me, and if he does, I’ll have brothers split asunder. I will tell your lass,
Gwynneth, of this.”

His eyebrows rose. Then, he had her on her feet, one hand on her
elbow. “You guessed?”

“Aye. It is your rotten luck she is spoken for,
though. And wedding your brother in two days hence.”

His features stiffened. “You can stop the wedding, Morgan.”

“Me? What power do I have?”

“You have every power. You d
oona’ speak, but you change everything.
Release her. Release Gwynneth from her betrothal.”

“I canna
’. I had naught to do with it.”

“You did, and you must. Only you can do it. You know this.”

“
Why should I help a FitzHugh?” she asked. ‘‘Especially one who tricks
me, steals my proper clothing, and dresses me thusly?”

“
I’m begging you, Morgan. I love her.” Plato had blue eyes, too. He
had light brown hair, not unlike Zander’s. He didn’t have the cleft to his chin,
nor the full lips, nor was he any taller than herself, but he had every bit of the
same sincerity Zander possessed. Morgan swallowed.

“You love her?” she repeated in wonder. “And does she return this
love?”

“Aye,” he answered.

“Then, how can she give herself to Zander?”

“She has no choice. The earl made the betrothal. By rights, I would be
first choice, but I was too slow. Where do you think Zander found Phineas and me
? Right here. I was leading up to asking for my love’s hand, and then my
brother comes riding up to search us out and receives her hand in marriage
from her father. I dinna’ know what he was up to, or I would have stopped
him.”

“I am sorrowed for you all
,” Morgan replied, “but I repeat. I had naught
to do with it, and I canna’ stop it.”

“Show him what you are, Morgan. Give him what he needs. He does na
’
need Gwynneth. He does na’ even see her when she is right beside him. You
canna’ do this! Have you no heart?”

“If I ever had one, it was taken from me, and it was a FitzHugh that did
the taking.”

“
Make it whole again, then! Give Zander what he needs, what you both
need. Please? I beg it of you.”

“A FitzHugh begging me
?” she questioned. “A squire of no-name and no-clan?”

“I would beg the devil himself for my lovely Gwynneth. You d
oona’
understand the power of love, or you would know!”

He was shaking with emotion. Morgan looked across at him, and
smiled sadly. “’Tis na’ what you think, Plato,” she whispered.

“Zander loves you. You love him. I am not blind. Go to him after the
play. Show him, Morgan!”

“I canna’,” she replied.

Plato dropped her arm and cursed her. Then he glared at her. Then, he
spit at her feet. Morgan watched him do it with a strange sort of detachment.

“
Gwynneth has vowed to take her life before she lets him touch her.”

Morgan paled. She was actually grateful for the paint that hid it.
‘‘Everything that lives dies, Plato,” she responded automatically.

“But
it does na’ have to happen! You can stop it! Please?” He had
ceased reviling her and his eyes filled with tears. “Please?”

Morgan turned away. “I canna’ stop the lass from what she feels she
must do,” she said softly.

“D
amn your soul to Hell, Morgan.”

“’T
is already done, FitzHugh. You canna’ make it worse,” she whispered. “You can only repeat what already will be.”

“Then
I curse you. I curse you, Morgan of no-name and no-clan. I curse
you to abide in Hell for eternity, one far worse than the one you have created on
earth!”

Morgan swallowed. Her shoulders slumped. It didn’t change anything.
Nothing did. “I have created nothing, Plato. I have simply been. I was nothing
before. I will return to nothing. You, Zander, Gwynneth, all have your own
lives to finish, no matter how long or short they turn out to be. I will na’ be here to witness it.”

“Oh,
you’re wrong there. I’m going to make certain of it. If he weds
her, and she takes her life, I’m going to make certain you endure every
moment of how it will feel. Every single damned one. I vow it.”

If he said another word or made another plea, her eyes weren’t going to be able to hold back the moisture. She was going to ruin the dried black soot
outlining her eyes, and make it run all down the grease paint Gwynneth had
painted on her face. She was going to do all of that, and every KilCreggar killed by a
FitzHugh would still be dead.

She waited, forcing her heart to calm, and her vision to clear. The time
was almost at hand. If she took her vengeance before the wedding, the lady Gwynneth wouldn’t take her life. Plato FitzHugh might still have a chance at
gaining the lovely lady’s hand. Phineas was going to be rotting in hell, though.
Morgan was going there too, to assure it.

She straightened, blinked the moisture away and did her best to achieve complete detachment before turning back to him.

“Come, Plato, you have wasted too much time. I will miss my lines, and
ruin this part you have forced on me. I must return now. I must continue living until I complete my own vow.”

“D
oes nothing I’ve said sway you?”

“W
hen the final curtain falls, you are to get me my garments back. I will
na’ be caught again dressed like a weak woman and prey for any man. I want my
kilt and tartan back, and all my dirks. I want an escort back to Zander’s rooms.
I will na’ leave Zander’s rooms until the deed is done. You ken?”

“You will na’ reconsider?”

“
Nay,” she answered.

“But, why? Why?”

Morgan wasn’t going to answer that. She wasn’t going to look back into
the farthest reaches of her memory until she had to. Now that she knew exactly
what was there, she didn’t need to hide from it in dreams. But now wasn’t the time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finishing the play was the exact form of torture she’d been telling herself it would be. Plato was back beside Zander, although where one of the FitzHughs looked to her with a combination of pain, panic and lust, the other glared only hat
red. And the one she was going to kill showed nothing in those light blue eyes,
just like he always did.

The play continued, even without her participation. It was a good thing, too, for she missed her line, and the lads simply acted around it. She did nothing
except sit on her perch, look out on the crowd and watch everything blur and
clear with the moisture that kept rising in her eyes.

The final act was worse, for Plato had moved over to his beloved, and must have appraised her of what had occurred, for the silent tears on the Lady
Gwynneth’s face reflected more than the light. It reflected every bit of heartache
right back up at Morgan, who could do naught but embrace it and add it to her own silent cloak of agony. Once everything was ended, what did it matter how many she hurt, or how much it hurt her? The KilCreggar clan was going to be
avenged. That was what mattered. That was all that could matter.

Morgan didn’t recall what her line was, but said ‘it’s finished,’ when it felt
like the others were awaiting her. It must have been what was required, or close,
because the theater went on. Then, the curtain closed for the final time. Morgan
didn’t move until someone forced her to bow, and then she received cheers,
whistles and suggestions on what a fine lass she could look. She hated the attention. She hated the burgundy dress. She hated her body. She hated herself.

The lying bastard, Plato, didn’t return her clothing, her dirks, or her dignity, either. When she got to the antechamber she’d left them in, there was nothing. Morgan sat behind the screen and used the bottom of the burgundy
dress to wipe at the grease and filth. Then, she took the dragon blade and hacked off a goodly portion of the front of her skirt to fashion a veiling of her own. She
knew she was leaving her legs bare from mid-thigh down, barer than ever in
her kilt, but she had no choice.

That was what she always received from any of the FitzHughs
:
no choice. She got no choice in granting them her service, no choice on her
attire, no choice on her own destiny.

Morgan slid along the walls to Zander’s chamber, keeping to the dark as
much as possible. She was in luck that the earl had hired himself a minstrel, and
the man had taken his lyre and begun his own entertaining. The singer had a goodly voice, too, almost the breadth of Zander’s orator voice, and his words
were enjoyable enough to keep most revelers seated, although the FitzHugh squire’s exhibition was being featured when she slid out. It wasn’t only her skill
with weaponry being sung about, either, it was the haunting beauty of the squire when clad in woman’s form.

Morgan’s face was
hot before she reached Zander’s chamber. She
nodded to the hulk of Eagan on the stoop, although he was up and opening the door for her like she was a requested wench of the evening. Morgan fled inside to don her original garments. She could seek out Plato when she was properly
attired. She was going to retrieve the sett and her dirks, or she was going to find
out why not.

She had everything in its proper place, down to her braid and her breast
binding, and was just sitting next to the fire to contemplate its secrets when
Zander entered. She watched the fire stir at the sudden air without turning
around. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

“Morgan?” he whispered. “I d
oona’ know what to say.”

She breathed then. She sucked in on the emotion, and let it out.
Soon,
Zander,
she thought.
Soon you will be free of me, and free to return to your unstructured, teasing, play-filled life. Soon.

She lifted a tong beside the flame and poked the log, rolling it over and
showering sparks about the hearth. Zander didn’t move, or if he did, she
couldn’t sense it.

“
My brother tells me to trust my senses. Trust the illusion.”

Morgan’s eyes widened on the fire.
Damn Plato
! she thought. “Your
brothers...lie,” she whispered. “Both of them.”

“Both?”

“Aye, both. Plato lies to confuse, whereas Phineas? He has...he is....”
Her throat closed off with it.

“Yes?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t say it.

“Phineas and I were never close, Morgan. He is much older than me, and
much too serious. Almost as bad as you are, yourself.”

“P
hineas is a FitzHugh. You are a FitzHugh,” she whispered.

“True
enough. ’Tis a fine name. A fine clan. You, yourself have been
adopted into it. The cloth looks good on you. Almost as good as yon burgundy
dress did.”

“Zander
—”

“Plato tells me to force you to wear it. Force the illusion into reality. Is that what would happen, Morgan?”

“Plato has his own reasons for such a story, Zander.”

“He
does? What?”

“It is his secret, not mine,” she replied.

“And what secrets does my next older brother keep from me?”

“He is in love.”

“With you? I’ll kill him!”

“Zander
,” Morgan said, turning on the hearth to face him. “No man can
be in love with me. You ask if there is an illusion, and I say ‘aye’, there is. Love
is it.”

“Love is no illusion, Morgan.
’Tis verra real. I think if you put your hand
out, you can touch it. It’s within your grasp now. With me.”

“Nay Zander,” she began and she rose to her feet, since he had taken a
step from the door and every part of her was alert to it.

“I am in love with you, Morgan.”

“I know,” she answered.

“And you feel it for me.”

“Nay,” she whispered, but she couldn’t face him and say it.

“Nay?” he chuckled. “I know who the liar is now, Morgan, and
’tis na’
any of my brothers. ’Tis you.”

“I doo
na’ lie. I have never lied!”

“You love me. It is in every look you give and every word you say, and
in the way you do both. It is in the illusion you created for me tonight. It’s in the image I canna’ get from my head. Get out the blade, Morgan.”

He took another step toward her. Then another. Morgan pulled the blade. “Stop, Zander,” she said.

“Stop? When everything I want was shown to me not an hour past?
Stop, when all my blood sings for and has been denied was just put on show for
me? Stop, when the woman I wish you to be, was put into form in front of my eyes? Stop, when I’ve been unable to perform with another wench since I was
cursed with you, and I just saw curves blessed by fantasy? Stop? Aim the blade,
Morgan!”

“Zander,
you must stop. You must!” She was stepping up on the hearth,
and backing to the point the fire was singeing the backs of her legs.

“Stop? When your wide eyes and slender form could be hiding everything? Stop? When my hands itch to taste your innocence, claim you and
make you mine? Fling the blade, Morgan! Fling it now, damn you!”

Damn the curse of woman tears
!
Morgan heard it as clearly as if she’d
said it aloud, then he blurred, becoming one with the room around him. She
knew the knife in her hand shook as he kept coming, his booted feet barely heard
on the tapestry-covered stone.

“Now!”

She took aim, and threw. The knife slid perfectly into a slit in the stone
across the room, and Zander stopped, closing his eyes. With her instincts, she
saw how clearly the pain and panic were showing on those perfect features.

“D
amn you, Morgan lad,” he said, opening those midnight-blue eyes and
seizing hers. “Damn you.”

“You’ll have to do it, Zander. I canna’
.” Tears were obliterating
everything and she watched him stand beneath her, his entire frame shuddering,
both fists knotted at his side. “You’ll have to do the killing. Do it quickly, though.
Make it fast. Don’t give pain. I beg that much of you.”

The tears slid from her eyes, blinding her, and then she heard his roar.
The chamber door flew open, sending fire into the backs of her legs.
Morgan didn’t even feel it.

Zander was yelling for Plato. He was using every bit of his orator
’s voice,
and it was filled with the self-hate. Plato finally answered, his voice just as loud
and angered, and then both voices faded down the hall. Eagan was in front of
her then, helping her down from the hearth, and beating at the spots of cinders glowing on her
socks.

“You’ve burned yourself, lad,” he said.

“
Where are they going?”

“Yon master has gone to fight Plato. I was told this might happen, although
Master Plato laughed about it.”

“
What might happen?”

“
Master Zander seeks release from the demons in his head.”

“
What demons?” she whispered.

“I d
oona’ know. I only know what I heard. Plato may know.”

Morgan was very afraid that she did, too. “How is
Master Zander going to get this release?” she questioned.

“They will fight. Physical exhaustion is what the youngest master is
looking for. That is the release he hopes for. They will use claymores and
shields. I’ve seen it before. You don’t watch six FitzHugh men grow without
witnessing battles such as these. Come. I’ll assist you with these. If you need a poultice to stop the pain, you let Eagan know. I’ll see it fetched.”

“Pain?” she repeated
.
What did this kindly-faced clansman know of
pain?
she wondered.

“You may’ve burned yourself, lad.”

“Burned?”

He frowned. “You take a burn badly? I would na’ have thought it from
what I was told about you.”

“
Where did they just go?” she asked.

“The
FitzHugh lads? I’ve just told you. To do battle. The master asked
Plato to help him exorcise the demons should it need doing. I heard it. I dinna’ think it would take place, but I doona’ ken these two. Doona’ fash yourself,
though. They be evenly matched. It will na’ go either way for some time.”

“B
attle?” Some of it was sinking into her mind, and she stared over at him, since he was of a like height. “Plato is fighting Zander?”

“Aye. With claymores and shields.”

“Claymores?” She gasped on the word, for the large, heavy sword was
capable of taking a man’s limb off. “We’ve got to stop them!”

“You canna’ stop a FitzHugh set on battle, lad. They be hard in the head
over something like that. Master Zander was clear. They will na’ return until
one wins, or there is no strength left in him. I heard him.”

“Get out of my way, then!”

Morgan raced down the corridor, leaping bodies and sleeping forms to reach the parade ground. The minstrel was still whining his ballads of strength and unrequited love and other ills, and was missing the drama of it right in front
of his nose. Morgan flew out the door, jumped the four large steps to the
earthen ground and lifted from her crouch to get her bearings.

She heard the clang of steel against steel before she could see the
brothers. The night was filled with rain and mud and lust and pain. She could feel it, sense it,
almost absorb it. She crossed the same ground on which she’d taken her victory bow
that afternoon, and approached where torches were being lit and cheers being given. She forced her way to the front of the group, and went to her knees as the FitzHughs raged against each other.

She knew what
it was they felt. She also knew it wasn’t directed at each other, but at her. She knew it and received absolutely nothing from it except complete and utter dread. The claymores kept swinging, covered in mud
and grass, and more than once a grunt of pain came from either of them. Shields that had started without a dent
were now pocked with them, and steam rose
from their bodies as the contest continued.