Ruthless (6 page)

Never did he let Magnus know of his
deception.

Now, he watched and studied the men drinking
with him. Feradoch did not fool him with his golden smile or his
praise of all Olaf did. When Feradoch gazed at Magnus, deep in his
son's cold, blue eyes, Olaf saw his soul.

It worried him.

This son of his loins had not grown into the
man he had hoped he would be. 'Twas Angus' fault for not beating
him regularly.

As Chief of the Gunns, he was proud of
Feradoch. As a man and father, he knew better than to trust him at
his back.

Magnus, on the other hand, was so alike
himself he near forgot he was not of his own blood. After those
first years, the boy had stopped thinking like a Morgan and became
a Gunn. He learned early that Gunn justice was all that mattered.
There was one way to judge all things. 'Twas either white or black.
If it benefited his foster family, then it was good. If it did not,
he dealt swiftly with it and had no regrets.

Olaf knew Magnus would be forever loyal.

The Morgans should be afeared.

Feradoch would not heed his oath.

"How fares your family, Magnus? You have not
told me of Graemme. Has he reached your height?" Olaf said with a
sly glance at his son. "Feradoch tells me he is much like a lass in
his ways?"

"He not only has the height but the muscles,
too. Hm. A lass?" Magnus narrowed his dark gaze to stare at
Feradoch, who returned the look with an innocent expression. "In
what way do ye think my brother womanly?"

"He spends much time with the women of the
keep, laughing and coaxing them." Feradoch's lip twisted in a
sneer.

"Aye. He spends time with bonnie lasses, to
be sure. 'Tis his nature to find laughter with them. Huh! I found
their eyes followed him whenever he was in sight. They seem to
particularly admire his arse." He shifted in his seat to study his
blood brother's face.

"He is never at ease around me. I have
offered to share women, but he never agreed." Feradoch squared his
shoulders. "I believe he fears his cock a wee hapless thing when
likened to mine."

"If he said nay to sharing, 'twas because he
prefers his bed sport with one lass at a time." Magnus's throaty
laugh filled the room. "Graemme has no need to be ashamed of his
cock. I can tell ye with all truth, he has a mighty weapon. I came
upon him unawares one day. The lass was happy, to be sure."

"No lass needs happiness to be good at
swiving. All I require is an obedient one who keeps her legs wide
and her mouth shut—except when I fill it." He made an obscene
gesture with his middle finger tapping and sliding between his lips
and deep into his mouth.

Magnus did not care for talk about bed sport.
What he did with a bonnie woman was his own concern, not something
to brag about in the company of men. At first, he'd had trouble
coaxing women to his pallet. They were afeared. Over the years, his
reputation as a considerate lover had provided him ample
partners.

"I placed the woman Muriele with Grunda. In
such a short time, she has become as wild as the forest creatures
she lived amongst. Until I find out what womanly skills she has, I
have not yet decided how she will serve me."

Feradoch glared at his father. "Ye should
have given the woman to me. 'Tis my right as natural son. The
captured noblewoman should be mine to do with as I see fit."

"Huh! Ye didna capture the castle and all
within, did ye?"

"Nay. But had I been here, I would have."

"Lady Muriele belongs to Magnus. He can keep
her or kill her. Matters not to me."

Feradoch shrugged and turned to his foster
brother. "You provided us with fine sport when you ordered the men
hung. They twitched and turned, legs lifting and kicking the air
like they did a heated sword dance."

"Though ye may find amusement in it, 'tis
never to my liking to watch a man die."

"They well-deserved it for not bringing the
women to me." Yawning, Olaf stood and stretched then scratched his
naked groin beneath his kilt. "We go early to inspect Badenloch's
waters."

"The villagers are still plagued with
thieves?" Magnus frowned.

"We've had tales aplenty about them along the
loch's shores. We need workers for the crops of they're strong. It
should not be too hard to capture the louts. If they dinna want
work, we'll leave their bodies to fatten the boars in the
forest."

o0o

Muriele spent a sorrowful night. Way afore
first light, she rose from the pallet and put on the beige smock
and dark brown kirtle. She brushed out her long hair and braided it
from her temples until it met in the back then tied a leather strip
to the ends to keep it out of the way.

During her sleepless night, she could think
only of her mother's unprotected body in the woods. She gritted her
teeth knowing she had to delay tending to her burial until after
meeting Magnus and doing whatever he required of her. Since Grunda
had been her mother's sole friend, surely she would agree to help
her. They would return to the castle before the patrol did.

Magnus could find no fault in that.

Could he?

She stoked the fire, found a cloth bag of
oats and had porridge simmering when Grunda stirred. A sad smile
twisted the old woman's face when she opened her eyes.

"Deep circles beneath yer eyes deny ye had a
restful slumber, eh, lass?"

"Aye. But I had enough."

Muriele busied herself rolling her pallet and
tucking it into the corner where she'd seen Grunda retrieve it. The
hut's ceiling was higher than most, enough for bundles of dry herbs
tied with cord hung from the roof-beams and under the eaves to dry.
At the far end of the room, crude shelves covered the wall holding
earthenware pots, jars and flagons of all sizes sealed with wax or
cloths dipped in wax and tied with strips of leather.

"Have ye done all this since coming
here?"

"Most. They took me from Blackbriar because
their healer had died o'er a year ago." She shrugged her shoulders
and shook her head.

"How could they wait so long for a
healer?"

"They noted little difference. Their old one
knew stitching and festering wounds, but naught of common ailments
so many die of."

Muriele walked beneath the drying herbs,
pinching a leaf here and there, smelling and identifying it.

"'Tis peaceful here alongside the gardens. I
grow most of what I need. All else is in the nearby woods. Yer
mother supplied me with herbs and medicines found along the shores
of streams, those growing amongst wet roots or such herbs like
Mandrake. The Chief does not want it readily at hand." She
shrugged. "He fears anything which can be used to poison him."

Muriele raised her brows. She had not thought
Chief Olaf would be afeared of anyone poisoning him. Who would be
so bold?

After they broke their fast, Grunda walked
with her to the keep and left her at the entrance. 'Twas the first
time Muriele had been inside Kinbrace's great hall. She didn't like
the size of it with so many people in one space. It appeared
cramped alongside the great hall at Blackbriar.

"What kept ye so late, lass?"

The resonant voice split the air like
unexpected summer lightning, startled her. Magnus strode from the
high table, looking ready to ride out. His squire hurried behind
him, carrying his helmet.

"A servant has already freshened my bed. This
day, ye will tend to all atop my clothing chest. See ye mend and
wash it. Have it ready for the next morrow."

His eyes looked as black as his wavy hair
falling loose to brush his shoulders. Padded leather looked to be
beneath his chain mail. Atop the mail was leather shoulder padding
attached by straps to a thick leather vest. His short sword hung
low at his hip.

"I thought to ask..." She got no further. He
had already turned away and was halfway to the keep's heavy doors.
His squire sprinted ahead and tugged the doors wide for his master
to stride through.

'Twas just as well he'd left before she could
finish asking for help burying her mother. She and Grunda would be
enough.

By the time a servant directed her to Magnus'
bedchamber, she heard the screech of the drawbridge lowering and
looked out his window. Below stood a most impressive sight.

Chief Olaf led the warriors, with Magnus and
Feradoch on either side. All three men had Claymore's strapped to
their backs.

The sun rose and flashed on Magnus' shiny
helmet, sending shards of bright light. She raised her hand to
shield her eyes. Magnus stiffened and slowly turned to peer up at
her. Though she couldn't see his eyes beside the nosepiece, she
felt their hard stare.

In that brief look, she remembered his
resonant voice of yester eve warning her.

If ye dare to leave Kinbrace, I will hunt
ye down.

Since she intended to return afore he did,
Sir Magnus would never know she had disobeyed him.

'Twas fortunate Muriele had learned to wash
clothing these past months, else she would have had to rely on
watching the other women. Dried mud covered a pair of breeches. She
frowned, for they appeared to be the pair he'd worn the day before.
She did not recall Sir Magnus kneeling in the mud.

She tackled his dark brown tunic first. The
men must have had skirmishes on their trip from Clibrick to
Kinbrace, for blood aplenty had dried into the linen.

As soon as she put his garments to soak in
the large tub of soapy water, it turned the suds a dirty pink. She
stirred the clothing with a heavy stick then used it to lift them
out.

After tossing out the water and refilling the
tub, she rinsed and laid all but the tunic out to dry. Kneeling
beside the stream, she beat the cloth against smooth rocks until
her knuckles were red and sore. Finally, she nodded her head,
satisfied to see the last hints of blood fade away as cold water
rushed over the rocks.

Had it been merely blood on the cloth, she
would have thought it belonged to some hapless lout so foolish as
to interfere in his journey to Kinbrace. But the stains spread out
from a rent in the garment. Only a sword could cause such a sharp
rip.

She stood, holding the dripping tunic up high
to where it would have reached Magnus' shoulders and studied the
tear. Aye. If she judged his body aright, the wound would be on his
right thigh.

From the unflinching way Magnus walked, he
didn't seem to bear any unhealed injuries.

Remembering yester noon, her eyes widened.
When he had hoisted her by the nape of her neck, she had kicked
backward with her feet to strike his legs. Thankfully, her height
kept her blows to his shinbones. If she'd kicked a healing wound
and angered him further, he'd have kept her head below the water
until her last breath.

Once she twisted the last drop of water from
the cloth, she spread the tunic over a coarse-limbed bush to catch
the sun and anxiously attended to the rest of his clothing. A thin
white shirt needed reinforcing on the holes through which cords
pulled the material together over his chest.

The sun was getting well into the noon hours.
Anxious to finish with the chores he had set her, she decided the
tunic was dry enough for her to get on with its mending. When she
finally placed the last stitches in the dark brown fabric, she hung
it over her left shoulder and gathered each piece of clothing she
had washed and dried. Once she'd folded them, she hurried back to
the keep.

From the looks of his large clothing chest,
he must have clothes aplenty. She placed the stack of clean
garments atop the chest and spread the tunic on the bed to let any
lingering dampness dry.

o0o

"His chores kept me overlong, Grunda. We must
hurry if we are to return before the men." Muriele spread soothing
salve on the soles of her feet then wrapped them in strips of
cloth. She laced her shoes tight to hold the bindings firm.

"I dinna think it wise, lass, but I know ye
won't change yer mind. Ye will go alone if I dinna come with ye."
Grunda clucked her tongue, her eyes clouded with worry.

"I can't wait any longer. The thought brings
sourness in my belly to flood my mouth. Mother must have a proper
burial."

She slung the sack holding the shovel and
spade Grunda used in her work with the herbal garden over her left
shoulder. She hadn't time to eat but gulped down water she'd poured
from the pitcher beside the window.

While she swallowed, Grunda hurried to the
door. "I'll go first. If we leave through the postern gate, it's
possible no one will note us."

Grunda slipped out the door and skirted
around the garden's edges, taking advantage to hide behind each
tree she came across. Muriele followed.

Soon, they pulled away vines growing over the
latch on the gate. It took both their efforts to force the old
wooden gate open and drag it closed behind them. She prayed when
they returned they'd be able to open it again.

Once they reached the forest path, they
lengthened their strides and moved quickly. When Grunda began to
breathe heavily, Muriele felt ashamed and stopped.

"Dinna cause yerself an injury. I will run
ahead to where she lies. When I hear ye coming close on the path,
I'll call out."

She waited to assure herself the old woman
was all right then wrapped her arm around the bag of tools. If she
kept them from flapping against her side, she could run in a steady
lope. Each footfall was painful, but she closed her mind to it and
ran ahead.

Reaching the tramped down brush alongside the
road, her heart pounded with dread knowing her mother's ravaged
body lay beyond. Saying a quick prayer that she'd be strong at the
sight, she took a deep breath as she burst out into the
clearing.

A scream ripped from her throat.