elk.”
Morgan looked across at him and tossed her head. “You were na’ looking, then, and you move too slowly. Follow me.”
He whistled at the size of it when they came on it. The death hadn’t come easily, although Morgan had pegged it through the eye as was her usual way. The beast had kicked clods of sod all about and rearranged the hillside with his hooves. Morgan looked at it dispassionately for a moment, then knelt to slit its throat. She felt Zander’s eyes on her the entire time.
And she was flushing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zander helped her dress out, and quarter the elk before he left to get his horse. Morgan watched him walk off, a yearling pig draped across his shoulder and a jaunty flip to his kilt. He had a well-muscled backside, if the sway of his kilt was any indication, and she already knew the extent of his masculinity on the front of him.
Morgan’s face flamed. He was an attractive, virile man, and he’d not found a woman to release himself on, or with, since she’d met him. That couldn’t be normal, and for some reason, it was bothersome, too. She didn’t dare wonder at the why.
She lay on her belly amidst the gore of her kill and waited for him to return. The smell of the animal’s blood hung heavy in the rain-filled air, but it didn’t occupy enough of her senses to think on it. It was the same as any clansman-strewn battlefield. Things lived...then they died. If this great bull wasn’t put on earth to grow to maturity, rut, procreate and then die to fill a man’s stomach, what was he put there for?
She looked over at the sightless eye, where Zander had already pulled the arrow out. The elk’s rack was the largest she’d ever taken. Heavily pointed and bowl-shaped, with a size to match. There was enough meat there to feed them through most of a month. It was a great beast. Now, it was a great, dead beast.
She rolled over and looked up, through the tunnel the raindrops created, at the gray-filled sky, blinking whenever a drop landed near her eye. She’d never wanted attention. If she got it, she’d have fought it. She didn’t want lasses panting for her, nor lads plotting against her. She wanted to fulfill her destiny, lay on the ground, close her eyes and wait for the oblivion of a good death. That’s what she wanted, what she’d always wanted.
So, why was it bothersome what Zander had said? Why did the man say so much anyway? What was it to him if Morgan, of no-clan and no-name, cared about death, or life? The man made no sense. He was also taking up too many of her thoughts. More frightening, he was taking up more of her dreams. She wondered what that meant.
He had strong hands. Hands that had gripped hers last eve and left her no doubt who would be the victor of their arm-wrestle. He had very handsome features, too. She’d thought so when they first met, and nothing was changing that impression. He kept using his dirk to scrape the stubble from his face, showing off the cleft, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones. Why, if she were a lass that cared for such things, she’d think him the most handsome man birthed.
She sighed.
“Day-dreaming atop blood? That is how I envisioned you, too. Oh Morgan, what am I to do with you, lad?”
She was up before he finished, letting the rain soak away the elk’s leavings and watching him carefully. She hadn’t heard him approach, and he had his horse with him. Morgan eyed the animal, and wondered at its newly acquired stealth.
“Or, perchance you were asleep?” he asked, jovially.
“I was neither. Your steed tip-toes through heather, and you made little sound yourself.”
He shook his head. “We startled every bird for yards. Face it, Morgan lad. You’re making up for lost sleep.”
“Why would I be losing sleep?”
“Trying to protect the lasses’ virtue, is my best guess. Secondly, I’d have to say that you’re afraid.”
Her eyes widened. “Afraid of what?” she asked.
“ Dreaming,” he replied.
She had
Morgan looked across at him and tossed her head. “You were na’ looking, then, and you move too slowly. Follow me.”
He whistled at the size of it when they came on it. The death hadn’t come easily, although Morgan had pegged it through the eye as was her usual way. The beast had kicked clods of sod all about and rearranged the hillside with his hooves. Morgan looked at it dispassionately for a moment, then knelt to slit its throat. She felt Zander’s eyes on her the entire time.
And she was flushing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zander helped her dress out, and quarter the elk before he left to get his horse. Morgan watched him walk off, a yearling pig draped across his shoulder and a jaunty flip to his kilt. He had a well-muscled backside, if the sway of his kilt was any indication, and she already knew the extent of his masculinity on the front of him.
Morgan’s face flamed. He was an attractive, virile man, and he’d not found a woman to release himself on, or with, since she’d met him. That couldn’t be normal, and for some reason, it was bothersome, too. She didn’t dare wonder at the why.
She lay on her belly amidst the gore of her kill and waited for him to return. The smell of the animal’s blood hung heavy in the rain-filled air, but it didn’t occupy enough of her senses to think on it. It was the same as any clansman-strewn battlefield. Things lived...then they died. If this great bull wasn’t put on earth to grow to maturity, rut, procreate and then die to fill a man’s stomach, what was he put there for?
She looked over at the sightless eye, where Zander had already pulled the arrow out. The elk’s rack was the largest she’d ever taken. Heavily pointed and bowl-shaped, with a size to match. There was enough meat there to feed them through most of a month. It was a great beast. Now, it was a great, dead beast.
She rolled over and looked up, through the tunnel the raindrops created, at the gray-filled sky, blinking whenever a drop landed near her eye. She’d never wanted attention. If she got it, she’d have fought it. She didn’t want lasses panting for her, nor lads plotting against her. She wanted to fulfill her destiny, lay on the ground, close her eyes and wait for the oblivion of a good death. That’s what she wanted, what she’d always wanted.
So, why was it bothersome what Zander had said? Why did the man say so much anyway? What was it to him if Morgan, of no-clan and no-name, cared about death, or life? The man made no sense. He was also taking up too many of her thoughts. More frightening, he was taking up more of her dreams. She wondered what that meant.
He had strong hands. Hands that had gripped hers last eve and left her no doubt who would be the victor of their arm-wrestle. He had very handsome features, too. She’d thought so when they first met, and nothing was changing that impression. He kept using his dirk to scrape the stubble from his face, showing off the cleft, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones. Why, if she were a lass that cared for such things, she’d think him the most handsome man birthed.
She sighed.
“Day-dreaming atop blood? That is how I envisioned you, too. Oh Morgan, what am I to do with you, lad?”
She was up before he finished, letting the rain soak away the elk’s leavings and watching him carefully. She hadn’t heard him approach, and he had his horse with him. Morgan eyed the animal, and wondered at its newly acquired stealth.
“Or, perchance you were asleep?” he asked, jovially.
“I was neither. Your steed tip-toes through heather, and you made little sound yourself.”
He shook his head. “We startled every bird for yards. Face it, Morgan lad. You’re making up for lost sleep.”
“Why would I be losing sleep?”
“Trying to protect the lasses’ virtue, is my best guess. Secondly, I’d have to say that you’re afraid.”
Her eyes widened. “Afraid of what?” she asked.
“ Dreaming,” he replied.
She had
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