to look away, then she looked down, and then she sucked in the fear at the sight of every woman’s curse. Morgan went to her knees on the blood-soaked sod and put her head in her hands. She was having her woman-time? Now?
“F ind a burn and cleanse yourself. I’ll load Morgan. He’s used to the smell, but he won’t like it all over you, too.”
Morgan fled. She was shaking before she plunged into the burn, soaking herself further than any rain could. She had to hack away part of her under-tunic to use, and the loin-wrap Zander had devised was heaven-sent, too. She hadn’t been cursed for almost a year, and now it had to come? She wondered why. She’d done nothing different, except eat and lay about more.
She wondered if that were the cause, but had none to ask . If any of Zander’s other lasses suffered their time, it had been in secret. It should be in secret. It was another secret for her to keep, and she couldn’t even remember how long it was supposed to curse her for. It shouldn’t happen. The last thing she wanted was a reminder of her gender. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be a woman. She didn’t have the time or the inclination. She was exactly what Zander called her, a killing machine.
There was a set look to her shoulders and a sneer on her mouth when she rejoined him.
“Well, you look none the worse for your bath. Slightly wetter, less blood-covered. What is it?”
“ Nothing,” she replied viciously.
He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing. He had all the meat loaded and the reins in his hand. As he always taunted, she had missed the work and returned for the benefit.
She followed him back, attempting to keep her eyes anywhere but on the width of his shoulders, or on the muscles of his back where the shirt was plastered to him, or on his legs, where the back of his kilt seemed to caress each step, and especially from the back of his head, where damp, curling brown hair started before it fell over the width of his shoulders...reaching the middle of his back....
Morgan swallowed the instant excess moisture and rolled her eyes , stopping her mental listing of his attributes. As if he knew of her skittishness, he started the tuneless whistle he was always making. Then, she got to try to ignore the great hulk of him, and the noise he was making, too.
Killing his brother , the FitzHugh laird, had better be worth all the trouble, she told herself.
The camp was up, well up, and too quiet. Zander halted and Morgan ran into the back of him before she could help it. His hand came around his side to stop her, but she’d already moved away and was taking in the scene. Two of the new lads he’d acquired were facing off, a dirk in each hand and squatting low as they sliced toward each other.
Sophie’s disheveled shift and the gratified look on her face told the story. It was obvious they were fighting over her, although if they’d think with their heads instead of their man organs, they’d know Sophie was available for any of them, or all of them. Morgan took it in with a glance, and had her six dirks in her hands before another move was made.
“Drop them,” Zander said quietly.
One of them looked up, the other snarled and used the opportunity to slash at his opponent’s lower arm. Morgan let her own knives fly and knocked all four dirks from them to the ground before anyone could catch their breath. There was a collective gasp. Morgan stepped in front of Zander, her final two dirks held between her thumb and forefingers, blades out. The lad named Collin started rubbing at one hand, while the bleeding one stared open-mouthed at her.
“The next two go where you least want them ,” she said.
Her announcement got her four hands raised and more admiring glances from the females Zander had peopled his encampment with. Morgan stepped aside, allowing Zander to pronounce the judgment, and wondering at her stupidity. If his lads wanted to gang up on her, as Zander predicted, then she’d
“F ind a burn and cleanse yourself. I’ll load Morgan. He’s used to the smell, but he won’t like it all over you, too.”
Morgan fled. She was shaking before she plunged into the burn, soaking herself further than any rain could. She had to hack away part of her under-tunic to use, and the loin-wrap Zander had devised was heaven-sent, too. She hadn’t been cursed for almost a year, and now it had to come? She wondered why. She’d done nothing different, except eat and lay about more.
She wondered if that were the cause, but had none to ask . If any of Zander’s other lasses suffered their time, it had been in secret. It should be in secret. It was another secret for her to keep, and she couldn’t even remember how long it was supposed to curse her for. It shouldn’t happen. The last thing she wanted was a reminder of her gender. She wasn’t going to allow herself to be a woman. She didn’t have the time or the inclination. She was exactly what Zander called her, a killing machine.
There was a set look to her shoulders and a sneer on her mouth when she rejoined him.
“Well, you look none the worse for your bath. Slightly wetter, less blood-covered. What is it?”
“ Nothing,” she replied viciously.
He lifted his eyebrows but said nothing. He had all the meat loaded and the reins in his hand. As he always taunted, she had missed the work and returned for the benefit.
She followed him back, attempting to keep her eyes anywhere but on the width of his shoulders, or on the muscles of his back where the shirt was plastered to him, or on his legs, where the back of his kilt seemed to caress each step, and especially from the back of his head, where damp, curling brown hair started before it fell over the width of his shoulders...reaching the middle of his back....
Morgan swallowed the instant excess moisture and rolled her eyes , stopping her mental listing of his attributes. As if he knew of her skittishness, he started the tuneless whistle he was always making. Then, she got to try to ignore the great hulk of him, and the noise he was making, too.
Killing his brother , the FitzHugh laird, had better be worth all the trouble, she told herself.
The camp was up, well up, and too quiet. Zander halted and Morgan ran into the back of him before she could help it. His hand came around his side to stop her, but she’d already moved away and was taking in the scene. Two of the new lads he’d acquired were facing off, a dirk in each hand and squatting low as they sliced toward each other.
Sophie’s disheveled shift and the gratified look on her face told the story. It was obvious they were fighting over her, although if they’d think with their heads instead of their man organs, they’d know Sophie was available for any of them, or all of them. Morgan took it in with a glance, and had her six dirks in her hands before another move was made.
“Drop them,” Zander said quietly.
One of them looked up, the other snarled and used the opportunity to slash at his opponent’s lower arm. Morgan let her own knives fly and knocked all four dirks from them to the ground before anyone could catch their breath. There was a collective gasp. Morgan stepped in front of Zander, her final two dirks held between her thumb and forefingers, blades out. The lad named Collin started rubbing at one hand, while the bleeding one stared open-mouthed at her.
“The next two go where you least want them ,” she said.
Her announcement got her four hands raised and more admiring glances from the females Zander had peopled his encampment with. Morgan stepped aside, allowing Zander to pronounce the judgment, and wondering at her stupidity. If his lads wanted to gang up on her, as Zander predicted, then she’d
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