Page 9 of Bride of Fire
Paying no heed to the icy wind, she threw off her cloak and began untying the laces of her surcoat. Once she’d loosened and hauled off the garment, the wind began to whip at her linen kirtle, wrapping it around her legs.
Leaning against an oak for balance, she tugged off her boots and stockings, tucking them under the boulder. She untied her braid and ran her fingers through her hair, separating the long tresses.
With a bracing, determined breath, she swept the kirtle off over her head…and lost it to the wind. She cursed as it flew across the sward, skipping away like a naughty child, alternately snagging on bushes, then blowing free. Figuring the garment was lost for good, she drew out the filmy white veil she’d packed.
It rippled in the breeze as well, but she managed to drag the veil over her naked body, anchoring it atop her windblown curls with a circlet of silver.
No one would mistake her for a nun now. The sheer veil afforded her no modesty. And no warmth.
But this was war.
Whatever discomfort she had to suffer, it would be worth it. She planned to win this battle. Her future and the title of Laird of Creagor depended upon it.
Clenching her teeth against the biting wind, she emerged from the trees and made her way toward the candle glow in the window. The light of the full moon glistened on the grass, where frost crunched under her feet. The translucent veil, lifting and fluttering on the currents, looked even more ethereal and eerie than she’d hoped.
As she positioned herself in view of the laird’s window, she was tempted to yell out to get his attention. But that wouldn’t have been ghostly. She had to have patience. Still, if he didn’t look out soon, she supposed she’d have to resort to some sort of eerie emanation. Perhaps a low moan or a high keening wail.
Meanwhile, she’d simply stand in silence, stare up at the window, and shiver. The chill wind danced with her veil and gave her icy kisses while she waited.
And waited.
Chapter 6
It had been a long while since Morgan had done something so foolish as to engage in a brawl. Grappling was a behavior hardly befitting a laird, especially when it was with one’s oldest and dearest friend.
After Morgan blacked out, Colban had entreated his maidservant Bethac to see to Morgan’s welfare, in spite of that cruel insult about his birth. Then again, he supposed that was the least Colban could do after knocking the new laird of the clan out cold.
At Bethac’s prompting, they’d both made the proper apologies. And in the end, Morgan had to admit Colban was right. He hadn’t been himself. Not for weeks.
As it turned out, their fight might have been for the best. Engaging in combat had jarred Morgan out of the numbness that had paralyzed him of late. He wasn’t mended. But at least he felt human again.
No longer interested in escaping into slumber, he’d returned to the great hall after addressing his injuries. There, he’d supervised the laying of the rushes, the stocking of the buttery, and the assembly of the trestle tables.
He’d ventured below to the armory, where his men-at-arms were already stockpiling weapons.
He’d wandered out to the stables, where a lad was busy wiping down the weary horses with straw.
The sheep had been securely penned, the coos were in the field, and the fowl nested in the doocot.
The tradesmen had chosen their shops and were setting up shelves and tools.
The cooks had raided the overgrown herb garden and fired up the clay ovens for the evening meal.
By nightfall, the clan proudly hoisted the mac Giric pennon, officially inhabiting the castle.
Of course, on the morrow Morgan would need to seek out more supplies. He’d have to trade for more cattle, purchase additional fowl, see what could be fished from the nearby streams, and evaluate the orchards to determine what they would bear.
Now that the house had been put in order and he’d supped on smoked bream and bannocks, Morgan went upstairs to retire for the night.
The servants had worked hard to make a home for him here. In his bedchamber, a modest peat fire already burned on the hearth. His chair sat beside it, fitted with a feather pillow embroidered with his initials. His personal things were arranged on the table against the wall—his whale bone comb, a pen and parchment, a pitcher of water with a basin, a candle, a cake of soap, a mirror of polished steel.
He picked up the mirror and winced at the bruised and battered face looking back at him. His swollen eye had a black ring around it. His lip was cut. His stubbled jaw was red and abraded. And at the top of his brow, near the hairline, swelled the lump of a bruise.
He hadn’t looked so fearsome and pathetic at the same time since he’d engaged in his first tournament melee as a youth.
He’d meant to introduce himself to his neighbors on the morrow. But that seemed unwise now. He was a mess. He didn’t relish turning up at the neighbors’ doors, looking like a wildcat that had lost a fight with a wolf.
He replaced the mirror and went to stir the fire to life. Then he lit the candle from the flames, bringing the rest of the chamber to light.
