Morgan waited an appropriate amount of time before she attempted to roll him over, her sword still in her hand. She managed it with difficulty, but once she had him on his back, she could see that he breathed still.
Perhaps unfortunately.
She looked, in surprise, at the most handsome man she had ever clapped her poor eyes on. Not pretty, as many lords' sons she'd known were, but noble. Indeed, the first thought that came to mind was that he belonged as a statue in the Hall of Kings in Tor Neroche, not trailing her to do heaven only knew what. His hair was dark, his features perfectly fashioned, and his form enviable.
Of course, he was drooling, but that might have had something to do with her tender ministrations.
Morgan took an unsteady step backward. It took her three tries to replace her sword in its sheath. The man had been following her, likely with her death on his mind. Or worse. She hadn't killed him, for pity's sake.
Still, it was difficult to look away from him. She felt like she had the first time she'd laid eyes on the sword Nicholas had had made for her. It had been so beautiful, she'd done nothing but stare at it, hardly able to believe such a thing existed. And considering the undeniable beauty of the man before her, perhaps she could be forgiven her moment of weakness.
Weger wouldn't have agreed, but he wasn't there to witness her witlessness and she certainly wouldn't tell him when next they met.
She gave herself a good shake, reminded herself that she was not an empty-headed tavern wench, and attempted to turn her mind to other things. Usually at this point in a skirmish she would have been looking for spoils. She set herself to that task, almost certain it would make her feel more herself.
It was one of the rules of engagement. When one bested his enemy, the victor was entitled to the conquered's goods. If one was feeling particularly generous, he left the vanquished his boots and cloak. All weapons were fair game, though it was generally considered bad form not to leave the fallen at least something with which to defend himself.
She would first look for weapons. It would serve a dual purpose: he wouldn't be able to use them against her and she could perhaps fall upon them if she didn't regain her wits soon. She reached for his sword. Somehow, though, she could not bring herself to touch it. She gaped at her own hand as if she'd never seen it before.
With a curse, she reached again for the sword, only to find herself still unable to even put her hand to it.
Good heavens, what next? Would she take up stitching? She snorted and promised herself a good run later to clear her head. For now, she would settle for the man's purse, which she cut from his belt without a twinge of remorse, and a rummage through his pack.
She helped herself to a pair of socks so fine they had to have been stolen from someone else and a scarf made of the same stuff. These things she put into her own pack, then she examined the contents of his purse.
She was surprised to find the coins were not all of a Melksham strike. Half of them she did not recognize; she wondered if she might have pilfered fakes. They bit like gold, though, so she supposed they would do in a pinch. She hesitated, muttered in disgust under her breath, then deposited a bit of his gold back into his purse and put his purse into his pack. No doubt he would find himself robbed of it just the same, but she would sleep with a clear conscience knowing she hadn't been the one to leave him penniless. She had been far kinder to him than any of her mates would have been. They would have thought her mad.
She suspected she should have agreed with them.
With a sigh, she squatted down, put her hands under the man's shoulders and dragged him off the road under the trees. She retrieved his pack and dumped it down next to him.
She walked away before she did anything else foolish. She had done enough already.
An hour later it was dark and Morgan was leaning against a tree twenty paces from the man she had felled, unable to explain to herself why she was there or what she hoped to accomplish by returning.
She had traveled for half an hour, then come to an unwilling stop, unable to go on. She had touched the mark on her brow, reminded herself that it had been earned at the expense of any emotion and any pity. She didn't pity the man. She certainly hadn't fallen prey to the fairness of his face.
Perhaps it had been the fineness of his socks. She'd paused to put them on, unable to resist their softness. It was possible that they had been what had dealt the killing blow to her common sense.
Or perhaps it had been instinct that had forced her to retrace her steps. Weger had never discounted instinct. Indeed, that was the one thing about her he had found to praise, if a single lifting of one eyebrow on one lone occasion could be taken as praise. Few earned even that.
But as she stood leaning against the tree, she discounted instinct and socks, and credited her return to too much rich food at Nicholas's table. She would have to remedy that with a large number of very meager meals on her journey.
The man in front of her stirred. Morgan saw him sit up, then clutch his head in his hands. He lay back down with a selection of curses that had even her raising her eyebrows in appreciation.
It was likely those curses that distracted her from the true peril?the one that had put the point of his sword on her shoulder and given her a brisk tap or two.
Morgan spun around. She had her sword halfway from its sheath before she stopped and stared in surprise.
"Paien?" she said.
Paien of Allerdale made her a low bow. "Morgan, you are not yourself," he said. "Didn't you recognize me?"
She should have. He was one of a trio of companions she had kept company with since her release From Gobhann. "I just didn't expect to see you here. "
"Actually, neither did I," Paien said with a half laugh, "but things change when you least expect them to." He nodded toward the road where vociferous complaints were still being made. "Who is that?"
Morgan shrugged. "I have no idea. He was silent enough after I relied him."
