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‘Your guest is sleeping and should not be disturbed.’
‘Did you feed and clothe her?’
‘Aye, she ate a little pottage before the fire, but she was shivering and pale when I tucked her into bed. Whatever was done to her has terrified the poor lass. Was she interfered with?’
Will’s chest tightened, and his hands balled into fists. ‘Did she tell you anything of use?’ he snapped, ignoring the woman’s question.
‘Nay, she spoke not a word to me, keeps her secrets that one. But now the lass is clean I can see that she’s a bonnie, wee thing.’
A scream like a banshee rent the dusk air and Will rushed into the chamber followed by Braya. Morna was screaming and thrashing on the bed. He rushed forward and took hold of her by the shoulders, shaking her awake. Her eyes snapped open, and she regarded him with horror.
‘Get off me, get away, get away,’ she screamed at him, trying to push him off.
Will held onto her tight and pulled her close to his chest. He felt the frantic beat of her heart against his and the warmth from her skin through the thin fabric of her kirtle. ‘It’s alright. Be calm Morna, it is only I, Will. You are safe now. No need to fear.’
For a few moments, there was only the sound of her rapid breathing filling the room and her quiet sobbing.
Braya came up to him. ‘Laird, let me help the lass. I will comfort her.’
‘Go, leave us.’
Braya glowered at him.
‘Do not fash yourself old woman. Her virtue is safe enough with me,’ said Will.
‘Aye, but for how long?’ tutted the woman as she shuffled out of the chamber.
Morna suddenly seemed to find her composure for she pushed away from him, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She regarded him from under her lashes, warily, like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t. She blinked rapidly and seemed confused.
‘I…I thought I was back in that crate. I could not breathe, the water was coming in, and I could not get out, like a rat drowning in a barrel,’ she gasped.
Will rose and poured a cup of wine from a pitcher set out on the table. ‘Here, this will take the edge off your distress,’ he said, handing it to her.
‘I should not. I must keep my wits about me,’ said Morna, shaking her head.
So, she was wary, she did not trust him. ‘I say you should. I have not poisoned it. Drink it.’
Morna took the wine and gulped it down, grimacing a little. ‘It is strong.’
‘Aye, good stuff, sweet is it not? Taken off a merchant vessel, in English waters.’ Will winked at her, and she smiled a little and continued drinking.
‘It tastes better now I know it was stolen from the English,’ she said.
‘Stolen wine always tastes better, like stolen kisses.’
Morna looked away from him, clutching onto the cup tightly as if it were a talisman against evil. She seemed to have no desire to speak further, so they sat in silence, punctuated only by the howl of the wind against the shutters and the hiss and spit of damp logs on the fire.
Carefully, so as not to frighten her, Will’s eyes roamed over her face. She had blossomed since last he saw her, the promise of beauty now fulfilled, like a dull cup polished to shining perfection. His memory was hazy and probably idealised, but the fine cheekbones and determined jaw he remembered. Morna was not beautiful in the flawless way some women were, like delicate dolls with painted on faces. No, her nose was a little too broad for delicacy, her hair too dark for childish beauty and her face broad, with a determined look about it. But those eyes of hers were spectacular, a warm brown, thick with black lashes, wide and intelligent. Will could not tear his gaze from her mouth as she sipped the wine, for it was a perfect bow shape, pink and fulsome and infinitely kissable. Something about Morna’s appearance was lush and ripe and wanton, a wildness begging to be tamed.
‘Whose chamber is this?’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. Had she noticed his scrutiny?
‘Mine, and you are in my bed, Morna, at long last,’ he said with a grin. She set the wine down on the floor and pulled her arms tightly around herself. A misstep on his part, for her guard was up again.
‘You’ve changed since last I saw you. What have you been doing, Morna?’
‘Surviving the treachery of men,’ she said flatly.
‘Such bitterness you have, wrapped in such softness.’
