Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
There were perhaps ten minutes to go until midnight, but Morag was already pacing back and forth in the hidden courtyard, trying to convince herself that this hadn't all been a completely terrible idea.
Why had she decided to trust Murdoch Campbell?
She should have known better than to do that, she should know better, and yet…
She'd seen what he was looking at in the war room library, and it had changed something inside her.
For Morag's whole life, she'd only had those around her who agreed with the path her father was taking, whatever that might be.
She'd been a tool, and a knowing one—whether she was being sold to the Murrays or being commanded to play the seductress to uncover a spy, she had never allowed herself to question any of it.
But, though Alistair Campbell was trying to mold his newly returned son into a tool as well, Murdoch was clearly only compliant on the surface.
Morag had studied the map she'd smuggled from the library and she knew exactly what Murdoch was looking for—a way to intervene in the coming slaughter.
Murdoch was Campbell's son, there was no denying his blood or how much he looked like Ian, but his heart and soul were still with the Kincaids, just as Elsie's had been.
Morag's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she thought of Elsie.
The way she'd acted toward the girl had been petty and juvenile, but at the time it had seemed like the only action within Morag's reach.
She had never loved Rolland, but she'd seen him as the way out of this obedient hell, and then Elsie had come along and spoiled it.
But Elsie was as brave as she was skilled, as fair as she was beautiful.
The jealousy that had burned inside Morag had cooled over time into something like a reluctant admiration as she looked back upon that time.
Now that her father had sworn himself to Campbell, and dragged Morag with him, she wished so hard that everything had gone differently.
When the war came, she would be on the wrong side, and knowing that burned her.
The secret door opened and Murdoch walked into the courtyard, a troubled, vulnerable expression on his face that she had never seen before. It made her heart stutter, and part of her longed to move closer to him, but she stayed still.
As soon as he was close enough, he folded his arms and stared at her.
"Well. I'm here. But whatever this is, I'm doin' nothin' until ye've answered me questions.
Why did ye protect me in the library? What were ye hopin' tae gain?
Why have ye nae told yer father what ye have discovered?
I ken ye were tryin' tae catch me—why not use the evidence? "
Morag was ready for his questions. She couldn't tell him the truth, not when she wasn't even entirely sure of it herself. All she'd been thinking at that moment was that she couldn't bear to see him put to death for trying to do what was right.
Instead, she spoke in a clipped voice and said, "I simply decided ye were more useful tae me alive than dead."
Murdoch narrowed his eyes. "Useful? How is that?"
In answer, Morag threw the sword down at his feet.
Murdoch stared at it for a second, then bent down and picked it up.
Morag watched him, her heart hammering as she stood perfectly still with the poise a lifetime of pretending had granted her.
She didn't know if she'd ever be able to escape from under her father's control, but neither would she stand back and allow people to die for the greed of a man like Campbell.
"I need to learn tae fight," she said eventually after the silence went on for several more minutes. "Yer sister can fight like nae woman I have ever seen. I need ye tae train me."
Murdoch looked suddenly startled. "What? Why?"
She kept her voice steady. "Me father never allowed me tae learn, and death is headed our way. Would ye leave me undefended?"
"Ye'll be safe in the castle while the fightin' goes on," Murdoch argued. "Me family and the Murrays are exceptions in how our women fight, nae the rule. There's nae need for ye tae put yerself in danger."
Morag stared at him, her hands folded in front of her. "Yer family?" she asked pointedly. "Ye mean the Kincaids, Murdoch?"
He scowled at her, caught. She was surprised that he'd slipped so easily, especially when he had been so careful up until now.
"Fine. Have it yer way." He held out the short sword back to her, then moved to grab a longer weapon from the rack. "I'm nae expert swordsman," he told her. "I can fight well enough, but ye'll find nae exceptional skill from me. Ye'd need me brother, Arran, for that."
"But ye can teach me," Morag urged. "Ye and Elsie both trained under the Kincaids. Even if ye're more skilled with other weapons, ye can show me how tae wield a sword."
"I can," Murdoch admitted. He held out his chosen sword in front of him. "Try tae hit me."
She blinked.
"Do it. Now."
Morag launched herself forward and staggered back in surprise as Murdoch easily brushed off her attack. She tried again and again, her irritation and frustration building as he managed to parry each of her attempts with seemingly no effort whatsoever.
"Ye're nae payin' attention," he told her. "Stop starin' at me sword. Aim for me."
She narrowed her eyes and renewed her attempts, and to her surprise, the flat of her side tapped the side of his arm. Murdoch stared at the touch for a moment, then nodded grimly.
"Good. Again."
An hour passed or more, and soon Murdoch was moving, falling more seriously into a fighting stance.
The attempts at attacks turned into sparring, with Murdoch shouting instructions as they fought, urging her to defend.
Morag had a sheen of sweat on her forehead, but soon she was avoiding all of his attacks with ease, and though she felt pride for a moment, it vanished as soon as she saw the careful look on Murdoch's face.
"Fight, damn ye!" she snapped, rushing toward him with the point of her sword. He moved out of the way effortlessly. "Why are ye holdin' back?"
"Ye're nae ready for an actual attack. I'm goin' easy," Murdoch grunted as she twirled toward him with another failed blow.
"Stop goin' easy! It willnae be easy when yer family is here tae kill me," Morag snarled.
Murdoch's expression darkened and he threw himself forward, swiping hard. Morag gasped as the sword swung easily past her useless parry, and it stopped just at the edge of her neck. Murdoch held it there, glaring coldly at her, his blade a breath from her throat.
"Be careful what ye say," he warned.
Her pulse was thumping and her knuckles were white around her sword's hilt, but she did not pull back from her taunt.
Ducking out of the way of his blade, she danced backward and declared, "Ye're a coward.
A coward! Who kent that the great Murdoch Campbell could be brought tae his knees by a woman! "
"If I were a coward I'd kill ye now for yer insolence!" Murdoch snapped back. "Perhaps a Campbell would, but ye've ruined that already, havenae ye? Aye, I'm afraid—afraid of hurtin' ye. Afraid that if I push too hard, ye'll bleed out before the sun rises."
For a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Morag stared into his eyes and saw someone she hadn't seen before.
This man wasn't the liar and the spy she had been sent to discover.
He wasn't Murdoch Campbell, the bloodthirsty son of the equally bloodthirsty laird.
This was someone different, someone gentle and kind, someone entirely different.
A memory forced its way into her mind, ringing in her ears.
The maid, Kenna, chatted eagerly with her warrior sister, Slaine, while Morag passed them on her way to find Rolland.
"The brother sounds wonderful," Kenna gushed. "Christopher. She says he's too serious but has the kindest heart she's ever kent. Do ye think she'll introduce me?"
"Keep dreamin'," Slaine teased. "Besides, we've all seen the way ye look at the village boys when they visit."
"Nae as easily as Rolland has with—oh, good day, Miss Caindach. Forgive us for gettin' in the way."
Morag had swept past them, furious at the implication of Rolland's affection, but all she could think of now were the words Elsie had claimed about her brother. Too serious, but also too kind.
Something stirred within her, so violently that her careful armor threatened to crack.
She could not allow that, nor could she allow the way her nerves pushed at her to reach out, to find out if it was truly Murdoch or Christopher who stood before her now.
She could not allow herself to care. Morag pushed the feeling down, locking it away in the deepest part of herself, bringing the coldness back to protect her.
"If ye dinnae help me, I'll tell everyone what I ken. I'll tell them everythin'!" she threatened.
Murdoch's eyes widened, and Morag flinched when she saw the lost look of hurt that flashed across his face. Before the guilt could overwhelm her, though, Murdoch's mask returned fully and he growled out a frustrated curse.
"Fine. Ye want me full power? Prepare yerself," he snarled, then threw himself forward.
His attacks were fast and fierce, and Morag caught a few tiny cuts across her shoulders before she was able to raise her own sword to parry. As he set upon her with a relentless volley, he shouted instructions.
Move this way. Control your breathing. Brace yourself.
She followed every one of his orders religiously, putting everything she had into defending against his attacks, looking for any opening to attack back. He gave her none; true to his word, he was relentless in his fighting, but with his instructions, Morag was at last able to match his rhythm.
The deadly beat grew furious and fast, and though Morag fought back awkwardly, she found a new kind of power drawing into her limbs with every step.
Her years of being silenced and underestimated sang through her veins, and she moved with renewed determination, fighting as hard as her untrained body would allow.
Her arms stung from many tiny cuts, but she ignored them, driving herself forward more and more, refusing to back down.
The sun was rising when her body finally failed and her arms sagged from the weight of the weapon. Her knees gave out, and Murdoch's arms were there, catching her carefully and gently removing the sword from her hands.
"We've got tae stop makin' a habit of this," he said as he helped her back to her feet.
Morag glanced up tiredly to respond with a wicked retort, but the words died on her lips as she saw how close they were standing.
His hands were on her waist, keeping her steady, and her own hands rested on his chest for balance.
They were both breathing hard, and as their eyes met, something shivered in the air.
Heat rose between them and within her own blood as she remembered the last time they'd stood this close together, their breath mingling, their skin touching.
Her body yearned to be pulled closer, their lips to find each other's again, the echo of the kiss overwhelming her.
It would be so, so easy to close the gap.
So easy to find out how it felt to kiss him properly and to be kissed in return without the threat of danger right around the corner.
Instead, she pushed back, breaking the embrace and metaphorically dumping coldness upon the rising flame. She turned her back so that he could not see her face.
"We're done for the night. We only have a few hours left tae rest before the rest of the castle wakes. I suggest ye use them."
Murdoch made a small sound that was probably an affirmation. He moved to put the swords back on the rack, and Morag tracked him with her eyes, though when he looked back, she quickly looked away again.
"I'll meet ye here at midnight again. Dinnae leave me waitin'," Morag said, her throat tight.
"I wouldnae dream of it," Murdoch said hoarsely.
Then, as quickly as she could, Morag fled into the safety of the castle, trying to ignore the frantic swirling in her treacherous heart.