Chapter 48

By the time Alicia awoke, the day was half gone. Morgan, as usual, had arisen at dawn. A laird’s life was a busy one.

That was fine with her. She preferred not having to play the role of the timid and dutiful wife every hour of the day. As long as she had servants to do her bidding and see to her needs, she had no need of Morgan.

To be honest, she required very little in life. Morgan should consider himself lucky she was so easily pleased.

She demanded only five things.

A loyal husband of good standing.

Enough coin to maintain her comfort.

The authority to command others.

Civilized company.

And a bearable climate.

For two years, she’d had to live without the last two. Now that Morgan had moved the clan to the Lowlands, she could be assured of all her needs.

Swiving him was the price she paid for that assurance. She wouldn’t fool herself about that for a moment. She might have slipped through his lusty fingers last night. But Morgan would eventually insist on having his way with her. After all, as laird of a clan, he expected to sire more than one child.

For now, at least, she could use the excuse of her horrid ordeal to keep him at bay.

She picked up the steel mirror on the table beside her and examined her face. Already her cuts had begun to heal. Her black eye had turned yellow-green. The lump on her brow had diminished into a flat purple bruise.

She smiled in satisfaction. Her wounds were severe enough to be convincing, but not enough to scar. Of course, if that wretch Edward hadn’t swived the midwife, she wouldn’t have needed to inflict them at all.

Her face grew ugly as she sulked at the memory of the adulterous swine. She slammed the mirror back down on the table.

Then she forced her lips into a brilliant grin. There was no need to dwell on the past. She’d taken care of all that. Her husband would give her no cause to fret. Morgan wasn’t Edward. He’d never prove disloyal.

The shutters were ajar, and Alicia suddenly heard voices coming from outside the window. Curious, she gathered her kirtle and crept from the bed to peer out to the ground below.

Standing on the sward and conversing with Bethac’s redheaded grandson was that damned nursemaid.

Irritation crawled up Alicia’s spine. What was the irksome woman scheming? Wasn’t she supposed to be watching over Morgan’s infant? And what was her business with his soldier?

Her earlier concerns about the wench immediately resurged. It was a small step from dallying with Morgan’s men to pursuing Morgan himself. Alicia should know. She’d moved many a man to possessive jealousy by flirting with those around him.

She ground her teeth and dug her nails into her palms. Somehow she had to get rid of the tedious wench.

She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to kill her. Not that the prospect didn’t hold some appeal. Alicia wouldn’t have minded at least destroying the wench’s face with a thorough beating. It would serve her right. The maid was too pretty for a servant and too cocky for her own good.

But murder would be far more difficult to pull off this time.

Reminded of her last victims, she wondered what was happening now at Edward’s castle. Did anyone care who had disposed of the lord? Or were the scavengers of his household too busy fighting over the scraps?

As she pondered the odds of anyone tugging on the dangling threads of her crime, she noticed the nursemaid was doing more than just chatting with William.

She watched in bafflement as the wench loaded a longbow, drew back the string, and let an arrow fly. The movement seemed as natural as breathing. And when Alicia shifted to see where the arrow had landed, she spied a wee straw target at the far end of the wall, pierced in the dead center.

When William picked up his bow next, Alicia decided she must be mistaken about the target. The arrow in the bull’s-eye no doubt belonged to him. Perhaps he was trying to impress the wench with his marksmanship.

He loosed his arrow. It lodged in the upper right corner of the target, far off the mark.

The two conversed for a moment, gesturing and flexing their bows.

Alicia scowled. Was William teaching the wench how to shoot?

That was highly irresponsible. The woman had been hired to care for Morgan’s child. Not to waste her time on archery.

Besides, a bow in the hands of a woman was hazardous. A weapon in the hands of a serving maid was foolhardy. And if that maid had a rebellious nature and an insolent tongue…

Alicia lifted a calculating brow. No doubt Morgan would deem that a dismissible offense. And if not, she was certain she could convince him of it.

Only half-finished with his supper, Morgan nonetheless threw his napkin onto the table and stormed to his feet, scraping back the bench. The fact that Alicia had managed to limp her way downstairs to the great hall to deliver the message to him meant it was serious. And the news she whispered in his ear had the ring of truth to it.

A quick glance around the trestle table revealed she was right about one thing. William was noticeably absent.

Why the lad would be teaching Jenefer, a self-proclaimed master archer, how to shoot was a mystery. But that wasn’t what concerned Morgan. He only cared about two things.

Jenefer had somehow managed to steal out of the keep.

And she was armed.

Bidding Alicia return to his chamber and the clan to return to their supper, he left the great hall with claymore in hand to deal with Jenefer’s treachery.

His heart pounded as he stalked across the sward at the foot of the keep. But as he drew near his bedchamber, he slowed his step to observe the pair of archers beneath his window.

His wife’s report had been partially accurate. William was indeed practicing his marksmanship, drawing his bow, taking aim at a target. But Alicia hadn’t quite grasped the truth of the situation.

The lad wasn’t teaching the warrior maid how to shoot. She was instructing him. And the amazing thing was, whatever she’d done, Morgan could see William’s posture was much better, and his aim had improved. For a moment, Morgan watched in fascination.

Then, Jenefer took the lad’s place. With no apparent effort, she nocked an arrow into her bow, drew back the sinew, and released the shaft. And the breath stopped in his chest.

She was magnificent. Her form, her strength, the ease with which she took aim, the grace with which she loosed her arrow—as if the bow were a natural extension of her arm—left him thunderstruck.

He looked beyond her to the target.

Her shaft had struck squarely in the center of the bull’s-eye.

His mouth went dry. Jenefer du Lac’s skills weren’t just an amusing curiosity. The woman was formidable. Deadly. Dangerous.

Clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on the claymore, he strode forward.

“Hold your arrows!”

Before he could shout another command, in one fluid motion, the lass wheeled about, whipped an arrow from her quiver, nocked it, and took aim at his heart.