Page 69 of Bride of Fire
She wished shehadswived him while she had the chance. Maybe then she wouldn’t be tormented byimaginingwhat it would have been like.
But that opportunity wouldn’t arise again. Not before the Rivenloch knights arrived to banish Morgan Mor mac Giric and his clan to the Highlands.
She narrowed her eyes at the laird sparring with his men below, studying him as sparks flew from his great blade. She’d been watching for nearly an hour when a crafty, devious idea began to coil its way into her brain.
What if shedidn’tbanish him?
She bit the corner of her lip as she watched him destroy the stuffed dummy in the midst of the field.
What if she refused tolethim go back?
What if she forced him to stay…as her husband?
Her heart skittered as she considered the rash possibility.
It made practical sense.
Marrying him would eliminate the conflict over the possession of Creagor. No matter what the missive from the king declared or what her parents reported, the holding would remain in her hands. At leasthalfof it would remain anyway.
If they wedded, she wouldn’t have to bother with stealing Miles or convincing Bethac to stay on to care for the babe, since Jenefer would perforce become his mother.
Best of all, there would be no war or siege. Morgan’s fighting force of Highland giants would make the combined armies of Rivenloch and Creagor undefeatable. The Scots border would be impenetrable.
Of course, what made her pulse race at the idea of marrying Morgan was far more primal. It was desire.
As mad as it was, she was attracted to the wild Highlander, like a bee to a thistle. Not only to his magnificent body and inspiring prowess, but also to his good heart, his clan loyalty, his sense of honor.
Whether Morgan was attracted to her, she didn’t much consider. Marriage among nobles was a matter of political alliance, not sentiment.
Besides, how could he say nay? Once he glimpsed the might of the Rivenloch knights, his choice would be simple. Either wed her and remain at Creagor or refuse her and be banished to the Highlands forever.
Bethac pinched her nose between her thumb and finger as she accompanied Morgan through the great hall after supper.
“I insist, m’laird,” she chided under her breath.
Morgan didn’t think he smelled that bad. But hehadworked up a sweat on the field today. He’d also taken several strategic dives into the dirt.
“I’ll fill a tub for ye upstairs,” she said, refusing to take nay for an answer.
“Fine.” Then, remembering who was in his bedchamber, he added, “I’ll bathe in the nursery.”
She seemed disappointed. “The nursery?”
“I’m not goin’ to feed the gossipmongers by bathin’ with the two lasses in my bedchamber.”
Offended, Bethac gave him a pout. “No one’s mongerin’ any gossip.”
“And I want to keep it that way.”
She sighed. “Very well. I’ll send Cicilia up to feed the bairn and put him down for a wee nap while I have your bath prepared.”
As she bobbed in farewell and scurried off, Morgan shook his head. Why would the old maidservant care how he smelled? She hadn’t reminded him to bathe since he was a young lad. Maybe, now that he was a laird in his own right, she thought he should answer to a higher standard of cleanliness.
Whatever her purpose, he was glad enough of a good soak a half-hour later when Bethac had him summoned to the nursery.
His son was asleep in his cradle near the hearth. The wooden tub, which he’d had built specially to accommodate the larger men of his clan, stood in the middle of the chamber.
But instead of his usual tepid water with a few rags thrown in for scrubbing, the tub was carefully lined with cushioning linens, surrounded by candles, and half-filled with steaming water into which Bethac was sprinkling some sort of dried herb.
