Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) by Jackie Ivie

Author:Jackie Ivie [Ivie, Jackie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-05-06T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Finishing the play was the exact form of torture she’d been telling herself it would be. Plato was back beside Zander, although where one of the FitzHughs looked to her with a combination of pain, panic and lust, the other glared only hatred. And the one she was going to kill showed nothing in those light blue eyes, just like he always did.

The play continued, even without her participation. It was a good thing, too, for she missed her line, and the lads simply acted around it. She did nothing except sit on her perch, look out on the crowd and watch everything blur and clear with the moisture that kept rising in her eyes.

The final act was worse, for Plato had moved over to his beloved, and must have appraised her of what had occurred, for the silent tears on the Lady Gwynneth’s face reflected more than the light. It reflected every bit of heartache right back up at Morgan, who could do naught but embrace it and add it to her own silent cloak of agony. Once everything was ended, what did it matter how many she hurt, or how much it hurt her? The KilCreggar clan was going to be avenged. That was what mattered. That was all that could matter.

Morgan didn’t recall what her line was, but said ‘it’s finished,’ when it felt like the others were awaiting her. It must have been what was required, or close, because the theater went on. Then, the curtain closed for the final time. Morgan didn’t move until someone forced her to bow, and then she received cheers, whistles and suggestions on what a fine lass she could look. She hated the attention. She hated the burgundy dress. She hated her body. She hated herself.

The lying bastard, Plato, didn’t return her clothing, her dirks, or her dignity, either. When she got to the antechamber she’d left them in, there was nothing. Morgan sat behind the screen and used the bottom of the burgundy dress to wipe at the grease and filth. Then, she took the dragon blade and hacked off a goodly portion of the front of her skirt to fashion a veiling of her own. She knew she was leaving her legs bare from mid-thigh down, barer than ever in her kilt, but she had no choice.

That was what she always received from any of the FitzHughs: no choice. She got no choice in granting them her service, no choice on her attire, no choice on her own destiny.

Morgan slid along the walls to Zander’s chamber, keeping to the dark as much as possible. She was in luck that the earl had hired himself a minstrel, and the man had taken his lyre and begun his own entertaining. The singer had a goodly voice, too, almost the breadth of Zander’s orator voice, and his words were enjoyable enough to keep most revelers seated, although the FitzHugh squire’s exhibition was being featured when she slid out. It wasn’t

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