True Highland Spirit by Amanda Forester

could tell someone what I saw.”
    “Who would you tell? And if you did, I would deny it. A thousand pardons, my lady, but I doubt they would take your word over mine.”
    Morrigan flinched at the truth of his words. “’Tis the first time my bad reputation e’er kept me alive.”
    “No harm will come to you at my hand, Lady Morrigan.” Dragonet’s eyes pierced into hers. He spoke the words like a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”
    At the core of her being, Morrigan knew his words to be true. With cold dread she realized she trusted him, and trust was a dangerous emotion. She pushed it away like refuse and mentally scrambled for the guarded suspicion that kept her alive. “Do ye carry a blade on the other wrist as well?”
    “ Oui .” He held out his other hand, but he made no effort to roll back the sleeve, so she slowly rolled the fabric of his sleeve up, revealing the smooth, leather harness beneath. She ran her hands down the leather harness, admiring much more than the concealed knife.
    Morrigan turned his hand over in the guise of inspecting the straps, but really to put her hand in his. His warm hand closed around her fingers gently, a friendly gesture and more. The other hand also held the smooth calluses of a swordsman. He used both hands in battle. What else could he do with those hands?
    Desire swept through her, hot and powerful. All that she denied herself pounded through her veins. She chose the life of a warrior to help her clan, but the sweet pleasures of a mate, a husband, these she had forsaken. She fought against the powerful emotion with little success. She should not feel desire toward anyone, especially not some French minstrel, spy, knight… hell, she did not even know who he was.
    Morrigan unstrapped the leather buckles, taking the dagger from his wrist. It was a nice piece, a good weight in her hand. On the handle of the dagger was a black circle with a white cross—a crest of some sort?
    “Ye should no’ let a lady disarm ye.” She pointed the blade at his chest only a few inches away.
    “But you assured me you were no lady.” His voice was low and smooth. In one quick movement he grabbed her wrist and struck the blade into his own chest.
    Morrigan cried out and pulled back the blade, surprised and shocked by the movement. He had stabbed himself in the chest, yet he appeared uninjured. Her fingers flew to his chest, exploring the smooth, hard surface. Too hard. She slipped a hand down his shirt.
    “Leather armor,” said Morrigan shaking her head. Who was he? “Ye came dressed for battle?”
    Dragonet shrugged. “It is habit, I suppose.”
    “Do ye always dress this way? Were ye armed like this when we…”
    “Yes.” The answer was simple but the implications were large. He had held her, kissed her, with knives strapped to each wrist. He could have killed her.
    “Are ye disarmed now?”
    “No.” A faint smile crept onto his face. “Are you?”
    She tried to resist returning the smile and failed. “Nay.”
    “Let us start with the obvious.” Dragonet assessed her person carefully, causing a wave of heat wherever he cast his eye. “You hold my knife in your hand, you have your table knife, the dagger you took from me earlier, a short sword by your side, and a crossbow within reach.” He did a double take at the crossbow and raised his eyebrows. “When did you reload it? I amend myself. It is a loaded crossbow by your side.”
    Morrigan could not help but smile. “And ye, sir knight, have a sword by yer side, yer table knife, another knife strapped to yer wrist, and I would guess yet another in yer boot.”
    “But of course.” Dragonet pulled a long, thin knife from his boot and tossed it in front of the fire.
    “A misericorde , mercy giver.” Morrigan was impressed. The blade could slip through the gaps in a man’s armor to deliver the fatal blow.
    “I would surmise it is the same for you?” said Dragonet.
    Morrigan nodded and tossed the knife from her boot beside