True Highland Spirit by Amanda Forester Page B

irrelevance and raw desire took hold. She ran her hand over his chest, wishing she could feel more than the hardened leather of his armor.
    She pressed herself closer until her cheek rested against his, the rough stubble stinging her skin. Turning her head, her lips touched his, soft and warm. He held her closer, and she kissed him, unsure at first, then bolder and harder. He pressed her to him, one arm around her waist, his other hand in her hair. Her world spun, and she broke the kiss, gulping the cool moist air.
    “What is this?” Dragonet asked, finding something in her thick hair.
    “No!” said Morrigan, but it was too late. He had found her hair pin and pulled out the small concealed dagger from its sheath. “Careful!”
    “Is it poison?” he asked, holding the tiny blade no bigger than a pin.
    Morrigan sat up and gingerly took the small dagger from him, replacing it into her larger hair ornament where it belonged. It was one weapon she had not wished to reveal. What was she doing kissing him?
    “’Tis a powerful sleeping draft,” she explained. “The hair clasp belonged to my mother. She said it had saved her life once and told me to wear it always.” She looked away from him; she must break the spell.
    The fire before them waned into embers. Despite being hot a moment ago, the night air cut the chill through to her bones. Dragonet sat up beside her. Glancing over at him she saw a stranger once more. Reason had taken hold.
    “I should go see to my brother,” said Morrigan, her voice flat. It was hardly her first choice of how to spend her evening.
    Dragonet took a deep breath and let it out again. “Then all that remains is to wish you a good evening, Lady Morrigan, and thank you for not killing me.”
    “Dinna mention it. In truth,” said Morrigan, busying herself by collecting her weapons and strapping them back into place, “I think it would be best if we pretended this night never happened.”
    “As you wish, my lady,” said Dragonet without looking at her. He, too, collected his knives and replaced them with a deft hand.
    Dragonet was first to his feet. He collected his sword and cloak, and bowed her a farewell.
    “Wait,” said Morrigan scrambling to stand up. “Here is yer wrist knife.”
    “Keep it,” said Sir Dragonet and disappeared into the darkness.

Six
     
    Knife in hand, Sir Dragonet fashioned himself new bootstraps to replace the ones he had sliced to escape being bound to the tree. Morrigan was no fool when it came to a knot. It had been a long shuffle with loose boots through the woods back to his room at the inn. Fortunately, the inn’s host was able to procure him some leather he could easily make into straps. Unfortunately, bootstraps were hardly his biggest concern.
    Dragonet lay on his clean, straw pallet in the little room afforded by the inn and willed himself to sleep. Images of Morrigan were all he could see. He tried to clear his mind, think of something else, anything else, but the memory of her hands on his body seared paths of molten heat where she had touched him. No one had ever touched him like that before. He wanted more.
    Dragonet jumped out of bed and splashed some cold water from a basin on his face. How could he let it happen? Avoiding feminine wiles had not been a problem while he lived in the monastery. It had been more difficult when he assumed the role of a minstrel, but he had been careful around members of the opposite sex, never to get too close, never to be alone with one. He had defenses against regular women, ladies, serving wenches, anything wearing a skirt. Yet Morrigan slipped past his defenses like his mercy giver blade sliced through gaps in armor, leaving a man dead.
    It was hardly his fault. With Morrigan’s height, thin build, and the loose men’s clothing giving her an amorphous shape, she appeared to be nothing more than an ill-tempered lad. Too late, he discovered her baggy clothes hid a shapely body. When he wrapped her in his arms,