Morganna (The Brocade Collection, Book 4) Read Online Free

ou’ll need a bigger blade to stop a FitzHugh, boy. Your prior master should have learned you that much.”
    Her answer was three quick tosses, leaving all three knives embedded into the hilts of those at his belt. The next one went into his sporran, where a dark trickle started up.
    “That’s good whiskey you’ve hit, now,” he replied. “The punishment is na’ going to be as lenient as a bath and a change of clothing. I may have to take a strap to that scrawny body of yours.”
    “ Back away, FitzHugh,” she said, rotating the final two blades through her fingers, one in each hand.
    “ Why? You’ve not shown me one reason. A fool can toss a knife and miss even scratching their opponent. You’ve got but two left. You planning on barbering me next?”
    “If I wanted to draw your blood, you’d be bleedin’ ,” she said.
    “And sows will be flying ,” he answered.
    The knife he got for that one sliced the inside tassel off his sock. Her next one took off the other one.
    Zander looked down at himself, and when he looked up, she watched his eyes widen at the three dirks she’d pulled from the back of her belt. She twirled them, one in her right hand, two in her left. She watched him watch her hands.
    She didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t want to draw blood. Not yet. She knew as well as any that the dirks wouldn’t stop a man his size, unless she hit something vital, or had some time for him to bleed to death. He’d strangle her before that happened.
    She’d always received plenty of respect for her throwing aim before. It had never taken all nine dirks she kept in her socks. She’d never had to resort to using the last three from her belt. She and the FitzHugh started circling, the roasting hare between them. He wasn’t as nonchalant as he was feigning, either, for a fine sheen of sweat was starting to make the ash coarse down his face.
    “You ready to cease this, and get my kilt?” he asked.
    The knife sliced through the hair beside his ear, taking off a lock. He didn’t even flinch. Morgan was the one with sweaty palms.
    “And yours?” he continued. “I’ve a hankerin’ to see you clad decently, in my own green and blue. ’Tis a bold combination, not one you need hide yourself from. The lasses like it, too.”
    The hair beside his other ear received the same shaving. Morgan began sweating, herself. She was down to the last one. She’d never been tested this far. The blade was slick with moisture from her palm and hard to hold. None of that showed, however.
    He smiled, and amid the streaked ash , his face was horrible-looking. Morgan swallowed.
    “I’ve been looking for a good barber, myself. If you’d told me your leanings, I’d have had a nice trim a-fore this.”
    “You have that much a-tween your legs, FitzHugh, that ye laugh at me?”
    “ Laugh at you? You’re not worth the time it would take. You’ve one chance left, lad. I would na’ miss again if I were you. I’ve a slew of ash to wash off, a fresh kilt to don, a nicely roasted rabbit to eat, and half, nay....” He looked down at the sporran that was still leaking down his ash-covered clothing, leaving a dark trail. Then he looked back up at her. His eyes might as well have been black holes, for all the emotion they showed in that ash-white face. “...I’d better make that a third of a sporran left of me whiskey. Lay aside your blade and assist me. I’ll give you that one bit of mercy. You won’t like the alternative. Put down your toothpick.”
    Morgan held the blade. She wasn’t going to let it go that easily. She had to pick her target. There was only one that would take him down without killing him. She was afraid to consider it. If he was smallish, or it didn’t hit vitally, she was as good as dead. And, if it did hit vitally, she was as good as dead.
    Zander lifted his eyebrows. “You having a little trouble deciding? A sharp-eyed snipe like you? Come along, lad, put the blade down. We’ll both shed our