"Albanwyr laird," Morrigan muttered to herself with a grin as the mare obediently followed at her master's call, making her own way after her new employer at her own pace. He needed a craftsman, he'd got one; now he just needed to learn how to offer her the respect she was due. And he was a fine looking man, she noted to herself, admiring the turn of his ankles and everything from there up. Not a hardship to answer to, unless he was also a fool.

She caught up in her own time, laying a gentle hand against the limping Clothilde's rump as the sky let out a great crack of thunder, and the heavens opened. Instinctively, Morrigan lunged forward for the lead, to prevent the man from running for the stable and forcing an injured mare to run with him.

He glanced up with a wary eye as the lightning crackled and the thunderboomed. "Easy, easy." he spoke quietly to the spooked mare. Just as he put a hand up to smooth her mane the first of the rain fell and the lead was taken from his hand. "Whoa! Whoa!" He called out and quickly jumped back as Clothilde reared up, snorting and screaming. "Easy lass!" he put out both hands and slowly eased towards the mare. Only a scathing glance was given to the woman.

"Ye, what?s your name?" he spoke to her as he tried to calm Clothilde. "That's it, easy sweetling. Tis alright. You'll be getting used to her heavy hand, that's right. Shh, that's it." He had gotten close enough to finally lay his hand upon the brass bridle. Even with the heavy rain, he walked slowly with the horse. "Do ye not know to be rushin' up on an already spooked horse" Are ye daft woman?"

Blushing at her blunder, Morrigan's eyes fell to the increasingly muddied ground, not bothering to answer his scathing questions as she fell back to walk behind both man and horse. "Stupid man, yelling out when she was fine," she muttered under her breath. "Blame it on the woman, though, of course." She swore in her native Welsh, glaring at his back.

"Would ye be havin' m'skull crushed by her hooves, then?" he shook his head. The stable was a warm building with the familiar scents of manure, hay, horses and sweat. "In you go, sweetheart, you've had a long day." Clothilde was led into a berth beside her sister, Mathilde. The matching mares were the carriage horses and blood mares of the stable. Mathilde was bulging with foal. Stepping out of the berth, he pulled the stable boy to the side and gave the orders of a warm compress to Clothilde's leg. Then he turned to Morrigan. "Your name, lass?"

She gave him a flat look. "Byrne." Then, ignoring the water that soaked her clothes and gave away just how feminine her small frame really was, she slipped past him and in beside Clothilde, approaching the mare once again with the gentle 'saa saa' that would soothe her. A brush came to her hand easily enough - all stables were alike - and she began to brush the moisture and dirt from the mare's hide, even as she spoke to Craig from behind the beast. "She'll be needing a cold soak before any hot compress."

The stable boy had lagged behind, goggling the woman who had went into the berth with Clothilde. He nodded his agreement, then took off to fetch the water and to have one of the washing girls start a pot of water to boil.

"Then see to it, aye?" He eyed her sleek form, tilting his head slightly. Nice to look at, but with a wicked temper. "Such a sweet, wide, lush arse, wouldn't ye be sayin'?" A slow grin appeared upon his full lips. His gray green eyes sparkling.

"Aye, she's a breeder, alright," she agreed, thinking him to be talking about the mare. Her eyes lifted to his, challenging. "Might as well make yourself useful, albanwyr ddyn," Morrigan added, with a sparkle in her own green eyes that had everything to do with making certain he knew she wasn't to be walked over. "Fetch a bucket o'water for your mare, would you?"

A small bedraggled figure of a woman, soaked through to the skin this time, Morrigan paid no real heed to her appearance as she slowed to a walk, back beneath the eaves of the stables. Her bag was already open, an oiled belt on which hung many different tools of her trade being fastened about her waist as she approached, apparently unaware of the almost transparent cling of her wet shirt. Again, she approached the mare gently, nodding to the lad as he ran back in.

"Stay out there a bit, laddie," she warned him, slipping into the stall with another nod to the master. "You need to grow a bit before you try this. Her head, if you would, MacKenzie."

His eyes widened and he sucked air to whistle between his teeth when the rain soaked Morrigan came into the stables. Mumbling something in Gaelic, he averted his eyes to keep from staring at her nipples. "Oh, aye, aye. her head." He reached up and curled his fingers around the base of Clothilde's ears and gently led her head down to rest upon his shoulder. Still, he kept his eyes averted. Though the memory of that glance was making his breeches feel much tighter than they were. "On with ye, make this quick."

"Just hold her, and stop telling me how to go about my business." If he thought his view before was bad, he was going to get an interesting eyeful as Morrigan turned her back to him, bending to lift and brace Clothilde's leg between her knees. The soak had removed most of the mud from the mare's hoof, and left the little farrier a clear run to pick out the stone lodge between hoof and foot.

"Here we go," she warned Craig, murmuring gentle Welsh to the mare as the metal tool dug in and flicked. Out came the stone, and the foot was lowered back into the water for a moment. "Alright, lad, bring in your poultice."

"Mmmphmm." Craig made a distinctly Scottish noise in his throat at being admonished, but held on tightly to the mare's neck. Clothilde snorted and screamed when the metal tool was inserted between the hoof and tender flesh. Seeing Morrigan's slender, well formed behind had caused Craig to almost lose his grip on the trembling mare. "There, there." He whispered comfortingly in Gaelic to the horse. "Ye're a wicked woman, Byrne." He muttered.

The boy had been watching everything with his big brown eyes. And when she motioned for him to come forward, he did so. Holding out the vinegar soaked rag with one hand, he held the bucket of steaming water in the other. "Here you are, mum. Straight from the kitchen."

"Good lad," Morrigan answered the lad, beckoning him closer. "Now, I'm goin' to lift her foot up, I want you to draw the bucket away and wipe that hoof clean before I bind her leg and foot. Alright?" Her eyes lifted to Craig with an evil glint in her eyes. Her shirt, she was currently unaware of, but she knew the view her backside presented. "Somethin' wrong, albanwyr ddyn?"

Grunting with the effort of keeping Clothilde still for them to work, a fine sheen of sweat appeared upon Craig's forehead. "Whatever could be wrong, lass. Tend to your work." Craig shut his eyes and continued his grip on the horse's head, whispering to her softly.

The boy did as he was told, removing the bucket of cold water, then gently wiping the remains of any mud from the mare's hoof. "There, mum. All clean. Are you needing me for anything else?" He pocketed the now muddy hankerchief and lifted the vinegar soaked rag up to her. His nose crinkled at the smell.

She grinned to the boy, shaking her head. "No, go and get her some bran before we bed her down," she nodded to him. "No walking for you tonight, sweet one." With that hoof still braced between her knees, she worked a small length of caulking into the little wound left behind by the stone, hoping to keep out dirt and infection. Then the foot was lowered, and she firmly bound the bruised leg before rising. "Aye, then, MacKenzie, you can leave her be now," she nodded to him, ducking under his arm to take her own hold on the loose bridle. "No sense in getting those hands any dirtier, is there?"

"Yes, mum. Right away." The boy nodded and placed the vinegar soaked rag into Morrigan's hand before he darted off to fetch a bucket of bran and oats.

Slowly he took his arms from around Clothilde's head and brushed his hands down her thickly muscled jawline. "Twas nae so bad, hmm?" He smiled at the horse and continued to smooth his hands down the sides of her neck, then back up. Clothilde looked tired, ears lazily flicking between her master and the new mistress. Finally Craig let go and turned to Morrigan. "Ye'll be knowin' what ye're doing, I'll give ye that. But for God's sake, woman. Put some clothes on."

Craig had waited for her at the bottom of the stairs. When she emerged from the room, his brows shot upwards and he blinked rapidly. The gown completely transformed her from tomboy to woman and he had to adjust his breeches. "Your servant, ma'am." he bowed and then offered his elbow. "And ye be wanting a parasol?" He couldn't hide the delight in his eyes as he openly admired her feminine form. "And what o' my groom' Is she not hungry as well?" his eyes danced with amusement.

She jumped when he spoke, not at all expecting to find him still waiting for her, laughing a little at the teasing. "I'll be minding my manners at your table, don't you worry," she chuckled, lifting her skirt a little to walk down to him, a movement that revealed that although the gown was ladylike, the boots were definitely still a tomboy's. "Your groom begs your pardon, but she doesn't like to eat with the gentry," she teased back, blushing at the look in his eyes as he watched her. "She sent me instead. Will I do?" Some girlish part of her urged her hands apart to show off the gown.

"Take a turn and ye'll do quite well." he laughed and escorted her towards the exit of the stall. Grateful that the rainstorm had stopped just as suddenly as it had started, he strolled casually towards the house. "Ye're a bonny lass, when ye set ye're mind to it, Byrne." He glanced down and his mouth twisted in a wry smile.

"Morrigan," she added a first name for his leisure, smiling at his assessment of her. "And I never set my mind to pleasing anyone but myself ....just like a man." Her teasing quirk of lips was quickly covered as she looked away, across the empty paddocks. "Let me do my work, and you'll not have a cross word from me, albanwyr ddyn."

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out the first thing thatt came to his head; the mental image of her pleasing herself. Instead, he turned his stormy gray green eyes upon her and nodded. "Och, aye, ye'll do your work without any interference on my part. That's all I ask o' ye."

"Unless I ask for it," she clarified with a grin, looking up at him as they moved towards the main house with its kitchens. "As laird, do you always treat your servants like this" Easy talk, and fine company?" Not to mention a smile that could melt the hardest heart and that look in his eye that made her want to stand out here and be rained on again, just so he could see her form again.

He snorted and looked down at the ground as they walked. A hand came up to scratch at the crown of his head, spiking the cowlick hair there. "I do try to make those employed by myself welcome, if that's what ye be meaning." He shrugged a bit and the smile told how young he really was. "But I can be a right nasty bugger if I'm crossed."

"Mebbe I should cross you soon, see if I can handle you," she laughed back, glancing away at the mental image that rose at her own words. She knew how men 'handled' themselves; now she had a picture of herself 'handling' him that was not altogether unwelcome.

He pursed his lips and a brow shot up over his amused eyes. He didn't know it, but his thoughts paralled her own. They walked in silence for several long moments. "Ah, here we are." He pulled open the door to the kitchen, it's heat and light spilling out and shattering the darkness.

Again, she found herself needing to brush past him, but with far less to protect herself from his masculinity this time. Biting her lip, Morrigan stepped smartly into the kitchen, exchanging a business-like nod with the cook, who seemed to have expected them. At one end of the servants' table were set two bowls of steaming stew and a plate of bread.

She snorted, laughing aloud at his supposition. "With six brothers and a father who shoes horses, I've never needed to worry about being chased for my skirt," she laughed, emerald eyes dancing with good humour as she looked over at him. "I dress as I do because it's a sight easier than lifting hooves in a skirt."

He found that smiling in her presence came easily to him. Already there was a companionship between them that he found comforting. "I suppose hand me downs from brothers don't make into skirts, aye?" Their bowls and spoons were taken by a kitchenmaid and a fluffy white cake on pewter plates was placed before them. "Ah, angel food. My favorite."

"Nay, but they make very indecent dresses," she laughed, feeling easier in his company as their conversation progressed. Her eyes widened again as she took in the offering of a dessert. "Your servants must be very loyal to you, albanwyr ddyn, with you handing out luxuries like it was out of fashion."

"They're not servants." He sat forward and leaned his arms on the table. "They're kinsmen, and their families. I was laird, in Scotland. Here, I am one of them, and they are one of me. We are the same, you see?" He gestured around to the faces around him. Though there were many shapes and sizes, they all bore a resemblence to Craig with their high, flat cheekbones and broad foreheads. "I can't verra well explain how it came to be, but one by one my kinsmen have found me. And here we are."

"Aye, and I now find myself caught in a nest of Scots," she laughed softly, shaking her head as she laid her fork aside once more. "Perhaps my Da should have made me wear that chastity belt after all?"

He shouted out with laughter and his hand slammed to the table. "Think ye that we're all barbarians" Lustin' and rapin' and pillagin', aye?" His eyes danced with dangerous mirth. "I can't speak for all o' Scotland, but I assure ye that your chastity is safe here." He leaned forward then and whispered conspiratorially, "Unless ye want it to be in danger, lass."

As he leaned forward, Morrigan was almost ashamed to realise that her gaze had centred firmly on his whispering lips, needing to shake herself to understand what he had actually whispered. Her mouth opened in a perfect 'o' of startlement, but there wasn't any fear in her, rather a dark sort of thrill that she was unaccustomed to. But pride managed to get her to speak before every man at the table put her in the master's bed. "Rest assured, MacKenzie, it's not my jewels you should be worrying about."

He roared with laughter at her response. "Aye, you're a good lass." he chuckled, merriment in his eyes. "And rest easy, Morrigan," the soft burr that rolled the R's in her name seemed to go on for some time as he stretched it out intentionally, "the family jewels be in a safe, warm place. But they'd prefer to be in another." His brows shot up and there were loud snickers from about the kitchen.

Rather than sit and be the butt of a clan's worth of jokes, Morrigan rose suddenly, blushing and awkward. She should never have come down in this dress, they wouldn't even have noticed she was female if she'd been in her good shirt and breeches. "I best be leaving you to making sure of that, then, sir," she nodded to Craig, and to his clansmen, beating a hasty retreat to the door. The rain had returned, however, trapping her under the eaves of the door as she drew it to behind her.

The derisive shouts that followed her out were silenced as Craig stood up and raised his hand. They all may have an equal hand in running the estate, but Craig was laird. Silence filled the room; the only sounds were the faint popping and crackling from the hearth fire. Busy hands set to cleaning the kitchen after the evening meal. Craig stepped out of the doorway and closed it behind him. He took his place beside her, under the eaves. "Morrigan," he began.

"It's my own fault, sir, I shouldn't have come down dressed as I am," she cut him off, not unkindly. "I was asking to be mocked. But never fear, they'll soon forget I'm female when I'm working beside them, men always do."

"Morrigan." he began again, not flustered in the slightest that she'd cut him off. "Ye need to grow a thicker skin, lass. Ye were bein' welcomed into the clan, ye see." He turned and looked down at her with a gentle expression. "Aye, ye're right, they will soon forget." He turned with a sigh to look out at the pouring rain. He just wondered if he could forget, too.

Craig barely moved as the mud struck his cheek and chest. Stormy green gray eyes looked down, then back up at her. "Gettin' a wee bit too full o' yourself, wee Morrigan." He pushed off of the fence and was quickly towering over her, his hand reaching to grasp her arm.

Eyes widening, she scurried backwards, not quick enough to prevent herself being caught. But in being caught, she felt no fear, despite his far superior height and strength. Her cheeks flushed with that unfamiliar heat as she looked up at him, suddenly brutally aware of the differences between man and woman. "I'd say you need to learn to smile more, albanwyr ddyn."

"And I'd say ye need to learn ye'r place." He spoke quietly and turned quickly towards the stable, Morrigan in tow. He didn't speak another word as he hurried them inside and went in search of the leather strap usually kept for the boys. His eyes narrowed slightly in the darkness and finally the strap was taken from it's spot on the wall. "Grab the stall door." He turned her towards the wooden door.

"You wouldn't!" It was whispered in horror as she realised he intended to beat her for her insolence. With the horses out to graze, and the boys tending their duties elsewhere, she had no one to call on for support, either. Her eyes went from the strap in his hand, to the strong arm he braced, to the stall door. Even in the darkness, she was pale, moving to obey as she shrugged off her vest.

"Oh, I will. And ye ken why." Once she was holding onto the door, his arm went back and the leather sung in the air until it cracked on her backside. He had never beaten a woman before, but damn her and her mannish ways. If she wanted to be a boy, he'd treat her like one of the lads. His arm swung back and there was another crack as the leather strap landed on its target.

Her hands curled, white-knuckled, against the wooden slats of the stall door, but she did not cry out. Lips pursed tightly together, the only sign she gave of the pain of each blow was in the tremble of her limbs, the squeeze of her eyes closed. She was not like the boys, used to a beating for misbehaviour. It was the first time anyone had raised their hand, or strap, to her, and she determined not to let him see how much it hurt.

There were two more such cracks of the strap before Craig stood back and panted heavily. "Cry out, damn ye!" He yelled at her, echoing through the stable and startling the owl into flight. "I ken it hurts! Cry out!" His arm went back and the leather fell against her behind, again.

Her cheek pressed against the wood, her shoulders hunched as she drew herself tighter against the stall door. Tears squeezed from her eyes, but still she did not cry out. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her pain.

"Ye stubborn," another crack of leather, "hard headed," another crack, though softer than before, "woman." he stepped back and tossed the leather strap into the stall. "Damn ye, Morrigan. There be no shame in cryin' out! Why do ye have to be so stubborn?"

Panting, she hung against the wall a moment longer, before drawing herself stiffly to her full height again. Her backside burned painfully, though the leather of her breeches had prevented the strap from marking her skin. She turned, her jaw set in a stern, stubborn line. "I am no child," she said quietly, glaring at him with something that could easily turn into hatred if he put a foot wrong in the next minutes. "I will not cry and beg for forgiveness when I am deserving, neither will I do it when I am not. But if that strap ever touches me again, you may well wish your former groom as sober as a judge. For you will not have me, nor my kin, willing to work your estate, my laird."

"Ye are but a child, Morrigan. And ye act like ye own the place wi' the airs ye've been puttin' on. Ye are no better and no worse then any other here. Do ye understand that?" He glared back at her, not willing to back down in the slightest. "Ye acted an impudent child, throwing mud. So ye were treated as such. The punishment fit the crime."

She opened her mouth to respond, and found her eyes widening in alarm as a voice she recognised well suddenly intruded upon the stillness. "Well, where is she, boy' Where's my girl?" Alun Byrne, her oldest brother, come to visit at the worst possible moment. If he put two and two together and came up with five, she was in for a worse scolding than the one she was recieving now. She raised her trembling hand to her lips, eyes pleading with the laird to stay quiet in the hope that her brother would walk through and be away.

At the sound of the stranger's voice, and her reaction to it, Craig merely lifted a brow and turned towards where the voices were coming from. He gave an imperceptible nod to Morrigan and then stepped out into the bright sunlight. "Go on wi' ye, wee Jamie." He shooed the stable boy off, then stood to face the stranger. "Craig MacKenzie," he bowed slightly and offered the man his hand. "And who might ye be?"

"I'd be Byrne, Alun, wee Morrigan's brother," the tall man responded, clasping his hand to Craig's with a nod. There was no doubting the family connection; his hair was as red as his sister's. "Well, where is she then" The lad said she was in here, said she came in ....with you ..." His eyes narrowed, taking in the sweat on Craig's brow. "Now see here!" He pushed Craig out of the way, and leaned into the stall.

Morrigan shrank against the wall under her brother's gaze, fully aware of what he was seeing. The master sweating and red of face, and she dishevelled, her shirt loose and her vest tossed aside. And tear tracks down her face. "Alun, it isn't -"

"The hell it isn't!" Alun roared, swinging at the laird furiously. "Layin' down my sister, and she untouched, you bastard!"

The hair did give the family resemblance away before Alun introduced himself. Not having the time to stop the tall red head from rushing into the stall, he merely stood back and rubbed his hand over his face with a sigh. "Why do ye bloody Southerners always accusin' us o' rapin' and pillagin'?" Craig rolled his gray green eyes towards the rafters. "Give me strength, o' Lord." Crossing himself, he allowed his calm gaze to land on the angry Welshman. "And if I am?" He cocked a brow and grinned. He knew that the brother wouldn't believe otherwise, so he egged on the situation, just a bit.

"If you -" For a moment it looked as though Alun might well explode with anger. But he gathered his wits quickly enough. "You'll marry her, or stand and face her brothers together! We'll not see our girl brought low by some laird who thinks himself above law and land!"

Craig stooped down, resting his forearms on his knees and his hands hung limply between his legs. "Well ye ken how Morrigan's stubborn as a mule. Spoiled, too." He glanced up at her, then back to Alun. "She's been achin' t'ride m'stallion, Diablo, and him not even bein' broke!" he wagged his head and set his jaw. "She got uppity, puttin' on airs, actin' the spoiled brat that she is. I gave her a good lashin' to put her in her place." Craig stood then and shrugged, arms folding across his chest. "And that be the truth o' things, ye ken?"

Alun blinked again, pulling himself to his feet. "She's not spoiled, she knows her own worth," he growled through the ache in his head. "An' if she's been talkin' back, it's 'cos you've given her a fright and not let her show her true colours. There's not a horse in this world she can't - you beat her?" He blinked again, and Morrigan started to back up, knowing her brother a little too well. Not fast enough, though. He caught her, turned her about, and all but ripped the shirt off her back to check for the damage done.

"Alun, na!" was her rather weak objection as he inspected her, pulling down her breeches, too, to see what had been done. And with her bare in front of him, covering herself as best she could with her arms, the red marks of the strap were obvious across her pale behind. Alun turned a baleful glare on the laird. "You call that puttin' a lass not touched by hand or belt in her place, do you?"

Craig took up his lazy lean and watched as Alun's blood pressure rose, once again. He kept his eyes averted, on the pretense of giving her some modicum of modesty. Truly, he didn't want to see the welts. He sighed and gazed out of the stable door. "Quite funny that." he shrugged and canted his head a bit. "One minute ye think tha' I've raped her, that I only hired her for entertainment. The next, ye defend her ability as a groom. Make up ye'r mind, wee Alun. Do I want her for her body, or for a groom?" His burr was thickened, intentionally.

"I dunno," Alun admitted plainly enough. "Isn't she pretty enough for your bed, laird?" No, he didn't want his sister made a mistress and ruined; at the same time, he was offended on her behalf that this high and mighty lord didn't seem to find anything about her even the slightest bit attractive. His eyes narrowed. "Nothing strikes your fancy, eh?" He turned Morrigan around to face her master, glaring at her until she lowered her arms, wishing the ground would swallow her up. "Not even that?"

"Och, aye, she's a bonny lass." He nodded and refused to look at her bare body. "And she's a rare talent with yon beasties." He waved to the paddocks that held his horses. "The laddies think highly o' her, too." He turned then, keeping his chin raised and his eyes solely on Alun. "Ye are a strange, wee man, Alun. We've offered wee Morrigan shelter, pay, work that she loves. Why do ye insist on pervertin' it wi' such wild ideas, and me not afraid to ask ye."

"Cover up, little witch," Alun muttered to his sister, not watching as she scrambled to draw her shirt and breeches over her bare skin once again. He faced the laird. "I'll speak plain, aye I will. We've not the money to take her back. She'll be secure here, as your wife or in your pay, it matters not to us. Only that her honour stays as it was when she came to you. Or she can be destitute on the street. Our Da believes her well situated, I came to be certain of it." He looked Craig over. "You've proved to be a man o'your word, and your honour. Keep her. We'll not take her back."

Craig set his jaw and his eyes narrowed. "And ye have th' gall t'be callin' me th' bastard?" His fists clenched at his sides. "Do ye not see how ye are hurtin' her" Get out o' m'stable and off o' m'lands. Morrigan comes or goes as she pleases. I will not take her, nor will I force her t'go." He fairly snarled, his fists itching to take a swing. If Morrigan hadn't been standing there, he would have. "Take leave o' this place, and ne'er return, ye weasley bastard."

Alun took a step back, alarmed by the sudden rise in the Scotsman's temper. He'd spoken plainly, but he saw nothing in what he'd said that his little sister did not know. But the man was loathe to harm her, even having beaten her, and Alun took the coward's way out Morrigan had guessed he would. She was pushed, stumbling, up against the laird as her brother took his leave without another word, marching from the stable and toward the gate without a backward glance.

Straightening herself, Morrigan stood back, smoothing her hands down her shirt. "He doesn't mean to offend, it's his way," she began, before falling silent, not wanting that temper turned on her.

He grasped Morrigan as she fell against his chest and remained quiet, head turning to watch her brother leave. Then he looked down at her and sighed softly, shaking his head. "Do not defend him, Morrigan." His eyes softened as he saw the timid, frightened girl before him. Grabbing another horse blanket, he gently wrapped it around her shoulders. "E'en if what he says is true, it's o' no matter. Ye've family here, aye?"

She closed her eyes, nodding quickly, as though afraid disagreeing would earn her another beating. "Yes, sir," was murmured soft and small in the darkened stable as she drew the blanket tight around her shoulders. "I'm sorry to be a bother, sir."

Craig sighed softly and his shoulders sagged a bit. "Ye're o' a mind that I enjoyed beatin' ye, aye?" He walked over to a hay bale and sat down. Scratching his head, he stared at the floor for a while. "Well ye'd be right, and ye'd be wrong." Stormy gray green eyes gazed up at her. His face bore lines of a man twice his age. "Part o' me wants to tame th' spoiled brat that ye can be." He chuckled softly. "Th' other can nae stand to see ye in pain. Ye befuddle me, Morrigan."

"No more than you do to me, sir." Her eyes lifted hesitantly, just enough to look at him where he sat on the bale. "You praise my talent, but do not let me exercise it. You beat me with a strap, but defend me when my brother beats me with words. You frighten and fascinate me; I want to be near you, but I'm afraid of being trapped. Why do you make me feel this way?"

There was a tightening in his throat at her words and he lifted his hand to scratch his head again. His eyes narrowed slightly, deep in thought. Remaining quiet for some time, he sat and mulled over the current situation. When he finally came up with a reasonable explanation for his sudden possessiveness for her, he nodded. "Ye're m'kinsman. It's no for him to say what ye are to be used for. And kinsmen don't allow their brethren to be brow beat by anybody other than another kinsman."

"Aye, and Alun is my kinsman as much as you claim me to be yours," she pointed out, shuffling forward as her gaze met his. "But that was not my question. Why, albanwyr ddyn ....why after you raise your hand and hurt me am I still wanting to stay?" The emerald gaze on him was warm, confused certainly, but not accusing. She genuinely wanted to know if he could tell her why.

He stood up then, flashing white teeth as he smiled. "Ye are home, Morrigan. And ye know it." He turned then and started for the open stable door. He stopped, and turned to look at her. "Welcome home."

Even after all that had happened, his smile still brought a smile of her own to her lips. "Ddiolch, sir, thank you," she nodded to him, tugging the blanket tighter around her before discarding it back to where it had lain folded. She reached into the stall to collect her vest and drew it on, lacing the leather tight about her. "Aye, well ....work to be done, yes?" Another shy smile was offered to him, and she fairly ran past, into the yard where the lads were bringing the mares back from their grazing.