Star of the Morning by Lynn Kurland Page A

contents of his purse.
    She was surprised to find the coins were not all of a Melksham strike. Half of them she did not recognize; she wondered if she might have pilfered fakes. They bit like gold, though, so she supposed they would do in a pinch. She hesitated, muttered in disgust under her breath, then deposited a bit of his gold back into his purse and put his purse into his pack. No doubt he would find himself robbed of it just the same, but she would sleep with a clear conscience knowing she hadn’t been the one to leave him penniless. She had been far kinder to him than any of her mates would have been. They would have thought her mad.
    She suspected she should have agreed with them.
    With a sigh, she squatted down, put her hands under the man’s shoulders and dragged him off the road under the trees. She retrieved his pack and dumped it down next to him.
    She walked away before she did anything else foolish.
    She had done enough already.
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    An hour later it was dark and Morgan was leaning against a tree twenty paces from the man she had felled, unable to explain to herself why she was there or what she hoped to accomplish by returning.
    She had traveled for half an hour, then come to an unwilling stop, unable to go on. She had touched the mark on her brow, reminded herself that it had been earned at the expense of any emotion and any pity. She didn’t pity the man. She certainly hadn’t fallen prey to the fairness of his face.
    Perhaps it had been the fineness of his socks. She’d paused to put them on, unable to resist their softness. It was possible that they had been what had dealt the killing blow to her common sense.
    Or perhaps it had been instinct that had forced her to retrace her steps. Weger had never discounted instinct. Indeed, that was the one thing about her he had found to praise, if a single lifting of one eyebrow on one lone occasion could be taken as praise. Few earned even that.
    But as she stood leaning against the tree, she discounted instinct and socks, and credited her return to too much rich food at Nicholas’s table. She would have to remedy that with a large number of very meager meals on her journey.
    The man in front of her stirred. Morgan saw him sit up, then clutch his head in his hands. He lay back down with a selection of curses that had even her raising her eyebrows in appreciation.
    It was likely those curses that distracted her from the true peril—the one that had put the point of his sword on her shoulder and given her a brisk tap or two.
    Morgan spun around. She had her sword halfway from its sheath before she stopped and stared in surprise.
    â€œPaien?” she said.
    Paien of Allerdale made her a low bow. “Morgan, you are not yourself,” he said. “Didn’t you recognize me?”
    She should have. He was one of a trio of companions she had kept company with since her release from Gobhann. “I did. I just didn’t expect to see you here.”
    â€œActually, neither did I,” Paien said with a half laugh, “but things change when you least expect them to.” He nodded toward the road where vociferous complaints were still being made. “Who is that?”
    Morgan shrugged. “I have no idea. He was silent enough after I felled him.”
    â€œNo doubt,” Paien said. “Well, we’d best go shut him up, or we’ll have every ruffian for miles joining us for supper.” He looked at her calculatingly. “Why were you watching over him?”
    â€œI wasn’t watching over him,” she said with a scowl. “I was . . . well, I was making certain he didn’t attack me. You see, he came up behind me with untoward intent—”
    â€œYou attacked me !” the man said, suddenly struggling to his feet. He staggered about for a moment, clutching his head, then he stopped, swayed, and glared at her. “I thought you were a man!”
    Apparently looks and sweetness