The door swung open, and Morrigan vaulted to her feet, drawing her sword. She froze at the sight. In the doorway stood the minstrel, the tip of her sword at his throat.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I am disturbing you. I shall take my leave.” The wide-eyed minstrel took a step away from her blade.

“What are ye doing here, minstrel?” Morrigan growled, but she lowered her sword as he posed no threat. “Are ye lost?” The last thing she needed was to be bothered by a traveling minstrel, one who like most strangers assumed by her man's clothing she was a lad.

“It is clear I must be, for I was told this tower was not in use.”

“’Tis not. Why do ye seek it?”

Jacques the minstrel gave a slight smile and a shrug. “I wish only for a place to rest before I leave on the morrow. If you have decided not to run me through, I will indulge my most terrible curiosity and ask why you, too, are in this abandoned place.”

Morrigan sheathed her sword and motioned to the pitch blackness of the open window. “I was enjoying the view.”

“The view?” The minstrel strode to the window and gazed out into the inky darkness. “Ah yes, the view. It is an uncommon sight, no?”

Morrigan’s lips twitched upward into a half smile, half smirk. The more she tried not to smile, the more she failed at the endeavor.

“My choice of ballads was not to your liking?” asked Jacques.

Morrigan shook her head and searched for a safer topic. “I enjoy a livelier tune.”

The minstrel leaned against the wall and put up one foot against the stones. He swung around his lyre and plucked a jaunty tune, singing bawdy lyrics. Morrigan smiled in spite of herself. As long as he kept his musical selections to risqué tavern songs, she was on solid ground.

“Ye are skilled, minstrel.” Her eyes ran down the polished, wood lyre in his hands. It had clearly seen some travel, but underneath was a beautiful instrument, its tone clear and sure. “I used to play, years ago it was.”

“Did you now? Here, let us see what you can do.” Jacques handed over the instrument and grabbed a crate to sit next to her.

Morrigan plucked each string, the notes clear and pure. It was indeed a fine instrument. Finding the position for her left hand was difficult. She had grown since the last time she held a lyre and the position she remembered was off. The note she played was flat and sour.

“Ugh. I dinna remember.”

“Your fingering is off is all.” Jacques reached around her with his left hand and demonstrated the correct fingering.

Morrigan flushed at the weight of his arm on her shoulders. He was warm and smelled of wood smoke from standing near the hearth. She stole a glance at the minstrel who leaned close to her. His hair was black and straight, with a tendency to fall over one eye. He was clean shaven, and despite his itinerant lifestyle, he obviously took care of himself. His eyes were a clear, deep blue, so bright she had never seen the like.

“…and those are the main chords,” Jacques finished.

Had he been talking? Heat raced up Morrigan’s spine. What had he said? Something about chords?

“Try the first one,” he prompted.

“Um…” Morrigan took a wild guess and grimaced at the sour tone.

“Here, let me show you again.” The minstrel leaned closer moving her fingers into the correct positions.

Morrigan ignored the tingling sensation his touch put on her hand and focused on the lyre. She would not make a fool of herself. Plucking the strings, she thrilled in having found the right note.

“You are doing well,” encouraged Jacques.

Morrigan turned her face toward him. He was close. So close she could see faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes. Her heart did an odd flutter and skipped along merrily. His lips were full and drew her closer. She leaned toward him without thinking.

“Ah, well…” Jacques stood abruptly and pushed his hair back out of his eyes. “I… you…” He narrowed his eyes and stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Who are you?”

Morrigan stood and took pity on him. She removed her cap, letting her dark brown hair fall down to her waist.

“Mademoiselle!” His eyes went wide, gleaming blue.

Morrigan simply nodded, her lips twitching at his reaction.

The minstrel looked up at the heavens. “Merci!” He shook his head and gave her a wry grin. “It becomes clear now to me. No lad could be so pretty.”

Pretty? No man had ever called her pretty, at least none who had the courage to make it known to her. She was the laird’s sister… who dressed as a man and carried a sword. People feared her. There was power in that.

This was a different kind of power. The air crackled around her, she was in control. She took a step toward him. He looked delicious and smelled intoxicating. She was light-headed, like she hit the whiskey a bit too hard. Her heart pounded against her rib cage, demanding to be set free. She paused, unsure what to do next. Surely this moment called for bold action. But what?

He took a step toward her, his eyes glowing brighter, never leaving hers.

“Am I to know your name?” he asked, his voice soft.