by Ruth Langan
Morgan turned to study her. Under the dazzling sunlight she was as breathtaking as she had been by candlelight.
“Tell me about your home, my lord.”
“It has been in my family for generations. Elizabeth’s father, King Henry, built his palace nearby so that the two could meet whenever Henry desired my father’s council.”
Morgan was unaware of the sparkle that came into his eyes while he spoke of his home.
“And now Elizabeth has you nearby, in the event she desires your council or—comfort.”
“Aye.” His voice held a note of amusement. “Does that bother you, my lady?”
Brenna’s brows arched in question. “Bother me? Why should I care whom the Queen of England chooses as her council? Or her lover?”
Oh, he enjoyed sparring with her. “Why indeed, my lady?”
They crested a hill and Morgan reined in his horse and pointed. “There, my lady. On that distant rise is my home. Greystone Abbey.”
Brenna stared at the green rolling hills and heavily wooded forests that surrounded a graceful castle built of smoky gray stone.
As they drew closer, they approached a sleepy village. The word was quickly passed that the lord of the manor was returning home. By the time their horses entered the main road of the village, most of the residents had flocked for a glimpse of Morgan Grey.
The women smiled shyly. Many of them held their children aloft for his admiration. A woodsman stepped into the path of the lead horses and removed his hat.
“So, William,” Morgan called. “Has the game been plentiful?”
“Aye, my lord. Thanks to you, we have all had our fill.”
“The queen desires a hunt. Come to Greystone Abbey on the morrow. We will make arrangements.”
“Aye, my lord.” The man’s face was wreathed in smiles. “I would be honored.”
Brenna studied the faces in the crowd and felt more than a little surprised. She had heard that the English queen wasted food while her people went hungry. Yet these people looked happy and well fed.
In no time they had traversed the lane and were headed along a wide road that led to the manor house.
As they entered the courtyard, several servants spilled from the door and hurried forward to assist Morgan and his men from their mounts.
Morgan reached up and lifted Brenna from the saddle. She steeled herself against his touch.
“Welcome, my lord. ’Tis good to have you home again.”
“Thank you, Mistress Leems.” He turned to a plump woman who stood in the doorway wiping her hands on her apron. “Does Richard know we are arrived?”
“Aye, my lord. He has been most anxious since your messenger told of your plans. He has been at the window since sunrise.”
Morgan placed his hand beneath Brenna’s elbow, propelling her toward the doorway. “Mistress Leems, this is Brenna MacAlpin. She is to be our—guest.”
Brenna was so shocked by Morgan’s unexpected kindness, she could have wept.
The housekeeper bowed. “Welcome, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mistress Leems.”
Before she could exchange pleasantries, Morgan hurried her inside. His impatience was evident.
They crossed a long hallway and paused before huge double doors. As Morgan pulled open the doors to the great room a man, seated in a chair by the window, turned.
Sunlight gleamed on his gray-streaked hair, and his dark eyes crinkled with laughter. “Morgan.” His voice boomed out. “You’ve been gone too long this time.”
“Aye.” In quick strides Morgan was across the room and clasping the man in a great bear hug.
“Did those Scots bastards engage you in battle? Or did you find their wenches too tempting? I can think of no other reason for you to be gone this long.”
“Guard your tongue. There’s a lady present.”
The man turned to study the slender figure who paused in the doorway. “By all the gods. Don’t tell me you’ve brought home a bride.”
“You know better, Richard. She’s the Scotswoman whose marriage will be arranged by Elizabeth.”
“Why is she here?”
“The queen has decided that since I brought her to England, she is my responsibility until she is wed.”
“Your responsibility?” The man roared with laughter. “You mean the wench is your prisoner?” He turned to her. “Come closer, lass, into the light where I can better see you.”
She tossed her head in annoyance. She cared not for this rude man who did not even bother to rise in her presence.
“Brenna MacAlpin,” Morgan said softly, “I would have you meet my brother, Lord Richard Grey.”
Brother? Aye. She could see the similarity in their eyes, and in the way their mouths were touched with the same roguish smile.
The man extended his hand and she offered hers. As he lifted her hand to his lips, her glance slid to the fur throw that covered his lap. The blanket had slipped, revealing his withered limbs.
She felt a twist of remorse at the unkind thoughts she had entertained. This handsome man, Morgan’s brother, did not rise to greet her because he was confined to the chair.
Chapter Twelve
“Lord Grey.”
“Richard,” he corrected in his booming voice. “Else we’ll never know which Lord Grey you’re addressing.” He studied her. “You’re a pretty thing. So you’ve come to England to be wed.”
“To be bartered,” she said quickly. “For the cause of peace.”
“Ah.” His eyes crinkled. “Life is unfair, isn’t it, lass? Some men give their lives on the battlefield for peace. You must give up your freedom. And I…” He patted the robe on his lap. “All I had to offer were my legs.”
She prayed that her shock was not visible in her eyes. “How, my lord?”
“A cart crushed them as I lay wounded on a Norwich battlefield. Now they wither from lack of use. But it is a small price to pay to put down a rebellion.”
“Small price? You are not bitter?”
“Aye. At times I burn with the unfairness of it all. But I’ve learned that bitterness is a painful boil on the soul, lass. If allowed to fester it will sap all the joy from life. Better to lance it, no matter how painful, and allow the healing to begin. A bit of wisdom I’ve tried to pass on to my brother,” he added with a wry laugh, “to no avail.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked up at Morgan. “Mistress Leems has had the servants running about like sheep preparing a feast for your return. She knows how you like to eat.”
“Good. We have had little to eat this day. I was impatient to be home.”
“How does Greystone Abbey look to you?”
Morgan met his brother’s smile. “As always, I am glad to be back in this peaceful place. I miss it when I am gone too long.”
“Aye. I recall the feeling.”
For a moment both men grew silent. Then Morgan pressed a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “We will talk soon.” He walked to the door. “If you will follow me, my lady, I will show you to your rooms.”
As Brenna followed him from the room, she was aware of Richard’s dark gaze following her.
“Hurry back, lass. It’s been a long time since Greystone Abbey was graced with such beauty.”
She shot him a quick smile before following his brother.
“How much older is Richard than you, my lord?” she asked as she climbed the stairs beside Morgan.
“He is younger by a year.”
“Younger. But his hair is streaked with gray.”
“He lived hard and fast. Thank the Lord,” he added. “For now his whole world consists of that chair and that window.”
She thought of the man beside her, and his reputation as a warrior and a scoundrel. Was that what drove him? The fear that at any moment it could all be taken from him in a single battle?
“I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said, showing Brenna to a suite of rooms on the second floor.
She glanced around at the dark st
one walls hung with rich tapestries. The floors were thickly carpeted. The furniture was ornate and comfortable.
Outside the balcony window, the green hills were dotted with flocks of sheep and cattle.
Everywhere there were signs of Morgan’s great wealth. Yet the man did not seem affected by it. The people in his village had greeted him like a friend rather than the lord of the manor.
Brenna crossed to the sleeping chamber. A servant looked up from the wardrobe, where she was hanging Brenna’s traveling cloak.
“I am certain I will be most comfortable, my lord.”
She continued to the balcony and glanced down. He saw the flash of disappointment in her eyes as she spotted the guards below her window.
“In case you have any thought of leaving, my lady,” he said, crossing to another door, “be warned.” He threw open the door and she could see his crimson cape on the bed. “My rooms are beside yours. And I will permit no lock between them.”
A serving girl, bearing a pitcher of water, paused outside the door.
“Refresh yourself,” Morgan said abruptly. “Mistress Leems will summon you for a midday meal soon.”
Brenna sat in front of the looking glass while the serving girl arranged her coal-black hair in a cascade of soft curls entwined with ivory ribbons. The shirred bodice of the morning gown enhanced her high, firm breasts. The long sleeves, inset with beaded silk roses, were tight from wrist to elbow, then billowed to the shoulder. The voluminous skirt fell from a narrow waist. Beneath the hem could be seen pale kid slippers. The effect was stunning.
“You look lovely, my lady.” The servant stood back to examine her handiwork.
“Thank you, Rosamunde. How long have you served Lord Grey?”
“Since I was a babe, my lady.” She smiled shyly. “My mother began as a scullery maid in the queen’s own palace when she was but nine years.”
“Is it not rare for the child of a scullery maid to become a personal maid in a fine home such as this?”
“Aye. When my mother was ten and five she showed a kindness to the young Princess Elizabeth, who was being held in the Tower.”
“The Tower? The queen was a prisoner in her own land?” When the girl nodded, Brenna realized that her knowledge of the woman who sat upon England’s throne was vague. “Why was the princess in the Tower?”
“Her half-sister, Mary, suspected that Elizabeth plotted against her. The young princess spent two months in the Tower until the queen was persuaded that the charges were false.”
“How did your mother help Elizabeth?”
“She managed to bring her hot food and a warm blanket, which my Lord Grey supplied to her,” the girl said proudly. “’Twas cold and damp in the Tower. And the prisoner, though of royal blood, was treated badly. My Lord Grey warned my mother that if she were caught, she would be put to death. But she risked her life rather than see the princess suffer. When she became queen, Her Majesty rewarded my mother by making her one of her personal maids. I also worked in the palace until I was old enough to come here to Greystone Abbey. My life is much changed because of my mother’s kindness those many years ago.”
Brenna tried to imagine the proud Elizabeth, haughty queen of England, as a humble prisoner in the Tower of London. The thought caused her to shiver. A sudden thought intruded. The queen would be able to recall those terrible feelings of helplessness, and perhaps sympathize with one who suffered such a fate. Brenna felt her hopes rise. Could it be that in the queen, Brenna had found an ally?
Seeing her thoughtful expression, the young servant looked concerned. “Is there something I have forgotten to do for you, my lady?”
Brenna shook her head. “Nay. But I am grateful. It would seem that you have inherited your mother’s kind and generous spirit.”
“Thank you, my lady. My Lord Grey wanted you to know that he would be below stairs with his brother.”
“Thank you, Rosamunde.” She stood, then hesitated. “Are you happy working for Lord Grey?”
“Oh, aye, my lady. He is a kind and generous man. The people of our village have always been treated fairly by Lord Grey.”
With a thoughtful look Brenna lifted her skirts and made her way down the stairs. Though they made no sound, she knew that the guards followed her, as they followed her every move.
She followed the sound of masculine voices and paused in the doorway of a room whose shelves were lined with books. A cheery fire blazed in the fireplace. A desk, piled with ledgers, dominated the center of the room. The two men, seated on either side of the fireplace, were engaged in quiet conversation.
“Norfolk covets the throne. As does the Scots queen, Mary. But of the two, I would suspect Norfolk, the queen’s cousin. He has friends in high places.”
“Then you truly believe there is a plot?”
Morgan let out a long sigh. “I know not. But I do not believe in coincidences.”
Both men looked up when they noticed Brenna in the doorway.
“Come in, my lady,” Richard called.
“I do not wish to disturb you.”
“Nonsense. Come in. Will you have a glass of ale with us?”
Brenna could not help but smile at his friendliness and compare it with the wall that seemed to exist between herself and his brother. “Aye, my lord.”
Morgan filled a goblet and handed it to her. When their fingers brushed, she looked down quickly, avoiding his eyes.
“Has the queen set a date for your betrothal?” Richard asked.
“Nay. She said only that she wished me wed as soon as a nobleman speaks for me. She wants me off her hands. As does your brother.”
“He does, does he?” Richard glanced at his brother’s closed look, then turned back to Brenna. “Seeing you, I believe there will be many men seeking your hand, my lady.”
“I pray you are wrong, my lord.”
“Richard,” he corrected.
“Aye. Richard. For I am in no hurry to be an Englishman’s bride.”
He grinned at her. “Would it be that bad?”
“Aye.”
At her vehement response he laughed all the louder.
The housekeeper peered around the corner. “Your midday meal is ready, my lords.”
“Thank you, Mistress Leems.” Morgan set down his tankard and pushed his brother’s chair. It began to roll across the floor.
Brenna was amazed at the cleverness of it. “A chair on wheels!”
“Aye. Morgan devised it. A carriage maker assisted him. Without it, I would be forced to stay in one room. I fear I am too heavy to carry like a baby, even for one as strong as Morgan.”
“Then I’d bounce you on your head a time or two, just to keep your wits about you.”
The two men enjoyed the joke. Brenna found herself relishing the sound of their laughter as she followed them to the refectory, where the housekeeper oversaw the meal.
This room, like the other rooms in the castle, had walls of dark stone. A log smoked on the hearth, emitting a cloud that filled the room. Servants milled about in disorderly confusion.
There were trays of mutton and partridge, and a thick gruel, as well as ale and mead.
Morgan’s soldiers trooped into the room and immediately began eating. As soon as Brenna was seated, Morgan and Richard tore into their food. The brothers, Brenna realized, had matching appetites. They took no time for conversation as they ate lustily, then washed each mouthful down with ale. By the time they were finished, there was no food left on the trays. And the housekeeper was beaming with pride.
“Will you have more, my lord?”
“Nay, Mistress Leems. That was sufficient.” Morgan rewarded her with a warm smile. “I have missed your cooking, Mistress Leems. Now I am truly home.”
The plump woman beamed at his compliment, then nodded to the servants, who began gathering up the platters and refilling goblets with ale and mead.
Brenna toyed with the food on her plate.
“Is there something wrong, my lady?” Richa
rd asked.
“The lady has little appetite.” Morgan drained his tankard.
“Anyone who cannot eat Mistress Leems’s gruel must be unwell. Are you unwell, my lady?”
“Nay. It is as your brother says, my lor—Richard. I have little appetite for English food.” Or English manners, she thought, if the truth be told.
“I would have more ale.” Richard held his tankard.
Before a servant could reach for the decanter, Brenna lifted it and poured.
From across the table, Morgan watched with interest. He was touched by Brenna’s attention to his brother.
Richard gave her a warm smile and leaned back. Now that he had eaten his fill, he desired pleasant conversation. For too long he’d been starved for company. Now he had not only his brother, but this lovely lady as well.
“Morgan tells me you are leader of a warrior clan, my lady.”
“We are a peace-loving people. But when pushed to fight, we show skill with our weapons.”
“I have had occasion to taste the Scotswoman’s skill,” Morgan muttered.
Richard grinned at Brenna. “My brother showed me his wound. Though not mortal, it was most ably inflicted. Well done, my lady.” He turned to Morgan. “I imagine you do not display your battle scars with much pride.”
Seeing the flush on Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan grinned, enjoying his brother’s teasing humor. “Aye. ’Twould not sit well if my men thought I could be bested by this mere slip of a female.”
Brenna’s eyes flashed. But with great effort, she managed to hold her silence.
“It would be most distressing to face a woman in battle,” Richard mused.
“Aye. You would not know whether to disarm her or charm her.”
Brenna flushed, thinking of her scuffles with the man who sat smiling at his brother. Finding her voice she asked the question that had long perplexed her. “How is it that you and Morgan chose to be soldiers, Richard? Men of wealth do not usually seek such a life.”
“Our father, Lord Matthew Grey, was King Henry’s chief council. We grew up at court, a part of the wealthy, privileged few who were fortunate enough to live among royalty.”
That would explain why Morgan was so comfortable with the queen. And why he was unaffected by the pomp and ceremony that surrounded the throne.
