Highland Heather

by Ruth Ryan Langan

hands, caught in his big palm, went slack. Without realizing it, her

  lips opened for him and his tongue met hers.

  She was aware of the hard, firm body pressing hers into the soft

  heather. His hand left hers to caress her cheek, and though she fully

  intended to resist him, she moved against him like a cat.

  This was what she most feared. This unnamed feeling that curled deep

  inside her and took over her common sense whenever this Englishman

  touched her. She did not want him, she told herself firmly. She could

  not bear the sight of him. But even while the battle waged within her,

  her lips gentled and softened, inviting more.

  To hell with logic, Morgan thought as he crushed her to him. It no

  longer mattered whether or not they were wrong for each other. He

  would take the pleasure of her kiss while he had the chance. He'd

  lusted before, and lived. Still, as the heat flowed between them he

  was forced to admit that it had never before been like this. He'd

  never met the woman who could set him afire with but a single touch.

  He lifted his head and looked down at the woman in his arms, his body

  pulsing with need.

  His men spurred their mounts toward him, shouting that there was no

  sign of the golden-haired younger sister.

  Brenna stiffened in his arms. Despite her fear and revulsion at being

  captured, she took comfort in the knowledge that at least Megan had

  escaped. With her sister safe, Brenna could face whatever torment lay

  before her, secure in the knowledge that Brenna remained free of the

  English tyranny.

  With a supreme effort Morgan rose to his feet. Brenna rolled away from

  him and took in great gulps of air to steady herself.

  Morgan glanced idly at the blood that seeped from his wound. He would

  carry the scars from this woman's touch long after he had delivered her

  to the queen. Delivered her, he thought with a sudden trace of

  disgust, to warm some other Englishman's bed.

  Even that thought could not cool the fire that raged within him. Her

  taste was still on his lips.

  He needed to return to English soil and the arms of a willing English

  wench. That would finally cool this fever in his blood.

  Chapter Six

  0^'rys^Q

  r from her position of safety in the forest, Megan watched in horrified

  fascination as her older sister was dragged by the English savage and

  lifted onto his horse.

  Brenna's head was raised in haughty defiance. Even from so great a

  distance, Megan knew that her sister's pride would permit no show of

  weakness. There would be no tears, no pleading for her release.

  One of the soldiers could be seen tearing a tunic into strips and

  applying it to Morgan Grey's chest.

  Wounded? Megan strained to see. Aye. The English savage was

  bleeding.

  The wound must have been inflicted by Brenna's dirk.

  If only she had a longbow, Megan thought. She would pierce Morgan

  Grey's heart and have the supreme satisfaction of watching him fall to

  his death. Her fingers curled into a fist. Oh, for a sword. She

  would willingly take on the entire company of Englishmen to save her

  sister.

  As the mounted soldiers formed a protective ring around their leader

  and his captive, tears of impotent rage spilled from Megan's eyes and

  coursed down her cheeks.

  "Forgive me my weakness, Brenna," she whispered. But the tears fell

  faster, blurring her vision.

  God in heaven. Sweet, noble Brenna was being taken from her home. For

  as long as she lived, Megan realized, she might never see that beloved

  face again.

  With a curse that would have made a soldier blush, she swiped at the

  tears with the backs of her hands. Pulling herself up into a tree, she

  watched until the forest swallowed up the company of riders. Then she

  climbed down and began to make her way once more toward her

  destination. If she could but find him, her brother-in-law, Brice

  Campbell, would know how to rescue Brenna. He had an army of

  Highlanders at his command.

  Brenna held herself stiffly in Morgan's arms and willed back the tears

  that threatened. As the horses' hooves trampled the heather, she felt

  her heartbeat keeping time to the pounding rhythm. Lost. Lost. All

  was lost.

  They passed through the Highland meadow where she and Megan had spent

  the night in the haystack. Brenna prayed the farmer and his neighbors

  would rise up and resist the Englishmen who despoiled their

  countryside. But as she rode past, she saw only silent, sullen stares

  from the man and his wife and children.

  When they left the Highlands behind, the horses' gaits lengthened.

  With ease they crossed the frigid waters of the River Tweed, then ate

  up the miles of lowland territory that separated Scotland from England.

  As they departed Brenna's homeland, she could no longer contain the

  pain and rage that coursed through her. To keep from crying out, she

  bit her lip until she tasted her own blood. But even that was not

  enough to hold the tears at bay. She bent her head, allowing her hair

  to swirl forward like a veil, and prayed that it would hide her

  weakness.

  Home. Home. Ne'er more will I see you. Farewell to all that I hold

  dear.

  With hands bound and head bowed, she wept bitter tears.

  Morgan felt the shudders that passed through the slender body in his

  arms and knew that the woman was silently weeping. He had a sudden

  urge to draw her close against his chest and offer her comfort. But he

  sensed that the regal Brenna would prefer to grieve in private.

  Why was he moved by her tears? Was she not, after all, the woman who

  had driven her knife into his flesh? Had he not reacted quickly, she

  would have pierced his heart.

  He frowned. The little fool would soon discover that she was going to

  a far better life than the one she left behind, From what little he had

  seen of her life here, it was austere at best. The court of Elizabeth

  was no dreary prison. And the wife of a titled Englishman would enjoy

  a life of riches beyond belief. Not to mention the pleasures of his

  bed.

  At that thought he experienced a rush of annoyance and berated himself

  for caring about what happened to this woman. He reinforced his

  resolve. The sooner he got this beauty to England, the better.

  "One day soon all the pain will be erased from your heart, ice

  maiden.

  Go ahead and cry. "

  His muffled words shocked her to the core, but not for the reason he

  might have expected.

  "I do not cry. That is for frightened children."

  "Aye." A smile touched his lips. His voice warmed.

  "And it is plain that the one in my arms is no child." His hands came

  to rest at her rib cage, just below the fullness of her breasts.

  Instantly she stiffened.

  "I may be your prisoner, Morgan Grey. But I will not be sullied by

  your touch."

  His smile vanished. His tone hardened.

  "You had best hold your tongue, lass. My temper is legend among my
/>   men."

  "Am I to fear you, then?" She turned her head until she was facing

  him.

  "Have you forgotten that I am the MacAlpin, the leader of my people?"

  "I have forgotten nothing."

  " Especially the color of her eyes when she was angry.

  "In my land you are a woman without title or power. You would be ill

  advised to incur my wrath."

  She sniffed and turned away to escape the danger she sensed in his dark

  look.

  "What more can you do to me? You have already stolen my most treasured

  possession, my freedom. My home, all that I hold dear lie back there,

  in Scotland. I vow, Morgan Grey, that I will escape you. And if I do

  not, I will stand and fight you to the death."

  He brought his lips close to her ear.

  "If you push me too far, " woman, you will feel the sting of my anger.

  "

  She shivered. But was it fear that caused the tremors? Or the

  nearness of this man?

  She pushed away such thoughts. He was the enemy. She would remain

  alert and wait for the first opportunity to run.

  As the horses continued at a steady pace, hour after hour, Brenna found

  herself lulled into a half sleep. Without realizing it, she leaned

  back against Morgan's chest and settled comfortably into his arms. In

  repose, all signs of tension were erased from her face. In the

  sunlight her skin gleamed like fine porcelain. Her eyebrows were

  slightly arched, her nose upturned. Her lips were perfectly formed.

  Her mane of coal- black silk drifted across Morgan's chest and lifted

  in the breeze, tickling his face. While she dozed, the man who held

  her was achingly aware of the prize he had captured. The prize that

  would be claimed by some nobleman in the Queen of England's court.

  Morgan sensed Brenna's weariness. Signaling to his men he called, "We

  will stop and rest for a short time."

  When he helped Brenna from his horse she pressed her hands to the small

  of her back and arched her body.

  "Tis a long time to be in the saddle if you are unaccustomed to it."

  "Aye." She turned away, averting her gaze, when two of his men stepped

  into a stand of trees.

  Seeing it, Morgan stepped close.

  "You would perhaps require a moment of privacy?"

  She nodded.

  "I will see to it." He strode away and spoke to his men. A moment

  later he returned.

  "You may walk into the woods unmolested, my lady."

  She gave him a grateful smile, then lifted her skirts and walked to the

  place he had indicated. When she entered the dark forest, she turned

  to ascertain that she was indeed alone. Morgan and his men waited

  patiently beside the horses. She stepped behind a tree, then turned

  and peered once more at the soldiers. Three of the men were seated

  with their backs to the trunk of a gnarled old tree. The other two

  were talking in low tones to Morgan, who had removed his plumed hat and

  was mopping his brow. With a last glance at the sky, Brenna began

  running through the forest. She knew the direction she must take.

  North. Toward Scotland. Toward home.

  Within minutes she heard the sound of someone shouting. Morgan Grey.

  By now he would have realized his mistake in trusting her. She began

  to run faster, determined to make it to the deepest part of the forest,

  where the branches grew so thickly together no light could penetrate.

  There she would hide until Morgan and his men were forced to abandon

  their search.

  The sound of branches snapping behind her sent her into a panic. The

  Englishmen were closer than she'd anticipated. She pushed herself to

  the limit, until her throat burned from the effort. And still she ran,

  clinging to her last chance to escape.

  The men were so close she could make out their words as they called to

  each other. In desperation she began climbing a tall tree. If the

  fates were kind, the Englishmen would not think to look up, and they

  would pass beneath her without notice.

  The branches caught the hem of her gown, slowing her progress. With

  each painful step, the rough bark tore at her tender skin until her

  hands were raw and bleeding. But still she pulled herself higher into

  the tree. Standing on tiptoe, she reached for a high branch. Again

  and again she made a valiant grab for it, until at last her fingers

  wrapped around it and she drew it down. If she could pull herself to

  the top, they would never spy her.

  As she began to pull herself upward, she felt a mighty tug on her

  ankle. She looked down, then let out a gasp.

  "So, my lady. You like to climb trees? Perhaps your English husband

  will buy you a manor house in the country and have trees planted there

  to amuse you."

  Though Morgan's words were spoken lightly, she could read the angry

  scowl on his face.

  "Will you climb down, my lady?" His words frosted over.

  "Or will I pull you down, unmindful of your modesty?"

  "Modesty be damned." She blinked back the tears of frustration that

  sprang to her eyes. A little more time, a few minutes more, and she

  would have been free.

  Without a word she made her way down. Morgan's fingers remained locked

  on her ankle until she dropped lightly into his arms.

  As his men clustered around them, he leaned close and whispered, "There

  will be no more moments of privacy, my lady."

  "You cannot mean that."

  His dark eyes flashed.

  "You have convinced me that you are not to be trusted. You'd best pray

  that you have no need for relief between here and the queen's

  residence, Brenna MacAlpin. For you are never leaving my side."

  "That is uncivilized."

  He flashed her a rare smile.

  "I never claimed to be otherwise."

  "The Queen's standard flies at Richmond Palace, my lord."

  Morgan nodded and urged his tired mount along the winding path of the

  Thames. Once their party reached the royal grounds, their weariness

  seemed to vanish. Unmindful of the grime of travel staining their

  tunics, the men assumed a stiff military bearing. They passed long

  columns of soldiers patrolling the vast forest surrounding the palace

  and entered a road wide enough to allow a dozen horsemen to ride

  abreast.

  They rode in silence until they reached the entrance court r yard. At

  their arrival several servants hurried forward to take their mounts.

  There was a commotion from within, and several elegantly dressed

  gentlemen surged through the open portal. Leading the way was Alden,

  Morgan's second in command. But instead of the drab garb of a soldier,

  he was dressed in the clothes of a titled gentleman, with satin

  breeches and fine tunic.

  "At last," he called, hurrying to his leader's side.

  Morgan slid from the saddle and unceremoniously dragged Brenna into his

  arms.

  "What kept you, old friend?"

  "The lady led us a merry chase."

  "But, as always, you managed to prevail."

  The two men shared a laugh.

  '"Tis time to learn your fate, ice maiden."

 
; "You would not take me to your queen like this. Without even time to

  refresh myself."

  "Would I not?" Morgan gave her a dangerous smile.

  "And you look so fetching. Why, every nobleman at court will probably

  beg for the hand of my dirty little ragamuffin."

  "Please, my lord. I cannot be presented to the queen in such a

  fashion."

  He closed a hand over her arm and drew her firmly against him.

  "This is not a royal ball, my lady. And you are not here to be

  admired.

  Until the queen decrees otherwise, you are my prisoner. "

  She gave him a hate-filled look and tried to pull away, but his fingers

  closed around her arm in a possessive manner.

  To the keeper of the door he called, "Announce me to the queen, my Lord

  Clive. I come at Her Majesty's request."

  The old man nodded and scurried away. Minutes later he returned.

  "The queen will see you immediately, my lord."

  As Brenna was hauled along beside Morgan, her throat went dry at the

  thought of meeting the Queen of England. If the rumors were true,

  Queen Elizabeth was a fascinating, beguiling, yet very shrewd

  monarch.

  Alden cast a sympathetic glance at the woman being dragged roughly by

  his friend.

  "You could afford to give the lady a few moments to repair her

  toilette."

  "You have not spent the last days as I have, my friend, or you would

  not even suggest such a thing. The lady cannot be trusted out of my

  sight."

  One look at the hard set of Morgan's mouth caused Alden to hold his

  silence. He knew when his friend had been pushed to the limit.

  More than a hundred people milled about the great room, many of them

  clustered, talking in low tones. When they noted the standard of

  Morgan Grey, the hum of conversation increased. The Queen's Savage was

  not a man who could pass unnoticed, even in a crowd.

  When double doors were thrust open and a dozen or more gaily dressed

  men and women entered, all conversation ceased. The arrival of the

  gentlemen who preened like peacocks and the fawning ladies was the

  signal that the queen would now hold court.

  Elizabeth walked alone, with no one to her right or left. Her gown was

  a dazzling midnight blue, with high ruffled neck and wide sleeves inset

  with jewels. The bodice was low, the waist tiny. A full skirt

  twinkled with hundreds of jewels, each one painstakingly sewn on by one

  of the queen's army of seamstresses. A magnificent tiara of diamonds

  and sapphires nestled in her red curls.

  She moved quickly, as though in a hurry. Even after she was seated

  upon her throne, she seemed to radiate energy. With an expectant look

  her glance scanned the crowd. When at last she spotted Morgan Grey, a

  warm smile touched her lips.

  "At last, my brave warrior, you have returned to your queen. Come

  forward and tell me what female's bed kept you from your queen's side

  for so long."

  Brenna was shocked at the queen's crude remark. And even more shocked

  to see that the men and women at court joined in a chorus of laughter

  at Elizabeth's joke. She glanced at Morgan, expecting to see his

  famous scowl. Instead, his face was wreathed in smiles.

  "Forgive me. Majesty, but someone must see to the business of the

  Crown."

  "Are you suggesting that it was royal business that kept you away so

  long?"

  "Aye, Majesty. If you recall, you sent me to Scotland to investigate

  the possibility of wedding one of your titled gentlemen to the leader

  of the MacAlpin clan, whose lands lie on the border."

  "I recall much more, Morgan Grey. I recall that you bristled at such