Oh, to be on that craft, sailing away from here. From the clutches of
this madman who had torn her world asunder.
She heard his footsteps and knew that he'd followed her to the balcony.
His voice, low and deep, caused a little flutter in her stomach.
'"Tis a beautiful land, is it not?"
She refused to answer him.
"There is no lovelier sight in all the world than that of the sun
seeming to rise clear out of the Thames and color the eastern sky."
"Then you have not seen a blue sky hanging o'er the Cheviot hills of
Scotland, all silvery with dew." Her voice trembled, and she realized
she was close to tears.
"You will see your land again." His voice was so near she was startled
and had to force herself not to recoil.
"When?" She studied the progress of the boat.
"When you are safely wed and have declared your loyalty to my queen,
you will be allowed to return often to your people."
"How generous of you, my lord." She turned on him, feeling all her
fear and loathing bubbling to the surface. "When you English have
succeeded in stealing my land, my crops and my cattle, you will send me
back to watch my people starve."
"Little fool." Without thinking he grabbed her by the upper arms, as
if to shake her. But the moment he touched her, everything changed.
His words vibrated with intensity.
"We are not your enemy. A wealthy Englishman has no need of your land,
crops or cattle. It is not the queen's intention to take from you."
"Is it not?" She tossed her head and tried to push away, but the more
she struggled, the more firmly he dragged her against him, until she
found herself completely imprisoned in his arms.
Her breasts rose and fell with each measured breath. Her hair, wild
and tangled, invited his touch. Her lips were pursed in anger.
Morgan was aware of his lie. Though he needed neither her goods nor
her land, there was something he wanted from her each time he looked at
her. And wanted it desperately.
"So you find my touch repulsive?" His lips hovered a fraction above
hers. Their breath mingled, hers hesitant and a little afraid, his hot
and simmering with excitement.
"Aye, my lord," she answered, though she did not try to draw away from
the strong hands holding her.
"I cannot say the same." He moved his mouth along her temple, and felt
her trembling response.
She struggled to feel nothing. Why were his lips so gentle upon her
skin? Even the hands imprisoning her were as gentle as a caress.
"Do not do this, my lord."
He lifted his head for a moment, and she took in a deep breath, hoping
to clear her mind. But before she could think, he lifted her hand to
his lips in a courtly gesture. The merest brush of his lips on her
fingertips caused another tremor.
He continued to hold her hand for a moment before running his fingers
along her arm. He watched her eyes darken as his fingertips skimmed
her upper arm, then traced her throat to her collarbone.
"You are a beautiful woman, Brenna MacAlpin. A beautiful woman whose
family has strong traditions, is that not so?"
She tried to nod her head, but he reached a finger to her lips, causing
her to go very still.
"I come from a family of many traditions as well. Unfortunately we
have become civilized." His rough, callused finger traced the outline
of her mouth until her lips quivered and parted for him.
"There was a time when a member of the Grey family, seeing a beautiful
woman with hair like a raven's wing and eyes the color of a field of
heather..."
His wicked smile alerted her to danger, "would simply take her."
His mouth crushed down on hers, cutting off her protest.
At the first contact with his lips, she felt a rush of heat that left
her trembling. A flame raced alone her spine, heating her blood,
searing her flesh. His lips were warm and firm and practiced. Her
lips trembled beneath his, then slowly softened, then invited. She
would not have believed it possible to be taken so high by a single
kiss.
A breeze blew across the balcony, billowing her skirts, lifting her
hair, but it was not enough to cool her skin. She was hot, so hot,
where he was touching her.
While his lips continued their seduction, his hand moved along her
spine, drawing her even closer, until she could feel his body imprinted
upon hers. She attempted to push him away. But even her hands
betrayed her. They grasped his shoulders and she held on tightly to
keep from falling. Surely her knees would buckle and her legs refuse
to support her. She clung to him, hating the weakness in herself. A
weakness that she had not been aware of until she had met this man.
Though she claimed to detest his touch, she had not the will to stop
him.
Morgan took the kiss deeper. She tightened her grip and clung to him
with a fierceness that surprised her. What was happening to her?
Without soft words, without tender touches, some primitive force seemed
to have taken over her will. Or perhaps it had taken over both of
them, consuming them with its intensity.
The hand at her back tightened perceptibly, drawing her even closer,
until she could feel his heartbeat inside her own breast.
His lips left hers to follow the pale column of her throat. She arched
against him, afraid of the way her body was betraying her, yet hungry
for more. The touch of his lips on her throat caused the strangest
sensations deep inside her.
He brought his lips to hers, and her mouth opened to receive his taste.
There was about this man danger, and darkness, and the secrets of
desire. And yet, for some reason that eluded her, she had a desperate
need to learn all that he could teach.
She could no more resist his lips than she could refuse the air that
she drew into her lungs.
The sound of a door opening penetrated the mists that shrouded her
mind.
With a low, savage oath, Morgan lifted his head. For a moment Brenna
felt bereft. Then she became aware of the sound of footsteps across
the floor of the sitting chamber.
"My lady."
Still holding her, Morgan turned his head. Dazed, Brenna followed
suit.
A serving girl glanced at them, then quickly looked down, studying a
spot on the floor.
"Her majesty has sent a seamstress to begin your gown for the
festivities, my lady."
Brenna noticed a stooped old woman standing just inside the doorway.
She became aware of a chill breeze blowing off the Thames. Why had she
not noticed it before?
"Thank you."
The servant hurried away. The seamstress began setting out her bolts
of fabric.
Embarrassed, Brenna tried to pull away, but Morgan continued to hold
her. Lifting her chin, he stared down into her eyes and read her
confusion. A smile touched the corner of his lips.
"I think, my lady, you do not find my touch so repulsive as you
claim."
&nbs
p; She felt her cheeks flame. What had he done to her? How had she
become so lost in his caresses that she forgot who he was, what he
was?
"Go now. Have your gown made. But remember, this thing between us is
far from settled."
She pulled away, suddenly mortified by her lapse.
He leaned a hip against the balcony railing as she fled into the
sitting chamber. Then he turned and watched as the small boat
disappeared around a bend in the river. His hands, he noted, were not
quite steady. Perhaps Brenna was right about him. If they had not
been interrupted, he would surely have taken her here on the hard, cold
floor of the balcony. Like the savage she thought him to be.
Chapter Eight
Q^ny^Q
i ij Is it not good to be back in England? " Alden pulled a chair in
front of the fire and settled himself comfortably.
"Aye." Morgan stood in front of the fireplace and lifted a goblet of
ale to his lips.
From behind the closed door of Brenna's sleeping chamber could be heard
the babble of women's voices and an occasional muffled exclamation. The
servants, it would seem, were having a fine time preparing the
Scotswoman for the queen's festivities.
"This time you will stay a while."
"So it would seem. Concern for the queen's safety has altered my
plans. If the whispers prove to have substance, I will bring swift
justice to any who would plot against Elizabeth." His hand clenched at
his side. She was more than his beloved monarch; she was his dearest
friend, his closest confidante. No one would threaten her life and
live to boast of it.
When that matter was taken care of, he thought, swallowing another
drink, he would put an end to this other trouble in his life.
"See to the guards." His voice was low, conspiratorial.
"They are to watch the lady at all times. But they must be
discreet."
"How discreet, old friend?"
"They are not to parade around the palace with drawn swords. But they
are not to let the lady out of their sight except when she is in these
rooms."
"Is that necessary? Do you really think she can flee this fortress?"
Morgan's hand clenched around the stem of the goblet.
"You were not with us in the Highlands. Nor on the journey home." He
touched a hand to the dressing on his wound. He would not soon forget
Brenna's skill with a knife.
"The lady has a mind of her own."
"Aye. I have heard the men talk." Alden flushed when Morgan arched an
eyebrow.
"I will have their heads if I catch them spreading rumors about the
Scotswoman while she is under my protection."
"I merely meant that the men speak of her with respect," Alden was
quick to add. He stood.
"I will alert the guards."
As Alden started for the door, Morgan added softly, "When this is over,
we need to find another war to wage, somewhere far from here, old
friend."
"I thought you had grown weary of the battle."
"That was before I was made nurse for the female."
"Aye." Alden shot him a quick grin before departing. The sooner the
queen found a partner for Brenna, Morgan thought with a trace of anger,
the sooner he could get on with his life.
His life. His world. He had made a satisfying life for himself.
Whatever mistakes had been made, he had risen above them. He had no
wish for the disruption of this woman in his well-ordered life.
The tapers had all been lighted, casting a soft glow over the room.
From the windows could be seen the dark curtain of night sky. Morgan
walked to the balcony and stared down at the lights of villages in the
distance. His gaze was drawn to the shimmering torches of boats far
out on the river.
He had a sudden yearning to sail the Thames. To be one with the sky
and the water, in a peaceful setting far from the political intrigue of
the court.
He heard the door open, and listened to the soft rustle of skirts as
the servants swept from the room. When there was only silence, he
slowly turned.
Brenna stood just inside the doorway of the sitting chamber.
Once, when Morgan was a callow youth, he had challenged a soldier
reputed to be the most skilled equestrian in all' of England. During
the jumping, the soldier's mount had taken the tall hedgerow easily,
while Morgan's horse had pulled up short and refused to jump. Sailing
through the air, Morgan had cleared the hedgerow, but landed on the far
side on a boulder the size of a wagon seat. The blow would have killed
a lesser man. He would never forget the feeling when all the air was
knocked from his lungs, leaving him struggling for breath.
He felt the same way now.
Her gown was crimson satin, with a fashionably low neckline revealing
high, firm breasts and a tiny waist. The skirt fell in soft gathers to
the tips of her crimson slippers. The sleeves and skirt were inset
with bands of delicate lace. A wide ruff of the same lace formed a
stiff collar at the back of her neck.
Her dark hair had been pulled to one side and allowed to drift in soft
curls over her breast.
Her pale column of throat was unadorned by jewelry. The effect was
simple. And stunning.
The thought came unbidden to his mind. Every man at court would ask
for her hand. The queen would have no trouble finding a suitable
husband. Why did that thought bring such an unpleasant taste to his
mouth?
The door to the sitting room opened and Alden entered. For a moment he
glanced at his friend. Then his gaze was riveted on the beautiful
young woman.
Alden cleared his throat.
"You look lovely, my lady."
Morgan said nothing. Mere words could not convey what he saw when he
looked at her. How could he describe skin as pale as alabaster, eyes
the shade of the violets that grew deep in the forest glades?
"Thank you, my lord."
She gave Alden a shy smile, and Morgan realized that he would give
anything to see her smile at him that way. If the Lady Brenna was
beautiful when angry, she was breathtaking when happy.
Then the hint of a smile was gone, replaced by a shy look.
"Your queen's seamstresses must have magic in their needles. Though I
am skilled in sewing, I have never made anything as splendid as
this."
Morgan crossed the room and picked up a goblet of wine from a silver
tray. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed and he felt the
heat.
"The gown would be nothing without the woman who wears it."
Was that a blush he saw on her cheeks? It pleased him, though he
couldn't say why.
Brenna took a sip of wine and felt a rush of warmth. It was the wine,
she told herself. Not the nearness of this man. Though he had
exchanged his soldier's garb for slim breeches and an elegantly
tailored black silk tunic emblazoned with his family crest, he still
had a look of danger about him. She must take great pains to keep her
di
stance from him.
She turned to Alden.
"I am unaware of your customs, my lord. Will anything be expected of
me at your queen's feast?"
"Our customs are not so different from your own. We will merely eat
and drink, and enjoy the company of good friends."
"Friends."
Alden blithely ignored the sarcasm in her tone.
"These people will be your friends if you let them. Of course," he
added with a gleam of humor in his eyes, "there will be many toasts to
the queen's health. I would advise you to use caution, my lady. Enough
toasts and the wine will go to your head."
"Thank you. I shall remember." The frown was back. It was necessary
to keep her wits about her. Alden and Morgan were her enemies. As
were the people below stairs.
She set the goblet down.
Morgan drained his glass before reluctantly offering his arm. The mere
touch of her caused a tension in him that was completely out of
character. He steeled himself against feeling anything for the woman
beside him.
As they left the room, Brenna noted the two soldiers positioned outside
her sleeping chamber. They came to attention and followed a few paces
behind. So. Even here in the queen's palace, her freedom was to be
restricted.
As they descended the stairs, they could hear the hum of conversation,
the occasional burst of laughter. But when they entered the
withdrawing room, all conversation suddenly ceased. All heads turned
to watch the handsome couple.
A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd. Hands were
discreetly lifted while whispered exclamations were exchanged. Those
who had been at court earlier were surprised at the transformation in
the Scotswoman. Gone was the travel-weary creature, and in her place a
vision of perfection.
Many a man in the crowd felt a twinge of envy at the prize Morgan Grey
had captured. Many a woman hated her on sight.
Morgan felt the slight trembling of Brenna's hand upon his sleeve. So,
the lady was not immune to the stares of these strangers. Though he
was not aware of any kindness in his gesture, he covered her hand with
his, as if to lend her his strength.
He led her across the room toward their regal hostess. Brenna felt the
curious stares of the guests. But she kept her head lifted at a proud
angle, looking neither left nor right. When they came to a stop before
the queen, Brenna curtsied, while Morgan bowed slightly, then lifted
Elizabeth's hand to his lips.
"Can this possibly be the same ragged waif you presented at court,
Morgan?"
"Aye, Majesty. The Lady Brenna remarked that she thought your
seamstresses had magic in their needles."
"There is indeed magic here." The queen studied the beautiful young
woman with a thoughtful look.
"Or perhaps witchcraft." With a laugh she turned to Morgan.
"Beware, my friend, lest you be the one bewitched."
"You know me better, Majesty."
"Indeed."
Morgan led Brenna to one side as the queen continued to greet the
guests who formed a long line behind them.
After each guest had been presented to the queen, they paused in front
of Morgan for an introduction to the lady who had caused such
speculation. After an hour he could read the fatigue in her eyes.
"So many names and titles," she whispered.
"Aye. But in no time you will know them as friends."
"They are your friends, my lord. To me they are English."
If her words angered him, he gave no indication.
Madeline d'Arbeville, Duchess of Eton, and her husband greeted
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