Highland Heather

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 relishiqg 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?" Richard 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.

  "But why the harsh life of a soldier?"

  "Morgan and I formed a pact when we were young." Richard idly watched

  as Morgan's men began parading from the refectory. A part of him

  yearned to be with them, to seek their latest adventure. But he had

  made his peace with his life. Another part of him enjoyed the luxury

  of unhurried conversation with this lovely lady. She was not like so

  many of them he had come to know at court. She seemed truly interested

  in those around her. She showed a shrewd mind. And she seemed

  completely unaware that she was a beautiful, desirable woman. A

  beguiling combination. Brains and beauty.

  "When Elizabeth ascended the throne, Morgan and I agreed to be in

  service to our queen. She was more than our monarch--she was friend

  and sister to us. But do not think us too noble." His eyes twinkled

  with merriment.

  "Both Morgan and I have enjoyed our lives of adventure. We would have

  withered at court, with nothing more challenging than an occasional

  wager on who would be the latest to seek the queen's hand in

  marriage."

  "Are there many?"

  "Who seek to wed Elizabeth?" He laughed.

  "Aye. Philip of Spain, the Archduke Charles, the Earl of Arran. Arran

  has a claim to the Scottish throne, I believe." When Brenna nodded, he

  added, "Erick of Sweden, Sir William Pickering, the Earl of Arundel,

  Lord Robert Dudley. He is the leading contender at the moment. And,

  of course, Morgan."

  So. It was as Brenna had suspected. She drew in a long breath and

  glanced at Morgan.

  "So many suitors."

  "Elizabeth is ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the world."

  "And still she has not wed."

  "She is a lady after your own heart, Brenna MacAlpin. Elizabeth would

  choose her own destiny."

  "Aye. I can understand that."

  The door opened and the young servant, Rosamunde, entered. Behind her

  were two serving girls carrying an assortment of gowns and

  accessories.

  "My lady," Rosamunde said gently.

  "My Lord Grey ordered Mistress Leems to find you some clothes. She

  hopes you will approve of these until something better can be made by

  the seamstress."

  "Thank you for such kindness, my lord." Brenna shot Richard a look of

  gratitude and was surprised when he said dryly, "You thank the wrong

  Lord Grey.

  "Twas my brother, Morgan, who thought of your wardrobe."

  She blushed clear to her toes.

  "Thank you, my lord."

  Morgan's lips twitched, but he held the smile at bay.

  "You are most welcome, my lady."

  Brenna stood on the balcony and studied the hills in the distance. How

  far to the Scottish border? If she were to slip away under cover of

  darkness, could she evade the soldiers who would most certainly come

  after her? Would she perhaps find a peasant who would take pity on her

  and offer her a safe haven? Or would the queen put a price on her

  head, making her capture all the more challenging?

  She turned to find Morgan standing in the doorway between their rooms,

  watching her intently.

  "Plotting again, my lady?"

  She flushed. Could the man read her mind?

  "No matter." He strapped on his sword and scabbard, and Brenna

  realized he was dressed for travel.

  "My men have their orders. If you attempt to flee, they will subdue

  you in any manner necessary."

  As he walked from the room she followed.

  "Do you think I fear death at the hands of your soldiers?"

  He paused on the stair, then began his descent. With her hands on her

  hips she gave him a contemptuous look as she flounced by his side.

  "It is far more tempting to face an English sword than marriage to an

  English dog."

  He turned on her, catching her by the upper arm and dragging her

  against his chest. He forced her back against the cold stone of the

  deserted hallway. His breath was hot against her cheek.

  "You will hold your tongue, woman. I am sick to death of the sound of

  your voice."

  His sudden temper caught them both by surprise. This irritating female

  had a way of bringing out the worst in him.

  Brenna tossed her head, unwilling to let him see any show of

  weakness.

  "And I am sick to death of the sight of you, my Lord Grey." Her eyes

  flashed.

  "The obvious solution to both our problems is to release me and send me

  back to my people."

  "I see there is only one way to still your voice."

  Without warning he lowered his head and kissed her, hard and quick.

  White-hot liquid poured through him. And though it burned him, he

  could not step back. He realized he hadn't thought it through, or he'd

  have never touched her. But now it was too late for that.

  Brenna went very still, absorbing
the shock that collided low and deep

  in the pit of her stomach.

  The hands at her shoulders softened their grip, until his thumbs made

  lazy circles across her flesh. The kiss, too, gentled until it was the

  softest touch of mouth to mouth.

  Even in this dim hallway, or in the inky blackness of midnight, she

  would know his lips, his touch, his taste. From that first time he had

  touched her, they had become imprinted firmly on her mind. With her

  eyes closed she could trace the outline of his lips, the shape of his

  fierce brow, the texture of his skin.

  There was such strength in the hands that moved along her shoulders.

  They could snap her bones like the wings of a hummingbird. And yet

  they held her as gently as if she were a fragile flower.

  Morgan realized it would be so easy to forget how small and delicate

  she was when her mouth was so eager and agile. Despite her innocence

  he could sense the simmering passion in her. And though the first

  ripples of desire stirred, he knew that she exerted great effort to

  keep them under control.

  What would it be like to lie with her and coax that desire from her

  until it was stoked into full-blown passion? The urge rose in him. How

  he longed to watch that cool control slip until she moaned and writhed

  beneath him in helpless surrender.

  He wanted her. Dear God. Each time he touched her he wanted her. All

  the denials in the world would not alter that simple fact. He wanted

  her as he had never wanted another woman.

  He dropped his hand and took a step back.

  Brenna took in a long, deep breath. Had he felt it? When they kissed,

  did he experience all these wild, tumultuous feelings that were so new

  and frightening to her? Or was she the only one who was so confused,

  so terrified by all that was happening between them?

  She could read nothing in his dark, narrowed gaze.

  At the strange sound of Richard's wheeled chair being rolled along the

  wooden floor, they both looked up.

  "I am informed that your mount is ready," Richard said.

  "Will you return before dark?"

  "Aye. In time to sup with you. Mayhaps you would see to the woman."

  '"Twould be my pleasure."

  Morgan turned to Brenna.

  "The guards have their orders. See that you do not push the limits of

  my brother's patience. Or you will answer to me."

  As he strode away, Brenna stood beside Richard's chair and felt her

  heartbeat slowly begin to return to its natural rhythm. She was

  grateful for the dim candlelight in the hallway. In sunlight, she

  feared, her conflicting emotions would be there in her eyes for him to

  read.

  Chapter Thirteen

  t if I must leave Richmond soon, Morgan, or go mad. The palace smells

  like a barnyard. "

  "It is not safe for you to travel. Majesty. There have been too many

  accidents."

  "I will have you by my side." The queen gave Morgan her most

  persuasive smile.

  "What can go wrong when you are with me?"

  "I cannot be two places at once. You want me to guard the Scotswoman,

  and you want me to keep you safe."

  Elizabeth's temper flashed.

  "I wish to relieve this boredom. I must get away from Richmond."

  He strode to the balcony and stared at the gentle, rolling countryside.

  Who could believe that an evil plot could be brewing in this tranquil

  setting?

  He turned as a sudden thought struck.

  "Would you be willing to spend some time at Greystone Abbey now?"

  The queen clapped her hands and got to her feet.