by Ruth Langan
The man’s voice was low, menacing. “It is not my intention to harm you. But if you do not drop the knife I will be forced to run you through.”
“Aye.” Her voice was equally low as the knife slipped from her fingers. “That is the way of the English.”
His eyes narrowed at the carefully contained fury in her tone.
Brenna saw Megan slip into the shadows of the castle walls. Without realizing it, she let out a low sigh. She could face death now. Her sister was safe.
She lifted her head and met the dark stare of the stranger. “Finish the deed. I have no fear of you, nor of the death and destruction you bring with you.”
The horseman found himself staring down into the face of the most bewitching woman he had ever seen. Her brow was smooth, her complexion flawless. Her nose was small, her lips pursed in anger. Thick black hair fell in waves to below her waist. Such a tiny waist, he noted. Her figure was lush, inviting. Her breasts rose and fell with every measured breath. But it was her eyes that held him. Eyes the color of heather. At this moment they glinted, not with fear, but with proud, haughty defiance.
“My men and I have not come here to attack your people. My queen, Elizabeth, has sent us on a mission of peace.” He chose to ignore the sneer his words brought. “I desire only that you take me to the castle and present me to your leader.”
“For what purpose?”
He shot her a look that had caused men from England to Wales to cower and beg for mercy. Yet the lass merely faced him, her violet eyes blazing, her chin lifted.
“I shall discuss my business with your leader. Now walk ahead of me.” He slid from the saddle and pointed his sword menacingly.
He missed the smile that touched the corner of her lips as she turned away. But he could not fail to see the way her slim hips swayed as she strode, head high, spine rigid.
“Alden.”
At his call, a ruddy-cheeked man with a thatch of strawlike hair separated himself from the others.
“You will see to the men.”
Within minutes his men fell into procession behind him.
When they reached the castle doors, a shout went up from within the fortress. The impenetrable doors were instantly opened to admit the young woman and the swarm of men who followed.
“They are wise not to fight,” the Englishman muttered. “We have them greatly outnumbered.”
“That is not the reason they submit,” Brenna countered. “They do not fight because they know I would be harmed if they did.”
“Is the life of one insignificant woman so important to them, I wonder?”
She did not respond.
He turned to a stooped old man who hovered near the door, and his voice rang out with authority. “Summon your leader.”
The aged keeper of the door turned a worried glance at the young woman, who shook her head gently before turning away. With a sly look the old man hobbled up a flight of stairs.
Ignoring Morgan Grey, the young woman crossed the room and paused a moment to warm her hands before the fire. Then she turned.
Her tone was low, her words softly spoken. But there was no mistaking her calm assurance as she said, “I am the leader of my people. I am Brenna, the MacAlpin. These men follow my orders. And you and your men,” she said with quiet authority, “trespass in my castle.”
Brenna MacAlpin. It took Morgan Gray a full minute to recover from the shock of her pronouncement. This mere slip of a girl was the leader of the MacAlpins? He had heard of her, of course. Many an English soldier had returned from battle with stories of the MacAlpin woman who led her clan. But he had pictured a giant of a female with a man’s muscles, wielding a broadsword and straddling a horse bareback. He had surely not expected this delicate creature who would look more at home with needle and thread, and servants offering her tea and scones.
“If that be true, why did you allow us inside your castle? Did you not realize that you would be even more vulnerable once my men were within your fortress walls?”
Brenna motioned to old Duncan MacAlpin, who strode forward, sword drawn. His white hair was in sharp contrast to his tanned, leathery skin. Though stooped with age, his arms still showed muscles honed through years of hard labor.
“Ye will do as I command.” His voice rasped like the creaking wheels of an ancient cart. “I order your men to surrender their weapons, or I will give the order for my men to advance.”
Morgan Grey threw back his head in laughter. “Am I to tremble in fear of this old man?”
“Nay, my lord,” Brenna said softly. “’Tis the sight of your men surrounded by mine that will convince you to show Duncan the proper respect.”
Thunderstruck, Morgan turned. Behind each of his men stood a Scotsman, armed with both sword and dirk. And standing with the men was the small, slim girl who had raced to the safety of the castle when he and his men had approached. Though her hair was the color of spun gold and her eyes were tawny, there was no mistaking the similarity of features. She had to be sister to the woman who called herself leader. Instead of the calm, almost serene presence before him, the lass had the fiery look of a warrior.
The English soldiers also turned and found themselves facing armed guards.
“So.” Morgan turned back to the woman. “I see I misjudged you.”
“A dangerous mistake. State your business, Morgan Grey, before I lose my patience.”
“You know of me?”
“Aye.” Her eyes narrowed. “They call you the Queen’s Savage. But Elizabeth of England is not my queen. And here in Scotland we do not fear you.”
He took a step toward her. Instantly Duncan raised the tip of his sword to Morgan’s tunic, at a place just above his heart.
“Old man,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “If my mission were not peaceful, you would already lie in your own blood.”
“Ye will step back from the Lady Brenna.”
Morgan’s hand tensed by his side. He longed to thrust his sword into the arrogant man’s heart. Yet he admired the spirit of the two who faced him, despite the fact that they were nothing more than a doddering old fool and a fragile, helpless female. Still, he had his orders.
Ignoring Duncan he withdrew a scroll from inside his tunic and handed it to Brenna with a slight bow. “I bring a message of peace from my queen, Elizabeth of England. She bids you receive my men and me in friendship and allow us to abide with you a few days. It is my queen’s wish that these wars between our borders cease and that our citizens learn to live in peace.”
“And if we lower our weapons, will we not find a knife in our backs? Or worse,” Brenna said softly, “will we wake to find our castle looted and our horses stolen?”
“Nay, my lady. If we desired your horses we would have taken them. And if we desired your castle, we could have easily laid siege and conquered you in battle. I would remind you that my men outnumber yours five to one. The ones you see here are but a small portion of the rest who await my orders just outside your castle walls.”
Though her face did not change expression, he saw the quick flash of realization in her eyes. The hills had been black with men and horses. Yet only a hundred or so had followed him inside.
“Why does your queen now seek a truce between our people?”
Morgan’s lips curled in a hint of a smile. “My queen is cousin to your queen. Mayhap they grow weary of dissent.”
What he said made sense. Possibly. Or was it only that she wished it so fervently?
The Scottish clans who lived along the border between England and Scotland had suffered for generations because of the tensions between their two countries. As leader of a Borderer clan, Brenna had tasted war from the moment of her birth.
She studied him quietly. “How long do you wish to abide?”
“A day or two. No more.”
She nodded. “Your men will sheathe their swords. If any weapon is drawn against one of my men, it is drawn against all.”
Morgan’s hand curled into a fist
at his side. She was so cool, so regal, he couldn’t decide whether to bow, as though in the presence of royalty, or throttle her within an inch of her life.
“Aye, my lady.” He turned to his men. “Sheathe your weapons. Let no man raise a hand against another while we partake of the MacAlpin—hospitality.”
She heard the note of sarcasm in his tone.
He turned toward Brenna. “My men will see to their horses first.”
“My servants will prepare food and lodging.”
“We are most grateful, my lady.”
She gave him a curt nod and turned her back on him, crossing the room to stand with her men. “My servants will see to your comfort.”
She paused beside her younger sister and touched a hand to her arm. Cool amber eyes, like those of a fox, appraised Morgan Grey before the young lass sheathed her sword and followed her sister from the room.
How different they were, Morgan mused as he turned toward the fire. The younger one looked as feisty as his young page before battle, nearly trembling with energy. But it was the older sister who filled Morgan’s mind, crowding out all other thoughts. She was so haughty, so controlled, she might have been born to royalty.
He glanced at the tapestries lining the walls of the great hall. One central figure caught his eye. One man, from whom all the other figures descended. There was no mistaking the likeness of Kenneth MacAlpin, the first great monarch of Scotland. Morgan moved closer and studied the intricate needlework, tracing the lineage. It appeared that that infuriatingly regal air had been bred into the woman, Brenna, through the generations.
His lips curved into a smile that was laced with danger. Morgan Grey had always enjoyed sparring with royalty. And winning.
Chapter Two
Morgan Grey leaned a hip against the doorway and watched as his men eagerly filed into the great hall. Behind them came the Scots, their weapons put away, or at least hidden from sight beneath their tunics and capes.
Though there were two armies within the castle walls, the castle did not seem overcrowded. A giant fireplace at either end of the hall, filled with crackling logs, took the chill from the room. Tapers set in sconces along the walls cast a warm glow. The men’s heavy boots scraped along the floor as they took their places at long wooden tables, scarred from generations of use.
The English soldiers sat at one end of the hall; the Scots at the other. The room echoed with the sounds of rough language and coarse laughter, as the men, enemies for centuries, selfconsciously took the measure of each other.
Abruptly the crowd became subdued as the young women entered the hall. Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the leader of the two.
Brenna’s gown was deep lavender velvet. It hugged her firm, high breasts and tiny waist, then fell in soft folds to the tips of her kid slippers. The wide sleeves were inset with ermine and tapered to narrow cuffs. Her dark hair had been braided with ribbons and fell over one shoulder in a cascade of ebony and silk.
The girl behind her was gowned in pristine white. A cloud of yellow hair drifted around her shoulders like a veil. With her slender figure, she could be mistaken for a much younger lass. But there was nothing childlike about the way she openly studied the soldiers filling the room. Her misgiving about these foreign intruders was obvious.
While the two walked to their position at the head table, the Scots soldiers remained standing at attention. The English soldiers, surprised at the respect being shown, followed suit.
“My lord.” A young servant approached Morgan. When he glanced at her, she timidly lowered her gaze. “My lady asks that you sit at her table while you sup.”
He gave her a curt nod and followed. When he reached the table, the two young women looked up in greeting.
“It occurs to me that I have not yet introduced you to my sister. Megan is the youngest of the MacAlpin clan.”
He bowed over the girl’s hand and was aware of the way she cautiously appraised him. When he took her hand in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles, he felt her flinch.
“There is no need to fear. I carry no weapons, my lady.”
Brenna saw the way his lips curved into the hint of a smile. But her younger sister was not amused.
“That is wise, my lord. For I was not prepared to trust the word of an Englishman.”
She touched the hilt of a dagger at her waist.
His eyes narrowed.
Brenna put a hand on her sister’s arm to still her words, then turned to soothe the tension of the man beside her. “We are not accustomed to entertaining English soldiers in our home.”
“It is a new experience for me as well, my lady.”
“Please.” She was eager to keep this meal from erupting into open warfare. “Let us take our places at table.”
As Morgan took the seat indicated, his thigh brushed Brenna’s. Their gazes locked, his amused, hers angered.
He saw the cool disdain in her eyes and looked away. It was obvious that the Lady Brenna would do her duty and entertain him, even though she found it distasteful. He would also abide by his queen’s wishes and tolerate the situation, though laying siege to this ice maiden’s castle would have been more to his liking.
Brenna took a deep breath to calm the fluttering of her heart. Though she gave every appearance of being in control, her nerves were strung as tightly as the strings of the lute that lay in her sitting chamber. There was something completely unsettling about the man beside her.
“Have my servants seen to your comfort, my lord?”
“They have.” He accepted a tankard from a serving wench and drained its contents before setting it down. The damnable woman made him uncomfortable, though he could not say why.
When a servant approached with a platter of fowl, Brenna offered the first serving to her guest. She watched as he took the food and broke it into several sections. How big his hands were. What strength lay in his fingers. She felt a tremor along her spine and wondered why such a thought had crept into her mind.
“None for you, my lady?”
“I…” She felt herself blushing. “I fear I have little appetite this evening.”
“I am ravenous.” Morgan helped himself to a second serving. This was followed by trays of venison, partridge and salmon, as well as thick-crusted breads still warm from the oven. Morgan savored every serving. Each time his tankard was emptied, it was immediately refilled by a hovering servant.
When at last he was finished, he leaned back with a sigh of contentment. “You are a most generous hostess, my lady.”
Brenna had barely touched her food. Yet she had actually enjoyed the way Morgan indulged himself. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing a man eat with such lusty enthusiasm.
“Do you do everything with such zeal, my lord?”
“Everything that is worthy of doing.” He turned his gaze fully upon her. “My youngest brother died from a fever when he was but ten and five. With his last breath he fretted that he had not yet lived. Never would he have the chance to lift his sword in the name of his queen. Nor journey to distant lands. Nor bed a woman.”
Seeing the color that flooded Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan realized that the female beside him, though leader of her people, was probably much like that lad. He discreetly changed the subject.
“Your keep is well fortified, my lady. I find it hard to believe that the old man who stood at your side this morrow is your first man-at-arms.”
“Old Duncan stood at my father’s side from the time the two were lads. His loyalty is deserving of my respect.”
“An old man’s loyalty will not stay an enemy’s sword, my lady.”
Her eyes flashed before she responded in a carefully controlled voice. “For hundreds of years my people have lived in the path of English, hungry for our land. Your people covet what we have—rich, fertile hills and sleek, desirable cattle.”
“Not to mention your women.”
She heard the hint of laughter in his voice, and her tone hardened.
“Do not cross words with me, my lord.”
“Would you rather we cross swords?”
“Do you think me some pale English lady, who would grow faint and swoon at the sight of a sword? The MacAlpins, though peaceful by nature, have been forced to become a warrior clan. And as leader of my people, I would not hesitate to take up the sword against anyone who threatened mine.”
Morgan felt grudging admiration for the woman’s spirit. Still, her attitude rankled. “Forgive me, my lady, if I remove myself from the fray. Now that my men have been admirably fortified with food and drink, I will see that they withdraw to the quarters you have so generously prepared for them.”
Brenna watched as he pushed away from the table and strode across the room. There was an arrogance even in his movements. At a single command his men followed.
From his position at the table, Duncan waited for her signal. Brenna nodded and he assembled his men. While the English slept, he and the Scots would keep careful watch. In MacAlpin Castle, the word of the English was worthy only of scorn.
As the English soldiers cleared the room, Brenna felt herself relax for the first time in an hour. It was impossible to be at ease in the company of Morgan Grey.
The cool evening air was fragrant with the delicate scent of heather. Clouds scudded across a half-moon, throwing the gardens into shadow.
Brenna pulled the cloak about her and walked among the carefully tended hedges. She was troubled by the presence of the English, and especially Morgan Grey. His reputation had preceded him. He was no mere messenger, carrying a missive from his queen. The man was legend, not only among his own people, but among those he had fought, as well. His name caused armies to tremble. From Scotland to Wales and even across the Channel to Ireland, the Queen’s Savage was a man to be feared.
He was much more than a soldier, however; he was a titled English gentleman. Among the political factions dividing England he was a leader. His father had been one of King Henry’s closest advisers. The English queen, Elizabeth, trusted Morgan Grey as she trusted few within her circle. And, in fact, if rumors were to be believed, he was one of the men being considered as consort for the queen.