by Ruth Langan
The younger girl studied her sister, seeing the pain in her clear blue eyes. There would be no defying Brenna’s heartfelt wishes. Slowly she nodded. “I go. But only because the MacAlpin has ordered it.”
Tears filled Brenna’s eyes. “God go with you, Megan.”
“And with you, Brenna.”
Brenna watched as Megan flattened herself to the ground and began crawling slowly toward the distant forest. A gentle breeze ruffled the heather, making the field look like a sea of rippling blue waves. For long minutes, Brenna watched, willing her younger sister to the safe arms of their beloved oldest sister and her warrior husband.
She watched until she saw the girl run and hide herself in a stand of trees. Safe. Once in that wooded glade, Megan would never be found by the English.
Dropping to the earth, Brenna began to crawl in the opposite direction. If the breezes worked in her favor, the English would be unable to detect her in the heather. If the breezes ceased…
Brenna refused to allow herself to think beyond this moment. She would run, she would fight and she would die if necessary. But she would not allow herself to be taken to England.
Morgan studied the waving blossoms of heather and blinked, then studied them again. Had he seen a movement or were his eyes playing tricks on him?
As a soldier he had always relied on his instincts in time of battle. This time was no exception. Though he could not see the Lady Brenna, he could sense her presence. She was here. Of that he was certain.
He turned to his men. “Comb this meadow. Trample and pluck every blossom if you must. But do not return to me unless you have the women.”
As the men fanned out, he turned once more and studied the place where he had first seen the movement. Urging his horse into a slow walk, he studied the ground. A body could easily hide beneath this lush growth. Especially a slender young body like Brenna MacAlpin’s.
Ahead of him he saw the heather part, then flatten. As his horse moved closer, he caught a glimpse of small kid boot. The blood began to pump hot through his veins. Brenna. He’d known she was here. With a flick of the reins his horse leaped forward, and he spied a length of ermine-trimmed traveling cloak.
Morgan felt his palms begin to sweat. So close. She was so close. And yet…
The hood slid from her head, revealing a mass of tangled ebony curls. Brenna brushed a strand from her eyes and moved forward several paces before becoming aware of the thundering sound. Her heart? She paused and lifted her head to peer anxiously behind her. Her heart seemed to stop before beginning a painful drumming in her chest.
Dear God. Morgan Grey, astride a spirited mount, appeared even more fierce and threatening than she’d remembered.
“It is useless to try to run any farther, my lady.” He slid from the saddle with an ease of movement that belied his great strength. “By this time on the morrow, we will have joined the rest of my men on their journey to…” His words faded as she let out a gasp and darted out of reach.
Lifting her skirts, she began to run. Morgan was surprised at her agile movements. Though small and delicate, she made quick strides through the field of wildflowers.
Her lungs ached from the effort to elude him. But though desperation made her strong, she was no match for the one who pursued her. His legs were long and lean. With little effort he caught up with her. His hand closed over her wrist.
She turned on him with a cry of rage. He stared in surprise at the jewel-encrusted hilt of the knife held firmly in her hand.
After his initial surprise, a slight smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Am I to fear one small woman and her puny knife?”
“It takes but one small dirk to spill a man’s lifeblood, my lord. And I intend to spill yours this day.”
As she lunged, he moved aside. The tip of her blade pierced his tunic above his heart, sending a stream of blood coursing from the wound.
With a savage oath he caught her hand and twisted it until the knife slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. As he bent to retrieve the dirk, she struggled free of his grasp and began to run.
“Damn you, woman.” Morgan sprinted after her. With one last burst of speed he lunged at her, sending both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
Brenna lay beneath him, struggling to take air into her burning lungs. Morgan straddled her, his legs firmly pinning her torso, his hands holding hers above her head in an iron grip. The blood oozing from his wound stained the front of her cloak and gown.
“Let me up.” Though she struggled bravely, she was no match for Morgan’s strength.
“I am no fool, little wildcat. Until you sheathe your claws, you are staying right here, where I can keep you from attacking me again.”
“If you insist upon taking me to England, I swear, Morgan Grey, I will attack you every chance I get.” As she spoke she twisted her head from side to side.
For long minutes Morgan studied her. With her dark hair wild and tangled like a Gypsy’s, and her eyes matching the heather that bloomed all around them, she took his breath away.
He caught both her hands in one of his. With the other hand he reached out a rough finger and traced from the curve of her eyebrow to the circle of color that suffused her cheek. “Oh, you are going to England with me, my lady. Of that I have no doubt.”
He saw the way her breasts rose and fell with each agitated breath, and his own heartbeat quickened.
He wanted her. In some deep, dark corner of his mind the thought seemed to take shape, then forced its way to his consciousness. God in heaven. Where was the logic in it? In her bid for freedom she had inflicted pain, and would have killed him given the chance.
She was all wrong for him. He was a soldier, a man who had been to hell and back for his queen. She was a lady. Cool, serene, delicate. Nay, he corrected quickly. Far from delicate, as his wound proved. Worst of all, he was English and she was Scots.
His eyes narrowed. She was so lovely. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever known. And despite her regal bearing, he knew that beneath the ice maiden’s cool facade, there beat the heart of a spirited woman.
He lowered his face until he was mere inches from her lips. He inhaled the warmth of her breath and felt his throat go dry. One kiss. While he held her imprisoned in his grip, he would allow himself one final kiss. And then he would have her out of his system.
With his tongue he traced the contour of her lips.
“Nay.” He heard her quick intake of breath before she turned her head away.
Excitement rippled through him.
“Aye, my lady.” With his hand he caught her face and held it firmly for his inspection. There was no fear in her eyes. Only defiance, and something else. Something—indefinable.
He bent his head until her breath mingled hotly with his, then crushed his mouth over hers.
Instantly the fire was there, raging between them. And though each of them tried to give it another name, its name was desire.
Dear God she was sweet. Her lips were as soft as a rose petal, as cool as a morning mist. He drank deeply and was instantly aroused.
At the first brush of his lips on hers Brenna forgot to breathe. Her 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 th
e 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
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 woo
ds 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.