by Ruth Langan
“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
“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
. “Oh, yes, Morgan. I’ve been hoping you would invite me. We could hunt. And have a splendid tea in your gardens. And a great feast…”
He held up his hand to stop her. “I had thought you would come alone.”
“But I must have my servants. And a cook. You know I cannot abide Mistress Leems’s cooking. And Madeline and Charles. And…”
She saw the look on his face and hesitated. “I will bring only those who are absolutely necessary to my comfort and happiness, Morgan. I promise you.”
He gave an exasperated sigh. “As you wish, Majesty. I will make the necessary arrangements.”
“I was just heading for the garden, my lady.” Richard took pity on the young woman who spent most of her time locked away in her chambers while his brother rode each day to Richmond Palace. He had been quick to note the tension between these two. There was something between Brenna and Morgan. Something more than captor and captive. “Would you care to accompany me?”
“Aye.” She moved along by his side while a servant pushed his chair.
The garden consisted of rows of hedges interspersed with formal plantings of roses. Stones had been set in the ground to form a walkway. Here and there in the garden were benches set beneath gnarled old trees. Like the house, the garden had a look of loving neglect, still clinging to a faded beauty of another time.
“Would you prefer the sun or the shade?” Brenna asked.
“The sun. It shines all too seldom to suit me.”
“Aye.” Brenna paused to inhale the fragrance of a drooping pink blossom. “Your roses need tending, my lord.”
“Aye. As does everything at Greystone Abbey.” Richard signaled for the servant to leave them. He idly plucked a rose and lifted it to his face. “How I used to love tending the roses. This garden was our mother’s favorite. When she was alive, it rivaled even the queen’s own. But since her death, there is no one to love it and care for it.”
“A pity. ’Tis such a lovely, peaceful place.”
“Aye. I suppose I could resume tending the flowers.” He lifted his head to study the flight of a songbird. “If I but had wings.”
Brenna studied him while he spoke. For a moment she saw in his eyes a fire. Then he blinked and it was gone.
He turned to look back at the house. “Greystone Abbey, too, has grown shabby from neglect. It lacks a woman’s touch.” He grew pensive for a moment. “Perhaps we all do.”
“Tell me about your mother.”
“She was the daughter of a Scottish nobleman.”
“A Scot? Your mother was not English?”
“Nay.” He chuckled at the look in her eyes. “Are you scandalized, lass?”
“Aye.” She leaned forward, her eyes aglow, her features suddenly animated. “How was it that your father did not marry one of his own?”
“The Greys have ne’er held with tradition. While on a mission to Scotland for King Henry, my father beheld a lass who took his breath away. He inquired about her, and asked the king to arrange a meeting with her family. When they refused permission for my father to marry their daughter, he vowed he’d win her anyway. In the dark of the night he climbed to her balcony and spent the night persuading her to love him. By morning they had lain together. And her father, knowing that his daughter had been sullied by the English savage and was thus no longer desirable to the Scottish lairds, reluctantly permitted their marriage.”
Brenna’s eyes were wide. “Did your mother live to regret her hasty decision?”
“Regret? Nay, lass. I have never known two happier people than my father and mother. Until the day death separated them, they were deeply in love.”
“How did your father’s English family accept his bride?”
“As I told you, the Greys do not follow tradition. My father’s mother was from Wales. And my father’s brother married an Irishwoman.” Richard saw the look on Brenna’s face and said softly, “As my grandfather used to say with a twinkle in his eye, ‘The Grey family speaks in many dialects, but the heart understands them all.”’
Brenna bowed her head and studied her clasped hands, digesting all that he had told her. Was it not true of her own family as well? She had been horrified to learn that her beloved sister, Meredith, had given her heart to a Highland barbarian. But there was no denying the love between them.
“Come, lass. Let me show you the rest of the garden.”
With Brenna pushing his chair, Richard pointed out the trees he and Morgan had planted as lads, and the fountain, now broken, where they had splashed away many a summer’s day.
“Morgan was always like a young bull, storming into every fray with his fists raised, his blood hot for battle. And as often as not he’d end up with his nose bloodied and his eyes blackened. But he never learned. The next day he’d be back, ready to do battle again.”
She couldn’t help but laugh at Richard’s amusing stories, and found it oddly appealing to think of Morgan Grey as a young boy. Appealing and quite touching.
“Greystone Abbey must hold many happy memories for you,” she said as they moved toward the courtyard.
“Aye. It was here that I came after my—” he studied the robe that covered his legs “—accident. London was too busy. I felt lost there. There was no place for a cripple who could no longer fight in battle.”
Brenna saw the pain in his eyes and without thinking dropped to her knees and clasped his hand in hers. “Please my lord—Richard—do not speak so cruelly of your affliction.”
“Cripple? Does the word offend you?” He touched a hand to her hair and with a gentle smile lifted her palm to his lips. “It no longer matters, lass. I know what I am. I accept the fact that I cannot do the things I once did. Here I have found peace. Greystone Abbey has always been a soothing balm for my family.”
For some of his family, perhaps. As Brenna smoothed down her skirts and directed Richard’s chair through the entrance, she thought of the other Lord Grey, tense, angry, concerned for the queen’s safety. He had spent the past week traveling constantly between his home and the queen’s palace at Richmond.
Though she told herself that she dreaded their next confrontation, she found herself listening for the sound of his horse’s hooves. When at last he returned, she felt her heart begin to race.
Could it be that she was actually beginning to enjoy her verbal duels with this Englishman? There could be no other logical reason she would look forward to the return each day of Morgan Grey.
“I will wear this gown to sup, Rosamunde.” Brenna pointed to a delicate lavender gown of satin, with bodice and sleeves encrusted with pearls.
“It is beautiful, my lady.” With a minimum of words Rosamunde set about ordering one serving girl to prepare a bath while the other set out the gown and layers of petticoats. There were stockings, matching kid slippers and even pearl-encrusted ribbons for her hair.
“How do you magically come up with these beautiful clothes, Rosamunde? In the weeks I have been here, you have surprised me with a new gown each day.”
The girl put a hand to her mouth and gave a shy laugh. “There is no magic. My lord Grey has instructed the seamstresses to provide whatever you request.”
“Which Lord Grey? Richard or Morgan?”
“Lord Morgan Grey, my lady.”
Again Brenna felt the familiar ripple of pleasure at the maid’s words and wondered about it. Why should a simple kindness from Morgan cause her such joy?
“And since you are too much of a lady to ask for anything,” Rosamunde continued, “I do it for you.”
Brenna laughed. “I have no need of all these clothes. A simple morning gown is enough.”
“My lady, you spend far too much time lately overseeing the scullery and kitchen, and not nearly enough time worrying about your wardrobe. A fine lady should not bother with such mundane things as the household supplies. Soon you will be the wife of a wealthy nobleman, and you will no longer need to concern yourself with Greystone Abbey.”
Her words caused a surprising ache in
Brenna. She forced herself to hide the pain. Why should she care about this faded old manor and the people who dwelled here? Were they not, after all, hated English?
“I have seen the fine work Mistress Leems does. But she is overburdened in the refectory and seems glad of my assistance.”
“Aye, Mistress Leems has told everyone of your gracious help.”
Brenna brushed aside her compliment. “I welcome the opportunity to have something to do. It passes the time.”
Rosamunde tied the last ribbon in Brenna’s hair, then gave a nod of satisfaction. Shooing the other servants from the room, she scooped up Brenna’s discarded clothing and prepared to take her leave.
Touching her arm, Brenna stopped her. “Since leaving Scotland I have thought often about my old nurse, Morna, who has been with me for a lifetime. Despite failing eyesight and gnarled old hands, she is truly a treasure. As, it seems, are you.”
For a moment the servant seemed overcome. In all the years that she had been in service, she had never before been thanked for her work. The wealthy were accustomed to pampering. They took it for granted that it was their due.
“I would be your friend as well, my lady,” she murmured.
“I am most grateful. I can use a friend.”
Both women looked up at the sound of footsteps. Rosamunde opened the door, then bowed her way from the room. Morgan stood in the doorway, his gaze fastened on the vision before him in lavender satin.
“It would seem that the seamstresses from the village have earned their pay.”
She felt the warmth rush to her cheeks at his compliment. “You are too generous.” Brenna crossed the room and accepted his outstretched hand. She steeled herself for the jolt that always came at his touch. “I have no need of such fine gowns.”
“Since it is my fault that you have no wardrobe, it is my responsibility to provide one that befits my guest.”
He placed a hand over hers and led her down the stairs. “Mistress Leems has been crowing about your skill with the household. She says it is at your direction that the heavy draperies at the windows have been taken down, thus allowing the sunlight to touch even the darkest corners of this old house.”