by Ruth Langan
Love.
Her eyes widened and she glanced up at him as if fearful that he could somehow read her mind.
“What is it, my lady?”
Her throat was so dry she could not speak.
“Is something amiss, Brenna?”
“Aye.” Something was terribly amiss. She felt tears very close to the surface and blinked them away. What had come over her? What in the world was happening to her?
“Tell me.” His voice was rough. “What has caused you such discomfort?”
You, she thought. You have been the cause of all my pain, all my fears, all my disquieting dreams. And you do not even know the power you wield over me.
Without realizing it, her look softened. Her eyes had the look of a woman in love. Her lips parted in invitation.
“I do not know, my lord. There are times when I feel—lost, confused.”
“You are not lost, Ice Maiden.” He drew her close. His hand tightened over hers. If he had it in his power, he would keep her safe with him forever.
Forever. What a strange thought when he knew that there was no such thing. Forever was a foolish dream, a silly child’s concept that had no place in his world. Still, though he knew better, he yearned for that which was unattainable. Forever.
The music ended all too soon. Both Brenna and Morgan were reluctant to step apart. When Brenna walked from the dance floor, her cheeks were flushed, and on her face was a glow that had not been there earlier. But before she could accept a goblet of wine from Morgan’s hand, Lord Windham caught her in a firm grasp.
“Would you do me the honor, my lady?”
“I fear I must take a few moments to catch my breath, my lord.” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held her fast.
“There will be ample time for that.” He placed a hand at her shoulder and propelled her into the circle of dancers.
Brenna felt his hand at her waist and forced herself to show no emotion. It was, she reminded herself, merely a dance. But she could not forget his cruel words, his evil threats.
“You are turning many heads,” he muttered as he swept her in a graceful arc.
“You flatter me, my lord.”
“I desire you, my lady. As I know you desire me.”
The color on her cheeks deepened. Her eyes rounded in surprise at his boldness.
He stared down at her, his gaze piercing. “There are many rooms here in Grey’s home where a man and woman can hide from prying eyes.”
At his sinister tone she felt her blood go cold. Never again would she permit this man to force her into a compromising situation as he had at the queen’s banquet. With an unexpected shove, she managed to dislodge herself from his arms. As he reached out she evaded his touch and took another step back.
“You must excuse me, Lord Windham. I fear I must rest a moment from the rigors of dancing.”
Lifting her skirts, she nearly ran in her haste to escape him. As she reached Morgan’s side, Windham caught up with her.
Morgan glanced from Brenna’s flushed cheeks to Lord Windham’s dark scowl and reacted instinctively by taking a menacing step closer.
Windham studied the protective way Morgan stood beside Brenna. A hint of a cruel smile touched his lips. So, Morgan Grey had become the lady’s protector. Nothing would give him more satisfaction than putting Grey in his place. He turned to the queen.
“Majesty.” His sharp tone commanded the attention of everyone in the room.
“I should like to ask your blessing on a most—delicate subject.”
Elizabeth’s interest piqued. “Is this not something that can be decided upon at court?”
“Nay, Majesty. You have expressed a desire to have this matter settled as quickly as possible.”
“What is it, Lord Windham?”
“I request permission to wed the Lady Brenna MacAlpin.” At his words, there was a collective gasp from those around him. And then a sudden, shocked silence.
Brenna stood rooted to the spot. Shock rippled through her. She stood, head bowed, hands gripped tightly together, trying desperately to hold to some thread of control.
This could not be happening. Please God. Not marriage to this man. Though she had once thought all Englishmen were kin to the devil, she now knew that to be untrue. A few of the men here were kind and generous souls. And one here had a special place in her heart, though she was loath to admit it. But there was about Lord Windham a hint of evil that set her teeth on edge. It was not love that drove him to seek her hand. Nay, it was something dark and chilling. Something she could not name that sent terror churning in her veins.
Except for a slight narrowing of his dark eyes, Morgan showed absolutely no emotion. He studied Windham, noting the look of triumph on his features. Aye, it would please Windham to wear Brenna on his arm like a trophy won in the games. From the time they were young, Windham had always wanted the finest mount, the biggest estate, the most beautiful woman at his side. Most of his possessions had been gained by less than honorable means. And always, when his interest waned, he would cast them aside for something even more exotic.
When the queen did not respond to Windham’s request, he drew himself up to his full height and lifted his head in an arrogant pose. “As you have said, Majesty, the lady’s temper would be a problem for most men. But I am certain I can control her. I am willing to do the noble thing and take her as wife.”
Brenna was trembling so violently, she was forced to grip her hands together until her knuckles were white with the effort. When the queen opened her mouth to speak, Brenna stared at her with a pleading look in her eyes. She swallowed the lump that threatened to choke her and heard the queen’s imperious tones.
“How kind of you, Lord Windham, to offer to take on the challenge of marriage to the Scotswoman.” Elizabeth’s voice purred, with just a hint of sarcasm. “Would that all loyal subjects were so noble.”
Brenna closed her eyes and prayed that she would not embarrass herself by fainting again. If it killed her she would hold her head high, her spine rigid, and face her punishment like a true Scots.
“Unfortunately,” the queen continued, enjoying the drama of the moment, “you are too late.”
Someone gasped. Brenna wasn’t certain if it had been her or someone else.
The queen’s words sent another shock through the guests. “Morgan Grey has already asked for the lady’s hand.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I will choose a day for their official betrothal,” the queen stated.
The crowd erupted into a great clamor of exclamations and congratulations.
Brenna heard but a single word. Betrothal. Not to Lord Windham, but to Morgan Grey. She was besieged by conflicting emotions. Relief, that she had been spared the ordeal of marriage to the cruel Windham. Outrage, that her fate had been so callously sealed without regard to her feelings. But deep inside, despite her denials to herself, she felt a thread of excitement that this man, whose very touch thrilled her, would seek to wed her. English or no, he made her burn as no other man ever had.
Morgan stood very still and regarded her reaction.
“A wedding. Cherie, how wonderful.” While the others surged around them, Madeline drew Brenna into her arms and hugged her, then turned to Morgan with a laugh. “How could you have kept such a thing from us during tea? You rogue. How soon will you wed?”
“As soon as I have—” he turned toward the queen with a grave look “—completed a favor for Her Majesty.”
Richard pulled Morgan down in a fierce hug. “Secrets, brother? I thought we told each other everything.”
“I would have told you. If there’d been time.”
“But you gave not a whisper.”
“Aye. Some things are decided quickly.”
“I am happy for you.” Richard glanced at Morgan’s grim features. He threw back his head and laughed before muttering, “Smile, Morgan, else they will think it is a funeral you are planning.”
Morgan forced a grim smile to h
is lips.
His reaction was not lost on Brenna.
Cordell’s face fell, but only for a moment. Covering his dismay, he kissed Brenna’s hand. “My lady, I am fortunate to be here at such a time in your life. I wish you all happiness.”
“Thank you.” Brenna felt her lips quivering and prayed she would not give in to the tears that threatened.
From the time she had been a young girl, she had dreamed of a romantic courtship and a fine wedding, with her sisters attending her and all the people of their clan surrounding her.
What a foolish child she had been. A lump formed in her throat. What silly, romantic dreams she had spun.
The Frenchman turned to Morgan and offered his hand. “You are most fortunate, Lord Grey. Never have I met a lovelier lady than yours.”
Morgan could read the sincerity in the young man’s eyes. And though he still considered the callow youth to be offensive, he accepted his handshake.
On Lord Windham’s face was a look of unveiled hatred. For long moments he studied the Scotswoman, then turned toward the man who had won her hand. How many times had he been bested by Grey in the past? He felt a wave of fury. Too many times to count. His need for vengeance was a living, palpable thing. And yet, he cautioned himself, the duel was not yet won.
He carefully composed his features and bowed over Brenna’s hand. “A pity, my lady, that you must be saddled with frayed baggage like Morgan Grey.”
“Frayed baggage?” She seemed puzzled.
“You did not know?” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “Your intended has been wed before.”
Wed before? Morgan had a wife? Brenna felt herself reeling from his statement. But as she turned to Morgan for reassurance, Lord Windham continued, “Arrangements like this are common enough. As he did the last time, Grey now acquires another piece of land, and you acquire an English title. And in a few short months the two of you will feel free to move on to other conquests.” His smile grew. “Other lovers.”
Brenna shuddered at his suggestion.
He turned to Morgan, whose only show of anger was the little muscle that worked in his jaw.
“Congratulations, Grey. I pray this lady remains loyal at least until after the wedding.”
The crowd had grown uncomfortably silent.
“Enough, Windham.” The queen clapped her hands and ordered her musicians to play a tender ballad. “This shall be the lovers’ dance. Morgan, dance with your intended.”
Morgan turned to Brenna, whose face had gone pale.
“I fear I am overcome with—emotion, my lord.”
He drew her firmly into his arms. She stiffened at his touch. The queen’s command merely added to her misery. How could she be expected to dance in front of all these people when her whole life had just been forever altered?
“Please, my lord. I feel faint.”
His mouth hardened into a grim, tight line. Damn Windham for leaving him no room for explanation. And damn the fates that had forced this awkward situation.
Against her temple he whispered, “You will dance with me. And you will observe protocol. You may not leave until the queen has excused herself from our company. Then, and only then, will we speak of this. When we are alone in our rooms.”
Alone. Her heart nearly stopped. Through gritted teeth she muttered, “Aye. I will play your game, Morgan Grey. Until we are alone.”
He pressed his lips to her temple. Instantly she felt the flame.
“And then what, my lady?”
The hand at her waist tightened perceptibly. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. Even in her anger she felt her body react to him. How was it that this man’s touch could move her?
All eyes in the crowd were upon them. And though she cursed the desire that surfaced, she could not deny it. With each movement she was achingly aware of the thighs that brushed hers, of the strong, sure hand that guided her.
“When we are finally alone, I will show you how a Scot fights.”
He smiled down at her, a rogue’s smile that could melt any woman’s heart, including hers. “And I, my lady, will show you how an Englishman loves.”
When the queen had taken her leave, the women fluttered about, their voices a chorus of chattering birds.
“Did you see how Morgan devoured the Scotswoman with his eyes?”
“Aye. And did you see the way they whispered while they danced?”
“Is it a love match?” someone asked Madeline.
“How can it be otherwise, cherie? Are they not a handsome couple?”
“Is she very wealthy?”
“I have heard she commands an entire Scots army.”
“What titles will she acquire upon marrying Morgan Grey?”
“He has received many honors from a grateful queen. His wife will be a titled English lady.”
“There are fabulous jewels in the Grey estate. Will he lavish them upon his wife? Or will he save them for future mistresses?”
“What of his London house? Will the lady see it before the marriage?”
As Brenna stood beside Morgan and bid good-night to their guests, she heard comments. Her head was buzzing with words of congratulations and whispered innuendos.
Wealth. Jewels. Mistresses. Did no one care that all this had been forced upon her against her will?
Richard saw the look on her face and caught her hands, drawing her down for his kiss. “I have always wanted a sister,” he murmured, hoping to ease some of her pain. “I cannot think of a better addition to our family than a wife for Morgan who can cook like an angel and wield a knife like Satan himself.”
His words caused her to smile in spite of herself.
“Rest now, lass. And when you wish to talk, I will be here to listen.”
“Thank you, Richard.”
As a servant wheeled his chair through the doorway, Adrianna’s gaze followed them.
When all their guests had taken their leave, Brenna placed her hand on Morgan’s arm and walked stiffly beside him up the stairs. By the time they reached the sitting chamber, Brenna’s heart was thundering in her chest. So many questions. So many things about this man that she did not know. And yet they were to be wed. Wed. God in heaven. How had her mother felt when she had been betrothed at ten and five? And Meredith. When had she known, truly known, that she loved Brice, her Highland barbarian? Oh, if only she could seek their council. If only she had spent more time learning the ways of men and women.
In the sitting chamber a fire had been started on the grate. Candles added a soft glow. A decanter of wine and two crystal goblets rested on a silver tray on a low table.
Brenna’s room was in darkness. No fire had been laid on the hearth. From the open doorway she stared around her sleeping chamber. The bed linens had been removed, as had her clothing.
“I do not understand.” She turned.
Morgan pointed to his sleeping chamber. “The servants have placed your things in my room, my lady.”
Moving toward the fire, Brenna clutched her arms around herself and shivered. Seeing it, Morgan filled the two goblets and crossed the room to her.
“This will warm you.”
She accepted the goblet and drank, grateful for anything that would ease the chill that seemed to have seeped through to her soul.
“I regret,” Morgan said, staring at the flames, “that you were forced to endure that—public display, my lady. If I could have, I would have prepared you for the ordeal. But there was no time.”
When she said nothing he continued. “As for the shocking news of my previous marriage, it is common knowledge among the London gossips. Of course, you are not privy to such things, and so you did not know.”
Brenna turned to look at him. His gaze was locked on the flames that danced in the fireplace. His mouth was a thin, tight line of anger. “I was but a score when we were wed. In less than a year she was in the grave.”
The look in his eyes was so bleak, Brenna longed to reach out to him, to offer him a measure of comf
ort. But she did not know how.
“I am sorry, my lord. Even now, your grief is such that it pains you to speak of it.”
“Grief?” He turned to her then and she saw the pain etched on his handsome features. “You mistake bitterness for grief. I cannot grieve over what was never mine.”
She blinked. “What are you saying?”
“The lady loved another. She only used me to make her lover jealous. And to give his child a name.”
“Child! You have a child, my lord?”
“Nay.” He drained the goblet and refilled it. “The child died in her womb.”
Without thinking she touched a hand to his sleeve. “I am sorry, my lord.”
He pulled away from her touch, but not before he felt the first stirrings of desire. “I do not want your pity.”
She watched as he emptied the goblet a second time. There were no words that she could speak. And yet she had to ask the question that burned in her mind.
“Why…” She swallowed and tried again. “Why, when you are so bitter, would you ask for my hand? It is obvious that you do not wish to be wed again.”
Why, indeed? Had he not asked himself this very question? His face became an unreadable mask. “I am, after all, responsible for bringing you to England. When I surmised that Windham would speak for you, I knew that I could not allow you to be placed under his cruel domination.” He shrugged. “I accepted my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility?” In her fury, Brenna’s hand tightened on the stem of the goblet. “Your responsibility?” The temper she had kept under such careful control exploded. She turned on him with all the fury of a wounded tigress. “I will not be wed to a man out of some misguided sense of duty.”
“Would you have me turn you over to Windham?”
“Nay. There is a much simpler solution to the problem. Let me return to my home in Scotland.”
As patiently as if he were explaining to a child he said, “The queen has decreed…”
“Damn the queen! And damn you, Morgan Grey!” With uncharacteristic vengeance she hurled the goblet against the fireplace.
Before she could turn away his hand snaked out, catching her roughly by the shoulder. In his eyes was the barest hint of a smile.