Ruth Langan Highlanders Bundle

by Ruth Langan

  Richard went very still, feeling the imprint of her touch upon his flesh. How long it had been since a woman touched him. How he longed for that which had been denied him for so long.

  “My lord…”

  “My lady…”

  They both fell silent.

  Adrianna began to push the heavy chair. As they moved past a trellis overgrown with roses, thunder crashed and the sky seemed to open up, drenching them.

  “We had better stop here a moment, until there is a break in the clouds.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  They paused in the shelter of the rose arbor, listening to the sound of the rain that pelted. Inside they were snug and dry.

  Adrianna lifted her shawl to her face to wipe away the raindrops. As he watched Richard had an almost overpowering desire to kiss each one of them away. This sweet young lass would be shocked to the core if she could read his thoughts.

  He glanced around. “I regret that there is no place for you to sit.”

  “I do not mind standing.”

  A hint of his old humor returned. “I would gladly exchange places with you, my lady, if I could.”

  She laughed at his silly joke. Her laughter was like a soothing balm.

  He joined in her laughter. “But, if you would not mind, I would gladly share this chair.”

  She glanced shyly at him. “There is not room enough for two of us, my lord.”

  “There is, if you sit on my lap.”

  “Would I hurt you if I did?”

  It would be the sweetest pain he had ever endured. He said simply, “There is very little pain in my legs, Adrianna. Usually there is no feeling at all.”

  “Oh, my lord.” Without any warning she dropped to the ground and wrapped her arms around his knees. Her laughter died in her throat. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Forgive me, my lord. I know not why I weep. Nor why I should care so about your pain.”

  Richard was rendered speechless. While she wept, he could do nothing except sit helplessly and watch her tears fall.

  Finally he touched a hand to her damp hair. Such soft hair, he thought. Like a cloud of burnished silk. In a tone low with feeling he whispered, “Do not cry for me, Adrianna.”

  “It is not you I cry for.”

  She looked up at him and he could not help himself. He cupped her face between his hands and at her next words felt his heart leap to his throat.

  “I weep because I am too afraid to show you how I feel.”

  His brows drew together into a puzzled frown. “I do not understand, lass. How do you feel?”

  “My tongue is tied in your presence.” She touched a hand to her heart. “All the things I have locked inside are bursting to be free. But you are the mighty warrior Richard Grey, devoted friend to the queen, hero known to all of France and England. And I am unworthy—to have such feelings for you.”

  “Feelings? For me?” He touched a finger to the curve of her cheek, and she moved against his palm like a kitten.

  He felt his heart begin to soar and cautioned himself not to hope. But it was too late. Already his blood had begun to heat at the thought that this shy, sweet creature might actually care for him.

  “Are you telling me that you are not offended by the sight of me?”

  “Offended?” She drew back, aghast. “I am in awe of you, my lord. You are so handsome, so strong.”

  She thought him handsome? Strong?

  “You converse as easily with the queen as you do with the servants. As you do with a foreigner like me.”

  He was silent for a moment as he studied her. With his thumbs he wiped away the last of her tears. Then, in a voice filled with passion, he whispered, “Talking has always been easy for me. Perhaps it is time I learned to listen as well. Stay here with me, lass. Tell me about yourself, your life, your dreams.”

  “My dreams are beyond my reach, I fear.” She flushed and found herself drawn to open up to this man as she had never opened up to anyone before. “To dwell in a place as peaceful as Greystone Abbey. To awaken each morning to a chorus of birds and the perfume of roses.”

  He felt his hopes soar to the heavens. “Would there be a place for me in your dreams, lass?”

  She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head before turning away with a flush. “You are all I have dreamed of since first I saw you.”

  “Oh, lass.” He caught her hands and drew her onto his lap. With his lips pressed to her temple he murmured, “I pray this rain lasts for hours.”

  “What is this about a fall?” Morgan strode into Cordell’s room.

  Madeline sat on the chaise, tying a strip of fresh linen around her brother’s hand. Her husband stood beside the fireplace watching.

  “It was clumsy of me,” Cordell said, glancing up from the dressing. “At first I thought I was pushed. But Madeline has convinced me that it was just my imagination. Who else would have been walking the stairs at that late hour? And why would anyone want to push me?”

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you could tell me more.”

  “There is little enough to tell. I awoke in need of something to slake my thirst. Rather than wake a servant I thought I would go down to the scullery. But as I paused at the top of the stairs I thought I saw a shadow of someone running toward me.”

  He glanced at his sister and saw her disapproving look. They were, after all, guests of Lord Morgan Grey and the queen. It would not be proper to suggest that anyone in their host’s home would do anything improper.

  “I confess it was very dark, my lord. Perhaps, as Madeline has suggested, what I saw was merely a tapestry along the wall, or even a cloud passing over the moon. At any rate, I thought I saw someone or something a moment before I felt a hand shove me as I took my first step. Before I knew what was happening, I had tumbled down an entire flight of stairs.”

  “A hand shoved you?”

  “Perhaps—” Cordell swallowed “—in my confusion, I imagined it.”

  “The rug at the top of the stairs is loose, old friend,” Charles said softly.

  Morgan caught Cordell’s hand and studied the fresh dressing. “You are wounded.”

  “A little blood. It is nothing my lord. I must have caught my hand on a splinter. My sister makes too much of it.”

  “I see you hit your head as well.”

  “Aye.” Cordell touched a fingertip to the tender spot beside his temple. “At the bottom of the stairs I landed on my head.”

  Morgan’s eyes darkened. “Are there any other wounds?”

  “Bruises. Scratches. They are minor.”

  “I am grateful that nothing serious happened beneath my roof.” Morgan noted the slight bulge under the Frenchman’s tunic. It was obvious that another dressing had been applied to his chest. His tone grew dangerously soft. “I would take it most unkindly if there should be any further mishaps.”

  “Come,” Charles said, taking his wife’s arm. “It has been a long night. I would break my fast.”

  Madeline helped her brother to his feet and twined her fingers with his as they walked from the room.

  Morgan trailed at a slower pace, his mind working feverishly.

  The villain who attacked Brenna would be aware that she could identify him by the wounds she had inflicted. Could Cordell have faked his fall in order to explain away his bruises?

  Morgan felt a momentary stab of guilt. Madeline was one of the finest women he knew. And his friendship with Charles went back to the days of their fathers. Though anything was possible, he could not find it in his heart to believe that either of them would be a party to this. But Cordell was an unknown. He had, after all, been smitten with Brenna when he first set eyes on her. Morgan dismissed the thought. Last night’s attack had not been made by a man in love. Only a madman could have attacked Brenna so viciously.

  There was, Morgan thought suddenly, something darker, more evil about this attack.

  Cordell was an outsider, a loyal Frenchman who would swear homage to Charles IX, king of France. Coul
d it be that this young patriot would go so far as to besmirch his own sister’s good name and use her friendship to gain access to the queen? Could Elizabeth be the real target?

  As a soldier, Morgan had learned to trust his instincts. And instinct told him that this attack on Brenna was somehow related to the threats to the queen’s safety. There was an insidious web of evil being woven around them. And unless he unmasked the villain soon, they could all be ensnared in the ultimate tragedy.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Well. It seems that at least half of our party is finally at table.” After Lord Quigley had given his approval, the queen enjoyed a slice of bread still warm from the ovens, spread with fruit conserve. “It is a pity that you have hurt yourself, Cordell. I pray that it will not keep you from enjoying Morgan’s hospitality.”

  “Nay, Majesty.” The young Frenchman seemed embarrassed by all the attention being lavished on him. “I look forward to all the festivities.”

  “We shall have to…” The queen’s words faded as she stared beyond the young Frenchman to the figure in the doorway.

  Morgan and the others looked up from the table as Lord Windham strode into their midst. He was bleeding and covered with mud. His tunic and breeches were torn and mud-spattered. The side of his head was badly swollen. He was holding his bloodied hand close to his chest.

  “God in heaven.” Morgan scraped back his chair. “What has happened to you?”

  “My horse stumbled on a slippery bank and before I knew it I was tumbling through the air to land on my head.”

  “You will need assistance,” the queen said, rushing to his side.

  “Your Majesty.” He glanced around the assembled guests. “You will forgive me if I do not join you until later?”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said quickly. “Morgan, summon your servants.”

  “Aye.”

  Morgan reached for the cord that would summon a servant. Almost instantly Mistress Leems appeared. When she caught sight of Lord Windham she wrung her hands and hurried away to fetch the servants.

  “You are an excellent equestrian, Windham,” Morgan remarked, studying the man. Except for his hand, there was little blood. But it was difficult to be certain how badly he was injured under the mud.

  “Even the best horseman would find it difficult in this rain. Ah, there you are, mistress.” Windham bowed away from the queen and followed the servants from the room. “I will need a bath at once,” he bellowed. “And fresh clothes.”

  “I will send for a physician,” Morgan said quickly.

  “Nay.” Windham whirled. “’Twould be an inconvenience. One of your servants can bind these wounds. They will mend.”

  “It is no trouble. The queen’s own physician can be here before the noon Angelus bells are rung.”

  “Nay. I insist. I will be fine.”

  Morgan watched as Windham climbed the stairs behind the cluster of servants.

  When he joined the others at table, Morgan allowed the conversation to swirl around him while he sat lost in thought. He had been convinced that Cordell had been the one who had attacked Brenna last night. Now, he was no longer certain. Could Windham have pretended to fall from his mount in order to mask the injuries suffered at Brenna’s hand?

  His thoughts were interrupted when the door was opened and Richard entered the refectory from the garden. Behind him was Adrianna, pushing his chair. Both of them had smiles on their flushed faces. And both seemed oblivious to the fact that their hair curled damply from the rain and that their clothes were plastered to their bodies.

  “Mon Dieu.” Madeline got to her feet. “You will catch your death in those wet clothes.”

  “Oui.” Adrianna smiled at her. “Look.” She held out the rose that Richard had given her. “Richard has grown a new strain of rose. This is the first bloom.”

  Madeline stared at her shy little sister. Never before had she seen her look so radiant. Or so animated. “It is beautiful.”

  “You will excuse our appearance,” Richard said, bowing slightly to the queen. “It is raining outside.”

  “Really? I had not noticed.” Elizabeth swallowed the smile that touched her lips. “Not hard, I hope.”

  “Just a fine mist. A lovely fine mist. The kind of rain one might enjoy walking in.” He smiled at Adrianna, then seemed to catch himself. “We must change clothes.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth lifted her hand in a regal gesture. “I would not want you to stay in those uncomfortable garments.”

  When the two had left, everyone burst into gales of laughter.

  Elizabeth turned to Morgan. “It is as you said earlier, my friend. Everyone has gone mad.”

  Morgan stared after his brother and the French lass. “So it would seem.”

  “Come,” Elizabeth called to her ladies. “We will retire to the sitting chamber until the rain stops. Brenna, join us.”

  Reluctantly Brenna joined the cluster of laughing, talking women. She would have rather stayed with Morgan. But the queen’s request was a royal command. To refuse was unthinkable.

  When they were gone, Morgan sat alone, staring into the flames of the fire, deep in thought.

  Dinner with the queen was always a formal affair. Elizabeth and her companions had brought their most elegant gowns and spent hours preparing themselves for the evening.

  In their chambers, Morgan and Brenna were grateful for some time alone, away from the prying eyes of the others.

  While Brenna allowed Rosamunde to help her into her gown, she was achingly aware of the man who awaited her just beyond the door in the sitting chamber.

  “Your hair, my lady.”

  “It is fine, Rosamunde. Do not fuss so.”

  “Aye, my lady.”

  As the servant turned away, Brenna caught her hand. “I did not mean to be short with you.” Her eyes danced with unconcealed ardor. “It is just that I…”

  “I understand, my lady. My Lord Grey awaits you just as impatiently.”

  With a conspiratorial smile, the servant was gone.

  Without even taking time to study her reflection in the looking glass, Brenna opened the door. Morgan turned from the fireplace.

  Her gown was deep purple velvet, with a low neckline. The skirt fell in soft folds from the narrow waist to the tips of her pale kid slippers. The sleeves were inset with jewel-encrusted bands.

  As she walked closer Morgan reached inside his tunic and removed a velvet pouch. When he handed it to her, she lifted wide questioning eyes to him.

  “I noticed that you are the only lady here with no jewelry. I want you to have these, my lady.”

  Brenna loosened the piece of velvet and caught her breath at the glittering jewels wrapped inside. There was a necklace of diamonds surrounding an amethyst as large as a hen’s egg. The matching earrings were clusters of diamonds and amethyst that caught the light of the fire and seemed to glow with their own heat.

  “I cannot possibly accept these, Morgan.”

  “But why?”

  She tried to hand the jewelry to him, but he refused to take it.

  “I am not yet your wife. It would not be right to accept such a splendid gift.”

  “But it would make me happy.”

  “And it would make me very uncomfortable.”

  His voice grew soft. “Will you tell me why, Brenna?”

  She swallowed. “There are those who will think I—sold my favors for a handful of jewels.”

  “I care not what others say. Nor should you.”

  She studied the jewels in her hand. “You are too generous, Morgan. These must be worth at least a king’s ransom.”

  “Or a Scots chieftain.” He took the necklace from her hand and fastened it around her throat. “These were given to my father by a grateful King Henry. They were my mother’s favorite pieces.”

  Brenna touched a hand to the jewels at her throat. “Then I shall treasure them, my lord.”

  “Not nearly as much as I treasure the woman who wears them.”r />
  “But I would prefer not to wear them until after we are wed.”

  “And I would prefer to see you wear them tonight.”

  He brought his lips to her throat and felt the need rising. As she affixed the earrings he allowed his hands to move slowly along the slope of her shoulders.

  “How soft you are. How beautiful.” He felt her shiver beneath his soft caress. “Would the queen mind if her host was late to sup?” he muttered thickly against her neck.

  Brenna laughed. “You cannot be serious.”

  He turned her into his arms and stared down at her with a look that left her no doubt as to his meaning. “All day I have thought of nothing but you.”

  He bent his head and nibbled at her throat. With a little sigh she arched her neck, loving the feel of his lips on her skin.

  “And tonight I fear the queen will linger below stairs long into the night. Unlike us, she has no reason to hurry to her bed.”

  “Though the evening will be unbearably long, what can we do about it?”

  “This.” His hands moved to the buttons of her gown.

  “Morgan.” As he slid the gown from her shoulders, she stifled a gasp. “The queen will be furious if we keep her waiting.”

  “Aye. But we will be so happy, love. And we will only be a little late.”

  When he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, she pressed her lips to his throat to stifle her laughter as they once more tumbled into a world of exquisite pleasure.

  “I am jealous,” the queen said, staring at the jewels that adorned Brenna’s throat and earlobes. “Your jewelry outshines even mine.”

  “I am told they were a gift from your father.” Selfconsciously Brenna touched a hand to her throat as she took a seat beside Morgan at the table.

  “Aye. And though I have heard about the splendid Grey jewels, I have never before had occasion to see them. They are magnificent. You must please Morgan very much,” the queen added slyly.

  Brenna felt the heat rise to her cheeks.

  To cover her embarrassment, Morgan said, “Brenna did not wish to wear them tonight. She thought them too opulent for her taste. But I persuaded her to wear them for just this one night to please me. Then they can be put away until our betrothal.”