Highland Heather

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "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.

  "Grey stone 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 gir
l 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."

  "I hope you do not mind. I thought perhaps Richard could see more

  clearly with the windows free of clutter. He spends so much time there

  looking at the world outside these walls."

  "I am most grateful, my lady."

  Morgan studied the gleaming hallway floors as they made their way to

  the refectory. Inside, the darkened walls had been scrubbed until they

  shone. The scarred wooden tables were freshly polished. The dark

  draperies had been removed, allowing sunlight to play over the spotless

  marble floors. The chimneys had been swept, allowing the smoke to

  escape instead of filling the room. Everywhere he looked, it was as if

  Greystone Abbey had awakened from a deep slumber. The servants

  whispered about the lady who worked alongside them, polishing

  everything until it gleamed. She would be considered a harsh

  taskmaster, except for the fact that she did not order anything done

  that she would not do herself.

  "Did you oversee your home in Scotland with such care, my lady?"

  "Aye." She felt a fleeting pang at the thought of her home.

  "My sisters, alas, detested woman's work, preferring to practice the

  use of weapons with our father's men."

  "I seem to recall that you showed no lack of skill with a knife, my

  lady." He touched a hand to the scar at his chest, causing Brenna to

  blush. "Aye. And given a sword I could best many of your soldiers, my

  lord.

  "Twas as much a part of our training as baking bread or sewing a fine

  seam."

  "Beware, brother. A potent combination." Richard, seated in his chair

  at the table, looked up at their arrival. "

  "A woman who can cook, sew and wield a sword. Your chances for

  betrothal grow more numerous with each passing day, my lady."

  Brenna felt the heat on her cheeks and ducked her head, missing the

  scowl on Morgan's face. But it was not lost on his' brother So. Morgan

  was not as eager for the lady to be taken off his hands as he

  claimed.

  Richard decided to pay a little more attention to Morgan and Brenna

  while they supped. He enjoyed nothing as much as a chance to tweak his

  obstinate brother's nose.

  When Morgan's men were seated the servants entered the dining hall

  bearing steaming trays of venison, pheasant and partridge, as well as

  baskets of bread warm from the ovens.

  Richard and Morgan filled their plates, then began to eat in their

  usual lusty manner. Brenna picked at her food and watched as the men

  devoured everything and signaled to the servants for more.

  "What have you done to this venison?" Morgan asked the housekeeper.

  "I prepared it a new way, my lord. Do you disapprove?"

  "Nay. It is the best you've ever made, Mistress Leems."

  The housekeeper cast a shy glance at Brenna.

  "The Lady Brenna told me how her family prepared venison in Scotland. I

  thought I would try it."

  Morgan glanced at the woman beside him, then continued eating.

  "Even the bread tastes different. Better," Richard added, taking a

  mouthful.

  "The Lady Brenna showed the cooks how to make scones and clotted

  cream."

  Richard reached for several more before dismissing the servant.

  "What is this?" Richard asked.

  "Brandied pudding." Mistress Leems watched as he savored the new

  treat.

  "Do you like it, my lord?"

  "Very tasty." When he had eaten every bite, he calle
d the servant over

  for more.

  "Why have you never made this before, Mistress Leems?"

  The housekeeper stifled a smile.

  "I had not the recipe, my lord, until the Lady Brenna told me about

  it."

  "You had a hand in this as well, lass?" Richard turned to Brenna.

  "Aye.

  "Twas my father's favorite."

  "I can see why." Richard filled his plate, then watched as Morgan

  helped himself to more.

  "Lass," Richard said between bites, "is there anything you cannot do

  well?"

  She could not contain the smile that split her lips and touched her

  eyes.

  "I am pleased that you enjoyed your meal, Richard."

  "What about you, Morgan?" Richard stared across the table at his

  brother.

  "You seem to have put away an inordinate amount of food."

  "Aye." Morgan turned to the woman beside him.

  "I do not remember when I have enjoyed a meal more."

  A warm glow enveloped Brenna as she left the refectory. Beside her

  Morgan pushed his brother's chair. She could not fathom why she had

  begun to care what this Englishman thought. But if she would be honest

  with herself, she had to admit that she'd been holding her breath

  throughout the meal in hopes that he would not be angry at the changes

  she had suggested.

  Morgan paused outside the door to the library.

  "Do you wish to retire to your room?"

  "I am not at all weary, my lord."

  "Then perhaps you will stay with us a while."

  "Thank you." She followed them inside the cheery, book- filled room.

  A servant entered bearing a tray containing a decanter and goblets.

  Brenna paused beside a chess set and ran her fingers along the ornately

  carved pieces.

  "Do you play, my lady?"

  "My father was an avid player. It was a rare treat when one of my

  sisters or I managed to beat his strategy."

  "Then I challenge you," Richard said. With a laugh Brenna took a seat

  across from him and made the first move. Within minutes they were

  caught up in the game.

  Across the room Morgan poured himself a goblet of wine and studied the

  woman whose dark hair glowed in the light of the fire. She frowned

  over the chess piece in her hand, then made her move. Richard burst

  into gales of laughter at her mistake and snatched up her piece. After

  a moment's hesitation, she joined him in laughter until the two of them

  were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

  "You take advantage of the fact that I have not played this game in

  many years."

  "It is like holding a sword, lass. You never forget."

  "Aye. It will come back to me. And when it does, I will best you."

  "Of that I have no doubt. Your move, lass." Brenna bent over the

  board and studied the pieces, then made another move. This time

  Richard's brow arched as he shot her a look of admiration.

  "I see that it is all coming back to you, lass."

  "Aye." She watched as he made his move, then countered.

  After only four more moves, Richard realized that they were hopelessly

  deadlocked. With a little bow he grinned.

  "Are you certain you have not played this game in years, lass?"

  "Well, I may have played a few times with my sisters."

  "Ah. And you simply forgot to mention that fact." She shrugged,

  avoiding his eyes.

  "I may have forgotten." Richard threw back his head and roared.

  "You are devious, lass. Like a soldier on a battlefield. You