Highland Heather

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "Beautiful." She glanced down, feeling her cheeks redden at his

  unexpected compliment.

  "I am not beautiful, my lord."

  "You think not?" He caught her chin and lifted her face for his

  inspection.

  She blushed clear to her toes.

  "To a worldly man like you I must seem plain. My eyes are too big, my

  nose is too small. My hair is so ordinary."

  "Ordinary." He allowed his gaze to burn slowly over her until she felt

  her cheeks flame.

  "Dear little Adrianna. There is nothing ordinary about you. When I

  look at you I see hair like burnished copper." He touched a finger to

  her rainwashed tresses.

  "Your eyes are greener than the Thames at sunrise. They are big,

  though." When she lifted her gaze to him he chuckled, low and deep in

  his throat.

  "Big enough, I think, for a man to drown in."

  She pulled her head away and refused to look at him.

  "You should not say such things."

  "But I must. Or would you have me lie?"

  "I did not come here seeking compliments."

  "Nay. Nor did I come here to give them away. We both came," he said,

  turning to glance around him, "to admire the rose garden. See how the

  flowers lift their heads to drink in the rain."

  "Aye. How fresh and green everything looks."

  "How fresh you look, dear little Adrianna. You are like a breath of

  fresh air to these tired eyes."

  Again she refused to look at him.

  "The words roll so easily from your tongue, my lord. I think you find

  it easy to speak so to every woman."

  "You think so?" He reached out, catching both her hands in his.

  "Look at me, Adrianna."

  She glanced up, then away.

  "Why will you not look at me?"

  When she said nothing his voice deepened.

  "Are you afraid to look at me?"

  She swallowed.

  "Aye."

  He felt his heart contract. He had foolishly set himself up for this

  pain. All night he had tossed and turned, dreaming of this time alone

  with such a beautiful lass. And all in vain. She was afraid of him.

  Afraid of his affliction. And, if the truth be told, probably filled

  with pity at the sight of him. How could he have been so blind, so

  foolish? Now he must get through this with as much dignity as

  possible, and pretend that it meant as little to him as it apparently

  did to her.

  "I am sorry, my lady." He dropped her hands and turned to cup a

  rosebud between his fingers.

  "These were some of my mother's favorite blooms."

  "I can see why. They are lovely."

  He felt the old despair coming over him. How many times would he allow

  himself to hope, to dream, only to see those hopes and dreams dashed?

  When would he learn that life was not like those fantasies that played

  in his mind, teasing him, tormenting him with their promises?

  "If you care to push my chair, Adrianna, we can go inside now."

  She stood, feeling a stab of pain. She had thought of nothing but this

  man since their first, meeting. She was in such a state of agitation

  she could hardly breathe. And now he was cruelly dismissing her.

  Perhaps their little walk had overtaxed him. Still, he had seemed so

  eager to be with her until a few moments ago. But it had always been

  this way. She was too shy. Her sister and brother constantly told her

  so. But clever words and flirtatious behavior were impossible for her

  to attempt.

  "You promised to show me the place where you and your brother played as

  lads."

  Why was she prolonging his agony? Richard pointed toward the row of

  newly planted trees.

  "It is over there."

  She pushed his chair across the stones worn smooth from generations of

  Greys who had trod these paths.

  "There was once a fountain here," he said softly.

  "Brenna has suggested that the workmen could begin excavating. Perhaps,

  if my brother agrees, by late summer, there will be a new fountain

  here."

  "It is so lovely." Her voice drifted over him, low, sultry. The soft

  French accent added a seductive quality.

  "So peaceful. I envy your mother.

  "Twould be a wonderful place to watch children grow."

  Children. Did she not know how the knife twisted in his heart? What

  woman would ever care to have children with a man who could not run and

  play with them? Or teach them to sit a horse?

  "Oh. Look, my lord." Adrianna touched a blood-red rose whose inner

  petals were touched with palest peach.

  "How unique this blossom."

  "Aye." Despite his glum thoughts Richard felt a rush of pleasure, that

  she should notice.

  "I took a cutting from the roses near the hedges and tied them to these

  stems. And the result is an entirely new strain of rose. This is the

  first bloom." Without ceremony he plucked it and handed it to

  Adrianna.

  She was stunned at his generous gesture.

  "My lord. This is a flower like no other ever grown. You should not

  have picked it and wasted it on me."

  His tone was gruff.

  "It is mine to give. I want you to have it." His tone softened

  perceptibly.

  "It suits you, Adrianna. You are a woman like no other."

  Oh, why could she not be blessed with her sister's outgoing

  personality? Or some of Cordell's charm? She played with the sash at

  her waist while she kept her gaze averted. If only she could find the

  words.

  Again she could not bring herself to look at him. It was further proof

  to Richard that she had come out here with him only out of a sense of

  pity.

  He watched her for a moment, then said softly, "It is raining harder,

  my lady. You will soon be drenched. We should go in."

  "Aye." She inhaled the fragrance of the rose, then reached for the

  back of his chair. As she did, her fingers encountered his shoulder.

  How lean and muscled he was. Her fingers tingled from the contact, and

  yet she had not the strength to back away.

  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 Grey stone 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 att
ack.

  Cordell was an outsider, a loyal Frenchman who would swear homage to

  Charles IX, king of France. Could 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

  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?