Scotland – 1562
The sudden, shocking silence of the tranquil summer afternoon alerted Brenna to danger. It was as if a cloud obscured the sunshine. The birds disappeared from the trees, their chorus abruptly cut off. Even the insects seemed to stop all movement, all buzz and whir and hum.
Seventeen-year-old Brenna MacAlpin withdrew the dirk from her waistband and hissed through her teeth to her younger sister, “Return to the castle. Now.”
Though fifteen-year-old Megan often rebelled against orders, she recognized that tone of voice. Danger. There was no time to question. She did as she was told and ran.
Within minutes a sea of men and horses swarmed over the rim of the hill. Sunlight glinted off shields of polished silver and hammered gold. The raised standard bore the crest of the hated English soldier known as the Queen’s Savage, Morgan Grey.
The man riding the ebony stallion was garbed all in black. Even his hair and eyes were the color of Satan. Wide shoulders strained the seams of his gleaming sable tunic. His body was lean and hardened from years of battle.
The young woman saw everything, yet she was aware of nothing but the tip of the sword pointed at her heart.
“God in heaven, Brenna. We are under siege. Run,” Megan cried over her shoulder.
Brenna MacAlpin was acutely aware of her younger sister racing toward the security of the castle walls. But she could not move. She was frozen to the spot. It was not fear for herself that held her, for she had lived her whole life with war and death. It was Megan’s life she worried after. She would die rather than see her younger sister harmed.
She closed her eyes a moment, willing the fiery little Megan to safety.
The man’s voice was low, menacing. “It is not my intention to harm you. But if you do not drop the knife I will be forced to run you through.”
“Aye.” Her voice was equally low as the knife slipped from her fingers. “That is the way of the English.”
His eyes narrowed at the carefully contained fury in her tone.
Brenna saw Megan slip into the shadows of the castle walls. Without realizing it, she let out a low sigh. She could face death now. Her sister was safe.
She lifted her head and met the dark stare of the stranger. “Finish the deed. I have no fear of you, nor of the death and destruction you bring with you.”
The horseman found himself staring down into the face of the most bewitching woman he had ever seen. Her brow was smooth, her complexion flawless. Her nose was small, her lips pursed in anger. Thick black hair fell in waves to below her waist. Such a tiny waist, he noted. Her figure was lush, inviting. Her breasts rose and fell with every measured breath. But it was her eyes that held him. Eyes the color of heather. At this moment they glinted, not with fear, but with proud, haughty defiance.
“My men and I have not come here to attack your people. My queen, Elizabeth, has sent us on a mission of peace.” He chose to ignore the sneer his words brought. “I desire only that you take me to the castle and present me to your leader.”
“For what purpose?”
He shot her a look that had caused men from England to Wales to cower and beg for mercy. Yet the lass merely faced him, her violet eyes blazing, her chin lifted.
“I shall discuss my business with your leader. Now walk ahead of me.” He slid from the saddle and pointed his sword menacingly.
He missed the smile that touched the corner of her lips as she turned away. But he could not fail to see the way her slim hips swayed as she strode, head high, spine rigid.
“Alden.”
At his call, a ruddy-cheeked man with a thatch of straw-like hair separated himself from the others.
“You will see to the men.”
Within minutes his men fell into procession behind him. When they reached the castle doors, a shout went up from within the fortress. The impenetrable doors were instantly opened to admit the young woman and the swarm of men who followed.
“They are wise not to fight,” the Englishman muttered. “We have them greatly outnumbered.”
“That is not the reason they submit,” Brenna countered. “They do not fight because they know I would be harmed if they did.”
“Is the life of one insignificant woman so important to them, I wonder?”
She did not respond.
He turned to a stooped old man who hovered near the door, and his voice rang out with authority. “Summon your leader.”
The aged keeper of the door turned a worried glance at the young woman, who shook her head gently before turning away. With a sly look the old man hobbled up a flight of stairs.
Ignoring Morgan Grey, the young woman crossed the room and paused a moment to warm her hands before the fire. Then she turned.
Her tone was low, her words softly spoken. But there was no mistaking her calm assurance as she said, “I am the leader of my people. I am Brenna, the MacAlpin. These men follow my orders. And you and your men,” she said with quiet authority, “trespass in my castle.”
Brenna MacAlpin. It took Morgan Gray a full minute to recover from the shock of her pronouncement. This mere slip of a girl was the leader of the MacAlpins? He had heard of her, of course. Many an English soldier had returned from battle with stories of the MacAlpin woman who led her clan. But he had pictured a giant of a female with a man’s muscles, wielding a broadsword and straddling a horse bareback. He had surely not expected this delicate creature who would look more at home with needle and thread, and servants offering her tea and scones.
“If that be true, why did you allow us inside your castle? Did you not realize that you would be even more vulnerable once my men were within your fortress walls?”
Brenna motioned to old Duncan MacAlpin, who strode forward, sword drawn. His white hair was in sharp contrast to his tanned, leathery skin. Though stooped with age, his arms still showed muscles honed through years of hard labor.
“Ye will do as I command.” His voice rasped like the creaking wheels of an ancient cart. “I order your men to surrender their weapons, or I will give the order for my men to advance.”
Morgan Grey threw back his head in laughter. “Am I to tremble in fear of this old man?”
“Nay, my lord,” Brenna said softly. “’Tis the sight of your men surrounded by mine that will convince you to show Duncan the proper respect.”
Thunderstruck, Morgan turned. Behind each of his men stood a Scotsman, armed with both sword and dirk. And standing with the men was the small, slim girl who had raced to the safety of the castle when he and his men had approached. Though her hair was the color of spun gold and her eyes were tawny, there was no mistaking the similarity of features. She had to be sister to the woman who called herself leader. Instead of the calm, almost serene presence before him, the lass had the fiery look of a warrior.
The English soldiers also turned and found themselves facing armed guards.
“So.” Morgan turned back to the woman. “I see I misjudged you.”
“A dangerous mistake. State your business, Morgan Grey, before I lose my patience.”
“You know of me?”
“Aye.” Her eyes narrowed. “They call you the Queen’s Savage. But Elizabeth of England is not my queen. And here in Scotland we do not fear you.”
He took a step toward her. Instantly Duncan raised the tip of his sword to Morgan’s tunic, at a place just above his heart.
“Old man,” Morgan said through clenched teeth. “If my mission were not peaceful, you would already lie in your own blood.”
“Ye will step back from the Lady Brenna.”
Morgan’s hand tensed by his side. He longed to thrust his sword into the arrogant man’s heart. Yet he admired the spirit of the two who faced him, despite the fact that they were nothing more than a doddering old fool and a fragile, helpless female. Still, he had his orders.
Ignoring Duncan he withdrew a scroll from inside his tunic and handed it to Brenna with a slight bow. “I bring a message of peace from my queen, Elizabeth of England. She bids you receive my men and me in friendship and allow us to abide with you a few days. It is my queen’s wish that these wars between our borders cease and that our citizens learn to live in peace.”
“And if we lower our weapons, will we not find a knife in our backs? Or worse,” Brenna said softly, “will we wake to find our castle looted and our horses stolen?”
“Nay, my lady. If we desired your horses we would have taken them. And if we desired your castle, we could have easily laid siege and conquered you in battle. I would remind you that my men outnumber yours five to one. The ones you see here are but a small portion of the rest who await my orders just outside your castle walls.”
Though her face did not change expression, he saw the quick flash of realization in her eyes. The hills had been black with men and horses. Yet only a hundred or so had followed him inside.
“Why does your queen now seek a truce between our people?”
Morgan’s lips curled in a hint of a smile. “My queen is cousin to your queen. Mayhap they grow weary of dissent.”
What he said made sense. Possibly. Or was it only that she wished it so fervently?
The Scottish clans who lived along the border between England and Scotland had suffered for generations because of the tensions between their two countries. As leader of a Borderer clan, Brenna had tasted war from the moment of her birth.
She studied him quietly. “How long do you wish to abide?”
“A day or two. No more.”
She nodded. “Your men will sheathe their swords. If any weapon is drawn against one of my men, it is drawn against all.”
Morgan’s hand curled into a fist at his side. She was so cool, so regal, he couldn’t decide whether to bow, as though in the presence of royalty, or throttle her within an inch of her life.
“Aye, my lady.” He turned to his men. “Sheathe your weapons. Let no man raise a hand against another while we partake of the MacAlpin—hospitality.”
She heard the note of sarcasm in his tone.
He turned toward Brenna. “My men will see to their horses first.”
“My servants will prepare food and lodging.”
“We are most grateful, my lady.”
She gave him a curt nod and turned her back on him, crossing the room to stand with her men. “My servants will see to your comfort.”
She paused beside her younger sister and touched a hand to her arm. Cool amber eyes, like those of a fox, appraised Morgan Grey before the young lass sheathed her sword and followed her sister from the room.
How different they were, Morgan mused as he turned toward the fire. The younger one looked as feisty as his young page before battle, nearly trembling with energy. But it was the older sister who filled Morgan’s mind, crowding out all other thoughts. She was so haughty, so controlled, she might have been born to royalty.
He glanced at the tapestries lining the walls of the great hall. One central figure caught his eye. One man, from whom all the other figures descended. There was no mistaking the likeness of Kenneth MacAlpin, the first great monarch of Scotland. Morgan moved closer and studied the intricate needlework, tracing the lineage. It appeared that that infuriatingly regal air had been bred into the woman, Brenna, through the generations.
His lips curved into a smile that was laced with danger. Morgan Grey had always enjoyed sparring with royalty. And winning.