Morgan Grey leaned a hip against the doorway and watched as his men eagerly filed into the great hall. Behind them came the Scots, their weapons put away, or at least hidden from sight beneath their tunics and capes.
Though there were two armies within the castle walls, the castle did not seem overcrowded. A giant fireplace at either end of the hall, filled with crackling logs, took the chill from the room. Tapers set in sconces along the wails cast a warm glow. The men’s heavy boots scraped along the floor as they took their places at long wooden tables, scarred from generations of use.
The English soldiers sat at one end of the hall; the Scots at the other. The room echoed with the sounds of rough language and coarse laughter, as the men, enemies for centuries, self-consciously took the measure of each other.
Abruptly the crowd became subdued as the young women entered the hall. Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the leader of the two.
Brenna’s gown was deep lavender velvet. It hugged her firm, high breasts and tiny waist, then fell in soft folds to the tips of her kid slippers. The wide sleeves were inset with ermine and tapered to narrow cuffs. Her dark hair had been braided with ribbons and fell over one shoulder in a cascade of ebony and silk.
The girl behind her was gowned in pristine white. A cloud of yellow hair drifted around her shoulders like a veil. With her slender figure, she could be mistaken for a much younger lass. But there was nothing childlike about the way she openly studied the soldiers filling the room. Her misgiving about these foreign intruders was obvious.
While the two walked to their position at the head table, the Scots soldiers remained standing at attention. The English soldiers, surprised at the respect being shown, followed suit.
“My lord.” A young servant approached Morgan. When he glanced at her, she timidly lowered her gaze. “My lady asks that you sit at her table while you sup.”
He gave her a curt nod and followed. When he reached the table, the two young women looked up in greeting.
“It occurs to me that I have not yet introduced you to my sister. Megan is the youngest of the MacAlpin clan.”
He bowed over the girl’s hand and was aware of the way she cautiously appraised him. When he took her hand in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles, he felt her flinch.
“There is no need to fear. I carry no weapons, my lady.”
Brenna saw the way his lips curved into the hint of a smile. But her younger sister was not amused.
“That is wise, my lord. For I was not prepared to trust the word of an Englishman.”
She touched the hilt of a dagger at her waist.
His eyes narrowed.
Brenna put a hand on her sister’s arm to still her words, then turned to soothe the tension of the man beside her. “We are not accustomed to entertaining English soldiers in our home.”
“It is a new experience for me as well, my lady.”
“Please.” She was eager to keep this meal from erupting into open warfare. “Let us take our places at table.”
As Morgan took the seat indicated, his thigh brushed Brenna’s. Their gazes locked, his amused, hers angered.
He saw the cool disdain in her eyes and looked away. It was obvious that the Lady Brenna would do her duty and entertain him, even though she found it distasteful. He would also abide by his queen’s wishes and tolerate the situation, though laying siege to this ice maiden’s castle would have been more to his liking.
Brenna took a deep breath to calm the fluttering of her heart. Though she gave every appearance of being in control, her nerves were strung as tightly as the strings of the lute that lay in her sitting chamber. There was something completely unsettling about the man beside her.
“Have my servants seen to your comfort, my lord?”
“They have.” He accepted a tankard from a serving wench and drained its contents before setting it down. The damnable woman made him uncomfortable, though he could not say why.
When a servant approached with a platter of fowl, Brenna offered the first serving to her guest. She watched as he took the food and broke it into several sections. How big his hands were. What strength lay in his fingers. She felt a tremor along her spine and wondered why such a thought had crept into her mind.
“None for you, my lady?”
“I...” She felt herself blushing. “I fear I have little appetite this evening.”
“I am ravenous.” Morgan helped himself to a second serving. This was followed by trays of venison, partridge and salmon, as well as thick-crusted breads still warm from the oven. Morgan savored every serving. Each time his tankard was emptied, it was immediately refilled by a hovering servant.
When at last he was finished, he leaned back with a sigh of contentment. “You are a most generous hostess, my lady.”
Brenna had barely touched her food. Yet she had actually enjoyed the way Morgan indulged himself. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing a man eat with such—lusty enthusiasm.
“Do you do everything with such zeal, my lord?”
“Everything that is worthy of doing.” He turned his gaze fully upon her. “My youngest brother died from a fever when he was but ten and five. With his last breath he fretted that he had not yet lived. Never would he have the chance to lift his sword in the name of his queen. Nor journey to distant lands. Nor bed a woman.”
Seeing the color that flooded Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan realized that the female beside him, though leader of her people, was probably much like that lad. He discreetly changed the subject.
“Your keep is well fortified, my lady. I find it hard to believe that the old man who stood at your side this morrow is your first man-at-arms.”
“Old Duncan stood at my father’s side from the time the two were lads. His loyalty is deserving of my respect.”
“An old man’s loyalty will not stay an enemy’s sword, my lady.”
Her eyes flashed before she responded in a carefully controlled voice. “For hundreds of years my people have lived in the path of English, hungry for our land. Your people covet what we have—rich, fertile hills and sleek, desirable cattle.”
“Not to mention your women.”
She heard the hint of laughter in his voice, and her tone hardened.
“Do not cross words with me, my lord.”
“Would you rather we cross swords?”
“Do you think me some pale English lady, who would grow faint and swoon at the sight of a sword? The MacAlpins, though peaceful by nature, have been forced to become a warrior clan. And as leader of my people, I would not hesitate to take up the sword against anyone who threatened mine.”
Morgan felt grudging admiration for the woman’s spirit. Still, her attitude rankled. “Forgive me, my lady, if I remove myself from the fray. Now that my men have been admirably fortified with food and drink, I will see that they withdraw to the quarters you have so generously prepared for them.”
Brenna watched as he pushed away from the table and strode across the room. There was an arrogance even in his movements. At a single command his men followed.
From his position at the table, Duncan waited for her signal. Brenna nodded and he assembled his men. While the English slept, he and the Scots would keep careful watch. In MacAlpin Castle, the word of the English was worthy only of scorn.
As the English soldiers cleared the room, Brenna felt herself relax for the first time in an hour. It was impossible to be at ease in the company of Morgan Grey.
~ ~ ~
The cool evening air was fragrant with the delicate scent of heather. Clouds scudded across a half-moon, throwing the gardens into shadow.
Brenna pulled the cloak about her and walked among the carefully tended hedges. She was troubled by the presence of the English, and especially Morgan Grey. His reputation had preceded him. He was no mere messenger, carrying a missive from his queen. The man was legend, not only among his own people, but among those he had fought, as well. His name caused armies to tremble. From Scotland to Wales and even across the Channel to Ireland, the Queen’s Savage was a man to be feared.
He was much more than a soldier, however; he was a titled English gentleman. Among the political factions dividing England he was a leader. His father had been one of King Henry’s closest advisers. The English queen, Elizabeth, trusted Morgan Grey as she trusted few within her circle. And, in fact, if rumors were to be believed, he was one of the men being considered as consort for the queen.
Knowing all this, Brenna had still not been prepared for the man himself. His mere presence was daunting.
She heard the sound of footsteps and turned, her hand on the dirk at her waist.
Morgan’s voice was hushed in the darkness. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to startle you.” When he recognized the glint of metal, his voice lowered. “I know of no English lady who would arm herself for a simple walk in the garden.”
“Then your Englishwomen are most fortunate, my lord. May they never have to fear an attack from those who would take what they do not wish to give.”
Once again he was startled by the anger in her tone. “If you do not trust me, perhaps the stalwart Duncan should be at your side.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Duncan and his Mary are most surely asleep by now. With the arrival of your men, he was forced to put in a full day.”
“And what of your safety, my lady?”
Her smile grew. “I do not think you will spend even one minute worrying about my safety. But just so you understand...” She inclined her head. “My men walk the perimeter of the garden, as well as all the castle grounds. If a single night bird should call, they will note it. Despite the presence of English soldiers within these walls, my men will see to my safety.”
“You need have no fear.” As she started to walk, he moved along at her side. They passed a planting of roses surrounded by rows of wild heather, and he was reminded of the woman beside him. She was as delicate as a single rose petal. But her words were as sharp as any thorn. She appeared as cultured as the rose, and yet as wild as the heather.
“Have you read the missive from my queen?”
“Aye.” Brenna bent her head to inhale the wonderful perfume from a perfect red rose. “The English monarch declares that yours is a peaceful mission. But peace has long eluded our people. She does not say how she hopes to unite our borders.”
“It is the queen’s belief that if the lands bordering our two countries could be united, the bloodletting would cease. Elizabeth sends an emissary to your Queen Mary in Edinburgh to arrange suitable marriages that will ensure peace.”
“Marriage. To an Englishman.” Brenna paused in the act of touching the flower and prayed that her hands would not tremble and betray her.
“Does that trouble you, my lady?”
Brenna forced herself to meet his cool look. Was that a hint of mocking laughter lurking in those dark depths?
With a flounce of skirts she turned away and began walking until she came to an arbor of vines and climbing roses. Unable to contain her anger, she turned on him.
“Why should it trouble me? Should I not be willing, nay, eager, to hand over my loyal people, my fertile lands, and the castle that has been in my family for generations in return for the ill treatment I am bound to receive at the hands of an English husband?” Her tone lowered to a furious whisper. “Should I not be overjoyed to lose all that I hold dear for the sake of peace between our countries?”
“And what about the unhappy Englishman who is forced into marriage with his enemy? Will the poor lout not be forced to watch his back each time he lies in his bed?”
Her eyes glittered. “He will if he insists upon marrying a MacAlpin.”
“Such anger in one so young.” The mockery was wiped from his eyes. His voice softened. “What have the English done to you that you should bear such hatred?”
“My mother was killed at the hands of the English. For all that my sisters and I suffered, my father suffered a hundred times more. She was his reason for living. I saw the light go out of his eyes after her death.”
“I am sorry.” Without thinking, Morgan placed his hand on her arm. That was his undoing. He felt a rush of heat that startled him.
At his touch Brenna drew herself up stiffly, fighting the feeling of panic that threatened to paralyze her.
“I must go.” As she tried to pull away, Morgan caught her by the upper arms, forcing her to stay.
Her throat went dry. Like a cornered animal she looked around, hoping to spot one of her men. But the tangled growth around the arbor shielded her from their view.
“Unhand me,” she said fiercely, “or I shall be forced to defend myself.” She pulled the knife from her waistband and brandished it menacingly.
“I see that you are indeed no pale English lady. In fact, in England you would not be considered a lady at all. I know of no lady who would threaten a man with a knife unless she intended to use it.”
“I fully intend to use this on you unless you retreat this minute.”
Without warning Morgan caught her hands in a painful grip and twisted the knife from her fingers. When she lifted her free hand to push away, he caught it and dragged her roughly against him.
“There are few who have drawn a weapon against me and lived to tell about it.” His words were choked with anger.
She stared at the knife, glittering dully in his hands. Her chin lifted in a defiant gesture. “Is this how your queen intends to bring peace to our borders?”
“Nay, my lady. Not like this.” He dropped the knife onto the earth at their feet. “Like this.”
Without warning he lowered his head and ground his mouth over hers.
He fully intended to punish her with his kiss, knowing how much she would detest being touched by an English soldier. He would enjoy humbling this arrogant wench. But the moment their lips met, all his intentions were forgotten.
God in heaven. Where had the fire come from? The heat that flowed between them was shocking in its intensity. And though he knew he would be burned, he could not pull away.
She was pliant and warm, and her breath was as sweet as the flowers that filled the arbor. The soft contours of her body seemed to melt against him. Her hands were balled into fists that she kept firmly between them.
Brenna held herself stiffly, fighting the reaction that shuddered through her at his touch. This could not be happening. Not with this hated Englishman. Yet even while she fought to resist, her body betrayed her. As his lips closed over hers, a tiny ripple of pleasure shot along her spine, leaving her trembling. Though she continued to keep her hands between them, with a will of their own, her fingers uncurled until her open palms rested against his chest.
He pulled back, staring down at her as if seeing her for the first time.
Her eyes were wide with fear and loathing. But even as he watched he saw that there was another emotion mirrored in those depths, as well. Desire? Could it be the first tiny stirrings of desire?
He knew he should walk away. Now, before her guards became suspicious and decided to investigate why their leader lingered so long in the rose arbor. A disturbance at MacAlpin Castle could shatter the fragile peace that Elizabeth was trying so hard to establish.
While he studied her, his thumbs unknowingly made lazy circles on the flesh of her upper arms. God in heaven. She was stunning. Her dark hair had pulled loose from its comb and drifted like a veil around her face and shoulders. Her lips were pursed in a little mew of surprise. Though he knew he should resist, he lowered his head and gave in to the desire to kiss her again.
This time the kiss was the merest touching of mouth to mouth. His lips softened, moving slowly, lazily over hers, savoring the sweetness of her.
Brenna held herself rigidly in his arms, fighting the overwhelming feelings that threatened to swamp her.
Never before had her body betrayed her like this. Though she wanted to resist, she could not. Even though his hands held her as gently as if she were a fragile flower, she was imprisoned as if by arms of steel. The sweetest prison she had ever known. His lips were warm and firm, and as they moved slowly over hers, she felt a delicious tingle that left her limbs weak, her head swimming.
What had this man done to her? Why was she behaving in such an outrageous manner with this Englishman?
Every instinct told Morgan to walk away from this woman now, while he was yet able. And still he lingered over her lips. Such tempting lips. Why had it taken him so long to notice how perfect they were?
Without warning he drew her more firmly into his arms and took the kiss deeper. His mouth devoured her, searching for a release from the sudden hunger that gnawed at him. Her breath filled his lungs. Her lips seduced. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. He dragged her hips against his and heard her little moan as his tongue brazenly invaded the sweetness of her mouth.
This could not be happening. Brenna barely recognized the sound of her own voice as a moan slipped unbidden from low in her throat. When his tongue touched hers, she drew back. But the hands at her spine were strong, holding her even closer when she tried to resist. Damn the man! And damn this strange weakness within her that seemed to have robbed her of all strength to resist.
Tentatively she drew in the taste of him. Dark. Mysterious. And then, for one brief instant, she relaxed against him, savoring his magnificent strength.
The thought crept unbidden into her mind. He kisses the way he does everything else in his life. With such wild abandon, it is marvelous to behold, impossible to resist.
But resist she must, if she were to survive. Slowly, like one awakening from a dream, she surfaced and brought her hands to his chest..
He felt the pressure of her hands and struggled for control. Though he was a man of many appetites, it was not his way to force himself upon a woman.
Lifting his head, he stared down into her eyes.
“A man might be tempted to risk your dirk in his back just for sake of another kiss like that one, my lady.”
With a mocking bow he scooped the knife from the dust and handed it to her. She snatched it from his hand and, lifting her skirts, ran until she reached the safety of the open portal, where old Bancroft stood awaiting her return.
Morgan stood very still, watching until she had disappeared inside the castle. With a savage oath he turned and strode among the hedges, seeking to exorcise the fire that raged within his loins.
His arms were still warm from the touch of her. His lips still full of the taste of her.