Within the hour, Morgan and his five men pushed their mounts forward into the cold waters of the River Tweed. They climbed up the far embankment, then began the slow ascent into the rugged hills.
A thick wall of forest closed around them. Somewhere nearby they could hear water rushing, but they could not see it. As they continued to climb, the sun was blotted out by the tall spires of ancient timbers.
They beheld a strange new world of soft glens and gentle fells. Craggy mountain peaks glinted high above them, some of them wreathed in clouds.
They spoke in whispers, as if they were in some ancient, hallowed cathedral. Their ears became attuned to the sounds of nature around them, and they became enraptured by the chorus of birds and insects.
To a man like Morgan Grey, born and bred in the cultured life at the English court, this primitive forest presented a new challenge. He had fought many enemies on their own soil. But he had heard that the Highlanders fought like no other soldiers ever encountered. They were rough giants, exposed to a way of life so harsh, so rugged, they could overcome their opponents by sheer size and determination alone.
He cautioned himself to savor the beauty of his surroundings without relaxing his guard. He had but one goal here. Find Brenna MacAlpin and carry her off to England, he hoped before he encountered a band of Highland clansmen.
When at last he found the pair of small footprints in the soil, he gave a tight-lipped smile. The footprints belonged to Brenna and her sister. Of that he had no doubt. The prints were no bigger than his hand. And he had spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the lady’s ankle and foot.
“They are headed that way. Toward that distant peak.” He climbed into the saddle and urged his mount into a trot.
~ ~ ~
Night fell early in the Highlands. It was soon too dark to follow the tracks. Besides, Morgan’s men were feeling tense and edgy. Even their beasts were skittish.
“We will rest the night here,” he commanded in low tones.
As he pulled his cloak about him for warmth, he found himself wondering about the women who ran from him. Had she thought to bring warm clothes? Did she and her sister have enough to eat?
One of the soldiers brought him a tankard of ale. He drank gratefully, then cursed the way his mind was working. Damn the woman. By now they could have been halfway home. Let her starve. Let her freeze. But let her remain alive, he prayed. At least until he caught up with her. So that he could have the satisfaction of wringing her lovely neck.
~ ~ ~
Brenna drew her sister into her arms and wrapped her warm traveling cloak around them. As they snuggled deep into the hay she offered a prayer of thanks for the Highlander who had piled the dried grasses in his field for the livestock. The hay, mixed with heather, made a cozy bed.
“Do you think the English dared to follow us?” Megan whispered.
“Aye.” In her mind’s eye, Brenna saw the fierce face of the English savage. “Even the Highlands would not stop that man once his decision has been made.”
“Then we should not stop to rest.” Megan sat up. “We should keep running until we reach the safety of Brice Campbell’s keep.”
“Hush. We can go no farther in the darkness.” Brenna drew her sister down beside her. “But do not fear. Even the English must rest.”
“But what if this Highlander finds us in his fields?” Megan shivered. “I cannot rid myself of the old fears of the Highlands.”
“I know. But they are part of our family now. With Brice Campbell wed to Meredith, we have nothing to fear.”
“Unless we are in the field of one who is foe to Brice.”
That thought had already occurred to Brenna. “Sleep,” she whispered. “I will keep watch.”
As the moon slipped beneath a bank of clouds, Brenna strained to peer into the darkness. It was not the Highlanders she feared. Even those who were foe to her sister’s husband. There was only one to be feared this night. The Englishman who would separate her from all that she loved.
~ ~ ~
The thrill of the hunt was invigorating to a soldier like Morgan. He awoke quickly, his mind sharp, his thoughts clearly focused on his goal. This day he would have his victory. He could already taste it.
He led his mount to the trail of prints made by a small, feminine boot. The trail disappeared into a wooded glen. Before the first flicker of light touched the horizon, he and his men pulled themselves into the saddle.
“The men are hungry,” his aide grumbled.
“As am I. But there will be time enough to satisfy our hunger when this task is behind us. We ride until we find the woman.” He tossed his aide the dried meat that often accompanied the soldiers to battle. “Chew on this until your hunger is abated.”
The grim-faced soldiers fell into line behind their leader.
They rode for nearly an hour before coming upon a Highland woman busy milking her cows. When she saw the English standard, she began to race toward the small hut in the distance.
“We will not harm you,” Morgan called.
Ignoring his words, the woman ran for her life.
“Stop her.”
As his men urged their mounts forward, he added, “But take care that the woman is not harmed. She must be made to understand that we come in peace.”
Though she bit and kicked and scratched at the hands holding her, his men did as they were bid and brought her to their leader. She stood before him, sullen and silent.
“We seek two young women from the lowlands.” Morgan caught the woman by the chin and forced her to look at him. “Did you see them?”
“I saw no one.”
“And if you saw them, would you tell me?”
She shot him a look of defiance. “I would not.”
“I thought as much.” He nodded toward the small pen where the cows waited patiently before being turned into pasture. “Was there any sign of them in the animal shelter?”
The woman shook her head.
Morgan nodded toward his men. “See to it.”
After a thorough inspection, the men returned to confirm what the woman had said. “There is no sign of them.”
Morgan released his hold on the woman. “Then we search elsewhere.”
“But what of the woman?” one of his men cried. “If you release her, we will have an entire Highland clan on our heels.”
“Our fight is not with you,” Morgan said sternly. “Or with your people. When we find the women we seek, we will be gone. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
As he pulled himself into the saddle, the woman spat at him, then turned and began to run for safety.
“’Twas a mistake to turn her loose,” his aide muttered. “At least until we find the ones we seek.”
“It is a risk we must take. I wish to show the Highlanders that I do not come to do battle.”
“’Twill prove our downfall.”
“Perhaps.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the hay on the far side of the pasture. “Would women from the lowlands risk sleeping in the animal pen, so near their enemy?” He prodded his horse into a trot. “Or would they rather sleep in the open, where they could slip unnoticed into the forest at first light?”
His men followed as he rode toward the hay. Dismounting, he studied the slight indentation. “Did the Lady Brenna rest here perhaps?” He suddenly knelt and breathed in the scent that he knew to be hers, mingled with the fragrance of dried grasses and heather. Excitement rippled through him.
“She was here.” He would never mistake the scent of her. It was already deeply imprinted in his memory.
He stood and pulled himself into the saddle, then studied the trail of trampled grass leading to the forest once more.
“She is close. I can sense it.”
“One pair of tracks leads that way,” a soldier cried. “A second pair is headed there.”
“Would the two women separate?” the soldier asked.
“Nay.” Morgan smiled, remembering how calmly Brenna had faced his knife until her younger sister was safely inside the castle walls. The woman would do anything to save her sister. Anything except leave her to the dangers of this primitive environment. “It is a clever ploy to divide our strength and send us on a merry chase.”
“Which tracks will we follow?”
Morgan shrugged. “It matters not. I have every confidence that they will come together at a prearranged destination.”
As the soldiers moved out, Morgan was forced to admit a grudging respect for the Lady Brenna. In her place, he would have done the same. It would seem that despite her delicate appearance, she had the instincts of a soldier.
They followed a set of tracks as it wove through a forest of towering evergreen. The sky was obscured by the thick canopy of boughs. Gradually the woods thinned until they found themselves in a high, grassy meadow.
For a moment the sun was so bright, they had to shield their eyes. But as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Morgan drank in the sight of a field of blue-violet heather that stretched as far as the eye could see. He was reminded of Brenna. The flowers were the exact color of the eyes of the woman he sought.
Far in the distance he spotted a slight movement. Had it been a Highland breeze rippling the flowers? Or could it have been a human form, taking cover beneath the heather?
~ ~ ~
Brenna broke free of the forest and entered a meadow abloom with heather. For a moment she stared around with a look of wonder. Not even the sense of desperation that drove her could detract from the beauty of her surroundings. How strange these Highlands were. One minute savage and primitive, the next so lovely they took her breath away.
At the far side of the meadow she saw Megan emerge from a wild tangle of shrub and thorn. So far their plan was working. They had skirted the woods from two different directions and had managed to come together again without mishap. Now, if the fates continued to smile upon them, they would reach the fortress of Brice Campbell by midday. Once there, no English savage could dare to touch them.
“Brenna.” Megan lifted a hand as she spotted her sister.
Brenna returned the salute and opened her mouth to call out. Suddenly the words caught in her throat.
Emerging from the dark woods far beyond Megan was a horse and rider. Even from so great a distance, Brenna had no doubt as to his identity. God in heaven. Morgan Grey was already close on Megan’s heels, like a wolf after a helpless fawn.
Several other horsemen followed their leader. Her sister’s back was to the English. As yet, she had no idea that they had trailed her.
With no thought to her own safety, Brenna broke into a run, determined to reach her sister before the soldiers. With her breath burning in her throat, she spanned the distance between them and threw herself at Megan, dragging them both to the ground.
“What...?” Megan pushed against her sister, fighting to regain her balance.
“Hush.” Brenna covered Megan’s mouth with her hand, then came to her knees and chanced a quick glance in the direction of Morgan Grey.
“What is it?”
Brenna frowned and crouched low in the grass. “English. I count six of them.”
“Have they seen us?”
Brenna shrugged. “I know not.”
“But I was so careful to keep to the woods.”
“These are soldiers, trained in the art of tracking their enemy. ’Twas not your fault.” Brenna drew her sister close and pressed her forehead to Megan’s. “Listen to me. And listen well. From this moment on we must go in separate directions.”
“Nay.” Megan clutched at her.
Brenna’s whispered voice was unusually calm. It was the way she always dealt with danger. “We have no choice. We will crawl through the heather, always keeping that distant spire as our goal. There lies Brice Campbell. There lies safety.”
“But why must we separate?”
“Because there are only six of them. If they divide, there are only three against each of us.” She gave her sister an impish, engaging smile, meant to lift her spirits. “’Tis well known that three English against one Scots warrior would hardly make a fair fight. ’Twould take at least a dozen English soldiers to bring down a single Scotsman.”
Despite their perilous situation, Megan joined her sister’s laughter. “Aye. God help them if they find us.” After a moment she sobered and clutched at Brenna. “I cannot leave you. You cannot make me.”
“Listen to me, Megan.” Brenna grasped her sister’s arms and stared into her wide eyes. “I love you too much to see you sacrificed to the English.”
“And what about you?”
“I am the MacAlpin. I order you to leave me.”
Megan opened her mouth to protest, but Brenna whispered passionately, “Megan, my dearest little sister. I could die this moment and find eternal peace, as long as I knew that you were safe. Promise me that you will neither stop nor look back until you reach the safety of Brice Campbell’s stronghold.”
The younger girl studied her sister, seeing the pain in her clear blue eyes. There would be no defying Brenna’s heartfelt wishes. Slowly she nodded. “I go. But only because the MacAlpin has ordered it.”
Tears filled Brenna’s eyes. “God go with you, Megan.”
“And with you Brenna.”
Brenna watched as Megan flattened herself to the ground and began crawling slowly toward the distant forest. A gentle breeze ruffled the heather, making the field look like a sea of rippling blue waves. For long minutes, Brenna watched, willing her younger sister to the safe arms of their beloved oldest sister and her warrior husband.
She watched until she saw the girl run and hide herself in a stand of trees. Safe. Once in that wooded glade, Megan would never be found by the English.
Dropping to the earth, Brenna began to crawl in the opposite direction. If the breezes worked in her favor, the English would be unable to detect her in the heather. If the breezes ceased...
Brenna refused to allow herself to think beyond this moment. She would run, she would fight and she would die if necessary. But she would not allow herself to be taken to England.
~ ~ ~
Morgan studied the waving blossoms of heather and blinked, then studied them again. Had he seen a movement or were his eyes playing tricks on him?
As a soldier he had always relied on his instincts in time of battle. This time was no exception. Though he could not see the Lady Brenna, he could sense her presence. She was here. Of that he was certain.
He turned to his men. “Comb this meadow. Trample and pluck every blossom if you must. But do not return to me unless you have the women.”
As the men fanned out, he turned once more and studied the place where he had first seen the movement. Urging his horse into a slow walk, he studied the ground. A body could easily hide beneath this lush growth. Especially a slender young body like Brenna MacAlpin’s.
Ahead of him he saw the heather part, then flatten. As his horse moved closer, he caught a glimpse of small kid boot. The blood began to pump hot through his veins. Brenna. He’d known she was here. With a flick of the reins his horse leaped forward, and he spied a length of ermine-trimmed traveling cloak.
Morgan felt his palms begin to sweat. So close. She was so close. And yet...
The hood slid from her head, revealing a mass of tangled ebony curls. Brenna brushed a strand from her eyes and moved forward several paces before becoming aware of the thundering sound. Her heart? She paused and lifted her head to peer anxiously behind her. Her heart seemed to stop before beginning a painful drumming in her chest.
Dear God. Morgan Grey, astride a spirited mount, appeared even more fierce and threatening than she’d remembered.
“It is useless to try to run any farther, my lady.” He slid from the saddle with an ease of movement that belied his great strength. “By this time on the morrow, we will have joined the rest of my men on their journey to...” His words faded as she let out a gasp and darted out of reach.
Lifting her skirts, she began to run. Morgan was surprised at her agile movements. Though small and delicate, she made quick strides through the field of wildflowers.
Her lungs ached from the effort to elude him. But though desperation made her strong, she was no match for the one who pursued her. His legs were long and lean. With little effort he caught up with her. His hand closed over her wrist.
She turned on him with a cry of rage. He stared in surprise at the jewel-encrusted hilt of the knife held firmly in her hand.
After his initial surprise, a slight smile touched the corner of his mouth. “Am I to fear one small woman and her puny knife?”
“It takes but one small dirk to spill a man’s lifeblood, my lord. And I intend to spill yours this day.”
As she lunged, he moved aside. The tip of her blade pierced his tunic above his heart, sending a stream of blood coursing from the wound.
With a savage oath he caught her hand and twisted it until the knife slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. As he bent to retrieve the dirk, she struggled free of his grasp and began to run.
“Damn you, woman.” Morgan sprinted after her. With one last burst of speed he lunged at her, sending both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
Brenna lay beneath him, struggling to take air into her burning lungs. Morgan straddled her, his legs firmly pinning her torso, his hands holding hers above her head in an iron grip. The blood oozing from his wound stained the front of her cloak and gown.
“Let me up.” Though she struggled bravely, she was no match for Morgan’s strength.
“I am no fool, little wildcat. Until you sheathe your claws, you are staying right here, where I can keep you from attacking me again.”
“If you insist upon taking me to England, I swear, Morgan Grey, I will attack you every chance I get.” As she spoke she twisted her head from side to side.
For long minutes Morgan studied her. With her dark hair wild and tangled like a Gypsy’s, and her eyes matching the heather that bloomed all around them, she took his breath away.
He caught both her hands in one of his. With the other hand he reached out a rough finger and traced from the curve of her eyebrow to the circle of color that suffused her cheek. “Oh, you are going to England with me, my lady. Of that I have no doubt.”
He saw the way her breasts rose and fell with each agitated breath, and his own heartbeat quickened.
He wanted her. In some deep, dark corner of his mind the thought seemed to take shape, then forced its way to his consciousness. God in heaven. Where was the logic in it? In her bid for freedom she had inflicted pain, and would have killed him given the chance.
She was all wrong for him. He was a soldier, a man who had been to hell and back for his queen. She was a lady. Cool, serene, delicate. Nay, he corrected quickly. Far from delicate, as his wound proved. Worst of all, he was English and she was Scots.
His eyes narrowed. She was so lovely. More beautiful than any woman he’d ever known. And despite her regal bearing, he knew that beneath the ice maiden’s cool facade, there beat the heart of a spirited woman.
He lowered his face until he was mere inches from her lips. He inhaled the warmth of her breath and felt his throat go dry. One kiss. While he held her imprisoned in his grip, he would allow himself one final kiss. And then he would have her out of his system.
With his tongue he traced the contour of her lips.
“Nay.” He heard her quick intake of breath before she turned her head away.
Excitement rippled through him.
“Aye, my lady.” With his hand he caught her face and held it firmly for his inspection. There was no fear in her eyes. Only defiance, and something else. Something—indefinable.
He bent his head until her breath mingled hotly with his, then crushed his mouth over hers.
Instantly the fire was there, raging between them. And though each of them tried to give it another name, its name was desire.
Dear God she was sweet. Her lips were as soft as a rose petal, as cool as a morning mist. He drank deeply and was instantly aroused.
At the first brush of his lips on hers Brenna forgot to breathe. Her hands, caught in his big palm, went slack. Without realizing it, her lips opened for him and his tongue met hers.
She was aware of the hard, firm body pressing hers into the soft heather. His hand left hers to caress her cheek, and though she fully intended to resist him, she moved against him like a cat.
This was what she most feared. This unnamed feeling that curled deep inside her and took over her common sense whenever this Englishman touched her. She did not want him, she told herself firmly. She could not bear the sight of him. But even while the battle waged within her, her lips gentled and softened, inviting more.
To hell with logic, Morgan thought as he crushed her to him. It no longer mattered whether or not they were wrong for each other. He would take the pleasure of her kiss while he had the chance. He’d lusted before, and lived. Still, as the heat flowed between them he was forced to admit that it had never before been like this. He’d never met the woman who could set him afire with but a single touch.
He lifted his head and looked down at the woman in his arms, his body pulsing with need.
His men spurred their mounts toward him, shouting that there was no sign of the golden-haired younger sister.
Brenna stiffened in his arms. Despite her fear and revulsion at being captured, she took comfort in the knowledge that at least Megan had escaped. With her sister safe, Brenna could face whatever torment lay before her, secure in the knowledge that Megan remained free of the English tyranny.
With a supreme effort Morgan rose to his feet. Brenna rolled away from him and took in great gulps of air to steady herself.
Morgan glanced idly at the blood that seeped from his wound. He would carry the scars from this woman’s touch long after he had delivered her to the queen. Delivered her, he thought with a sudden trace of disgust, to warm some other Englishman’s bed.
Even that thought could not cool the fire that raged within him. Her taste was still on his lips.
He needed to return to English soil and the arms of a willing English wench. That would finally cool this fever in his blood.