“Lord Grey.”
“Richard,” he corrected in his booming voice. “Else we’ll never know which Lord Grey you’re addressing.” He studied her. “You’re a pretty thing. So you’ve come to England to be wed.”
“To be bartered,” she said quickly. “For the cause of peace.”
“Ah.” His eyes crinkled. “Life is unfair, isn’t it, lass? Some men give their lives on the battlefield for peace. You must give up your freedom. And I...” He patted the robe on his lap. “All I had to offer were my legs.”
She prayed that her shock was not visible in her eyes. “How, my lord?”
“A cart crushed them as I lay wounded on a Norwich battlefield. Now they wither from lack of use. But it is a small price to pay to put down a rebellion.”
“Small price? You are not bitter?”
“Aye. At times I burn with the unfairness of it all. But I’ve learned that bitterness is a painful boil on the soul, lass. If allowed to fester it will sap all the joy from life. Better to lance it, no matter how painful, and allow the healing to begin. A bit of wisdom I’ve tried to pass on to my brother,” he added with a wry laugh, “to no avail.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked up at Morgan. “Mistress Leems has had the servants running about like sheep preparing a feast for your return. She knows how you like to eat.”
“Good. We have had little to eat this day. I was impatient to be home.”
“How does Greystone Abbey look to you?”
Morgan met his brother’s smile. “As always, I am glad to be back in this peaceful place. I miss it when I am gone too long.”
“Aye. I recall the feeling.”
For a moment both men grew silent. Then Morgan pressed a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “We will talk soon.” He walked to the door. “If you will follow me, my lady, I will show you to your rooms.”
As Brenna followed him from the room, she was aware of Richard’s dark gaze following her.
“Hurry back, lass. It’s been a long time since Greystone Abbey was graced with such beauty.”
She shot him a quick smile before following his brother. “How much older is Richard than you, my lord?” she asked as she climbed the stairs beside Morgan.
“He is younger by a year.”
“Younger. But his hair is streaked with gray.”
“He lived hard and fast. Thank the Lord,” he added. “For now his whole world consists of that chair and that window.”
She thought of the man beside her, and his reputation as a warrior and a scoundrel. Was that what drove him? The fear that at any moment it could all be taken from him in a single battle?
“I hope you will be comfortable here,” he said, showing Brenna to a suite of rooms on the second floor.
She glanced around at the dark stone walls hung with rich tapestries. The floors were thickly carpeted. The furniture was ornate and comfortable.
Outside the balcony window, the green hills were dotted with flocks of sheep and cattle.
Everywhere there were signs of Morgan’s great wealth. Yet the man did not seem affected by it. The people in his village had greeted him like a friend rather than the lord of the manor.
Brenna crossed to the sleeping chamber. A servant looked up from the wardrobe, where she was hanging Brenna’s traveling cloak.
“I am certain I will be most comfortable, my lord.”
She continued to the balcony and glanced down. He saw the flash of disappointment in her eyes as she spotted the guards below her window.
“In case you have any thought of leaving, my lady,” he said, crossing to another door, “be warned.” He threw open the door and she could see his crimson cape on the bed. “My rooms are beside yours. And I will permit no lock between them.”
A serving girl, bearing a pitcher of water, paused outside the door.
“Refresh yourself,” Morgan said abruptly. “Mistress Leems will summon you for a midday meal soon.”
Brenna sat in front of the looking glass while the serving girl arranged her coal-black hair in a cascade of soft curls entwined with ivory ribbons. The shirred bodice of the morning gown enhanced her high, firm breasts. The long sleeves, inset with beaded silk roses, were tight from wrist to elbow, then billowed to the shoulder. The voluminous skirt fell from a narrow waist. Beneath the hem could be seen pale kid slippers. The effect was stunning.
“You look lovely, my lady.” The servant stood back to examine her handiwork.
“Thank you, Rosamunde. How long have you served Lord Grey?”
“Since I was a babe, my lady.” She smiled shyly. “My mother began as a scullery maid in the queen’s own palace when she was but nine years.”
“Is it not rare for the child of a scullery maid to become a personal maid in a fine home such as this?”
“Aye. When my mother was ten and five she showed a kindness to the young Princess Elizabeth, who was being held in the Tower.”
“The Tower? The queen was a prisoner in her own land?” When the girl nodded, Brenna realized that her knowledge of the woman who sat upon England’s throne was vague. “Why was the princess in the Tower?”
“Her half-sister, Mary, suspected that Elizabeth plotted against her. The young princess spent two months in the Tower until the queen was persuaded that the charges were false.”
“How did your mother help Elizabeth?”
“She managed to bring her hot food and a warm blanket, which my Lord Grey supplied to her,” the girl said proudly. “’Twas cold and damp in the Tower. And the prisoner, though of royal blood, was treated badly. My Lord Grey warned my mother that if she were caught, she would be put to death. But she risked her life rather than see the princess suffer. When she became queen, Her Majesty rewarded my mother by making her one of her personal maids. I also worked in the palace until I was old enough to come here to Greystone Abbey. My life is much changed because of my mother’s kindness those many years ago.”
Brenna tried to imagine the proud Elizabeth, haughty queen of England, as a humble prisoner in the Tower of London. The thought caused her to shiver. A sudden thought intruded. The queen would be able to recall those terrible feelings of helplessness, and perhaps sympathize with one who suffered such a fate. Brenna felt her hopes rise. Could it be that in the queen, Brenna had found an ally?
Seeing her thoughtful expression, the young servant looked concerned. “Is there something I have forgotten to do for you, my lady?”
Brenna shook her head. “Nay. But I am grateful. It would seem that you have inherited your mother’s kind and generous spirit.”
“Thank you, my lady. My Lord Grey wanted you to know that he would be below stairs with his brother.”
“Thank you, Rosamunde.” She stood, then hesitated. “Are you happy working for Lord Grey?”
“Oh, aye, my lady. He is a kind and generous man. The people of our village have always been treated fairly by Lord Grey.”
With a thoughtful look Brenna lifted her skirts and made her way down the stairs. Though they made no sound, she knew that the guards followed her, as they followed her every move.
She followed the sound of masculine voices and paused in the doorway of a room whose shelves were lined with books. A cheery fire blazed in the fireplace. A desk, piled with ledgers, dominated the center of the room. The two men, seated on either side of the fireplace, were engaged in quiet conversation.
“Norfolk covets the throne. As does the Scots queen, Mary. But of the two, I would suspect Norfolk, the queen’s cousin. He has friends in high places.”
“Then you truly believe there is a plot?”
Morgan let out a long sigh. “I know not. But I do not believe in coincidences.”
Both men looked up when they noticed Brenna in the doorway.
“Come in, my lady,” Richard called.
“I do not wish to disturb you.”
“Nonsense. Come in. Will you have a glass of ale with us?”
Brenna could not help but smile at his friendliness and compare it with the wall that seemed to exist between herself and his brother. “Aye, my lord.”
Morgan filled a goblet and handed it to her. When their fingers brushed, she looked down quickly, avoiding his eyes.
“Has the queen set a date for your betrothal?” Richard asked.
“Nay. She said only that she wished me wed as soon as a nobleman speaks for me. She wants me off her hands. As does your brother.”
“He does, does he?” Richard glanced at his brother’s closed look, then turned back to Brenna. “Seeing you, I believe there will be many men seeking your hand, my lady.”
“I pray you are wrong, my lord.”
“Richard,” he corrected.
“Aye. Richard. For I am in no hurry to be an Englishman’s bride.”
He grinned at her. “Would it be that bad?”
“Aye.”
At her vehement response he laughed all the louder.
The housekeeper peered around the corner. “Your midday meal is ready, my lords.”
“Thank you, Mistress Leems.” Morgan set down his tankard and pushed his brother’s chair. It began to roll across the floor.
Brenna was amazed at the cleverness of it. “A chair on wheels!”
“Aye. Morgan devised it. A carriage maker assisted him. Without it, I would be forced to stay in one room. I fear I am too heavy to carry like a baby, even for one as strong as Morgan.”
“Then I’d bounce you on your head a time or two, just to keep your wits about you.”
The two men enjoyed the joke. Brenna found herself relishing the sound of their laughter as she followed them to the refectory, where the housekeeper oversaw the meal.
This room, like the other rooms in the castle, had walls of dark stone. A log smoked on the hearth, emitting a cloud that filled the room. Servants milled about in disorderly confusion.
There were trays of mutton and partridge, and a thick gruel, as well as ale and mead.
Morgan’s soldiers trooped into the room and immediately began eating. As soon as Brenna was seated, Morgan and Richard tore into their food. The brothers, Brenna realized, had matching appetites. They took no time for conversation as they ate lustily, then washed each mouthful down with ale. By the time they were finished, there was no food left on the trays. And the housekeeper was beaming with pride.
“Will you have more, my lord?”
“Nay, Mistress Leems. That was sufficient.” Morgan rewarded her with a warm smile. “I have missed your cooking, Mistress Leems. Now I am truly home.”
The plump woman beamed at his compliment, then nodded to the servants, who began gathering up the platters and refilling goblets with ale and mead.
Brenna toyed with the food on her plate.
“Is there something wrong, my lady?” Richard asked.
“The lady has little appetite.” Morgan drained his tankard.
“Anyone who cannot eat Mistress Leems’s gruel must be unwell. Are you unwell, my lady?”
“Nay. It is as your brother says, my lor—Richard. I have little appetite for English food.” Or English manners, she thought, if the truth be told.
“I would have more ale.” Richard held his tankard. Before a servant could reach for the decanter, Brenna lifted it and poured.
From across the table, Morgan watched with interest. He was touched by Brenna’s attention to his brother.
Richard gave her a warm smile and leaned back. Now that he had eaten his fill, be desired pleasant conversation. For too long he’d been starved for company. Now he had not only his brother, but this lovely lady as well.
“Morgan tells me you are leader of a warrior clan, my lady.”
“We are a peace-loving people. But when pushed to fight, we show skill with our weapons.”
“I have had occasion to taste the Scotswoman’s skill,” Morgan muttered.
Richard grinned at Brenna. “My brother showed me his wound. Though not mortal, it was most ably inflicted. Well done, my lady.” He turned to Morgan. “I imagine you do not display your battle scars with much pride.”
Seeing the flush on Brenna’s cheeks, Morgan grinned, enjoying his brother’s teasing humor. “Aye. ’Twould not sit well if my men thought I could be bested by this mere slip of a female.”
Brenna’s eyes flashed. But with great effort, she managed to hold her silence.
“It would be most distressing to face a woman in battle,” Richard mused.
“Aye. You would not know whether to disarm her or charm her.”
Brenna flushed, thinking of her scuffles with the man who sat smiling at his brother. Finding her voice she asked the question that had long perplexed her. “How is it that you and Morgan chose to be soldiers, Richard? Men of wealth do not usually seek such a life.”
“Our father, Lord Matthew Grey, was King Henry’s chief council. We grew up at court, a part of the wealthy, privileged few who were fortunate enough to live among royalty.”
That would explain why Morgan was so comfortable with the queen. And why he was unaffected by the pomp and ceremony that surrounded the throne.
“But why the harsh life of a soldier?”
“Morgan and I formed a pact when we were young.” Richard idly watched as Morgan’s men began parading from the refectory. A part of him yearned to be with them, to seek their latest adventure. But he had made his peace with his life. Another part of him enjoyed the luxury of unhurried conversation with this lovely lady. She was not like so many of them he had come to know at court. She seemed truly interested in those around her. She showed a shrewd mind and she seemed completely unaware that she was a beautiful, desirable woman. A beguiling combination. Brains and beauty.
“When Elizabeth ascended the throne, Morgan and I agreed to be in service to our queen. She was more than our monarch—she was friend and sister to us. But do not think us too noble.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “Both Morgan and I have enjoyed our lives of adventure. We would have withered at court, with nothing more challenging than an occasional wager on who would be the latest to seek the queen’s hand in marriage.”
“Are there many?”
“Who seek to wed Elizabeth?” He laughed. “Aye. Philip of Spain, the Archduke Charles, the Earl of Arran. Arran has a claim to the Scottish throne, I believe.” When Brenna nodded, he added, “Erick of Sweden, Sir William Pickering, the Earl of Arundel, Lord Robert Dudley. He is the leading contender at the moment. And, of course, Morgan.”
So. It was as Brenna had suspected. She drew in a long breath and glanced at Morgan. “So many suitors.”
“Elizabeth is ruler of the most powerful kingdom in the world.”
“And still she has not wed.”
“She is a lady after your own heart, Brenna MacAlpin. Elizabeth would choose her own destiny.”
“Aye. I can understand that.”
The door opened and the young servant, Rosamunde, entered. Behind her were two serving girls carrying an assortment of gowns and accessories.
“My lady,” Rosamunde said gently. “My Lord Grey ordered Mistress Leems to find you some clothes. She hopes you will approve of these until something better can be made by the seamstress.”
“Thank you for such kindness, my lord.” Brenna shot Richard a look of gratitude and was surprised when he said dryly, “You thank the wrong Lord Grey. ’Twas my brother, Morgan, who thought of your wardrobe.”
She blushed clear to her toes. “Thank you, my lord.”
Morgan’s lips twitched, but he held the smile at bay. “You are most welcome, my lady.”
~ ~ ~
Brenna stood on the balcony and studied the hills in the distance. How far to the Scottish border? If she were to slip away under cover of darkness, could she evade the soldiers who would most certainly come after her? Would she perhaps find a peasant who would take pity on her and offer her a safe haven? Or would the queen put a price on her head, making her capture all the more challenging?
She turned to find Morgan standing in the doorway between their rooms, watching her intently.
“Plotting again, my lady?”
She flushed. Could the man read her mind?
“No matter.” He strapped on his sword and scabbard, and Brenna realized he was dressed for travel. “My men have their orders. If you attempt to flee, they will subdue you in any manner necessary.”
As he walked from the room she followed. “Do you think I fear death at the hands of your soldiers?”
He paused on the stair, then began his descent. With her hands on her hips she gave him a contemptuous look as she flounced by his side. “It is far more tempting to face an English sword than marriage to an English dog.”
He turned on her, catching her by the upper arm and dragging her against his chest. He forced her back against the cold stone of the deserted hallway. His breath was hot against her cheek.
“You will hold your tongue, woman. I am sick to death of the sound of your voice.”
His sudden temper caught them both by surprise. This irritating female had a way of bringing out the worst in him.
Brenna tossed her head, unwilling to let him see any show of weakness. “And I am sick to death of the sight of you, my Lord Grey.” Her eyes flashed. “The obvious solution to both our problems is to release me and send me back to my people.”
“I see there is only one way to still your voice.”
Without warning he lowered his head and kissed her, hard and quick.
White-hot liquid poured through him. And though it burned him, he could not step back. He realized he hadn’t thought it through, or he’d have never touched her. But now it was too late for that.
Brenna went very still, absorbing the shock that collided low and deep in the pit of her stomach.
The hands at her shoulders softened their grip, until his thumbs made lazy circles across her flesh. The kiss, too, gentled until it was the softest touch of mouth to mouth.
Even in this dim hallway, or in the inky blackness of midnight, she would know his lips, his touch, his taste.
From that first time he had touched her, they had become imprinted firmly on her mind. With her eyes closed she could trace the outline of his lips, the shape of his fierce brow, the texture of his skin.
There was such strength in the hands that moved along her shoulders. They could snap her bones like the wings of a hummingbird. And yet they held her as gently as if she were a fragile flower.
Morgan realized it would be so easy to forget how small and delicate she was when her mouth was so eager and agile. Despite her innocence he could sense the simmering passion in her. And though the first ripples of desire stirred, he knew that she exerted great effort to keep them under control.
What would it be like to lie with her and coax that desire from her until it was stoked into full-blown passion? The urge rose in him. How he longed to watch that cool control slip until she moaned and writhed beneath him in helpless surrender.
He wanted her. Dear God. Each time he touched her he wanted her. All the denials in the world would not alter that simple fact. He wanted her as he had never wanted another woman.
He dropped his hand and took a step back.
Brenna took in a long, deep breath. Had he felt it? When they kissed, did he experience all these wild, tumultuous feelings that were so new and frightening to her? Or was she the only one who was so confused, so terrified by all that was happening between them?
She could read nothing in his dark, narrowed gaze.
At the strange sound of Richard’s wheeled chair being rolled along the wooden floor, they both looked up.
“I am informed that your mount is ready,” Richard said. “Will you return before dark?”
“Aye. In time to sup with you. Mayhaps you would see to the woman.”
“’Twould be my pleasure.”
Morgan turned to Brenna. “The guards have their orders. See that you do not push the limits of my brother’s patience. Or you will answer to me.”
As he strode away, Brenna stood beside Richard’s chair and felt her heartbeat slowly begin to return to its natural rhythm. She was grateful for the dim candlelight in the hallway. In sunlight, she feared, her conflicting emotions would be there in her eyes for him to read.