Highland Heather
by
ruth langan
Ruth Langan traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no
surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her
historical novels. Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised
five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and
raised.
Recent titles by the same author:
HIGHLAND BARBARIAN
Ruth Langan
MILLS &l BOON <^^
To Aubrey Langan Bissonnette. And to her proud parents, Carol and
Bryon. And, of course, to Tom. Pounder of the dynasty. And the beat
goes on.
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All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing, the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
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trademarks of the publisher.
First published in Great Britain 2000 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
Ruth Ryan Langan 1991 ISBN 0 263 82300 8
Set in Times Roman 10"A on 10% pt. 04000487428 Printed and bound in
Spain by Litografia Roses S.A." Barcelona
Chapter One
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Scotland, 1562
1 he 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 J 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 I
Megan to safety. | The man's voice was low, menacing.
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 strawlike 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 r 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.
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 b
een 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.
Chapter Two
JVlorgan 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 walls 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."