Highland Heather - Highland Heather Part 1
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Highland Heather Part 1

Highland Heather.

by Ruth Langan.

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.

"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 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.

"Ye will do as I command." His voice rasped like the creaking wheels of an ancient cart.