Highland Heather - Highland Heather Part 13
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Highland Heather Part 13

"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.