Highland Heather - Highland Heather Part 14
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Highland Heather Part 14

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 Brenna 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.

Chapter Six

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r from her position of safety in the forest, Megan watched in horrified fascination as her older sister was dragged by the English savage and lifted onto his horse.

Brenna's head was raised in haughty defiance. Even from so great a distance, Megan knew that her sister's pride would permit no show of weakness. There would be no tears, no pleading for her release.

One of the soldiers could be seen tearing a tunic into strips and applying it to Morgan Grey's chest.

Wounded? Megan strained to see. Aye. The English savage was bleeding.

The wound must have been inflicted by Brenna's dirk.

If only she had a longbow, Megan thought. She would pierce Morgan Grey's heart and have the supreme satisfaction of watching him fall to his death. Her fingers curled into a fist. Oh, for a sword. She would willingly take on the entire company of Englishmen to save her sister.

As the mounted soldiers formed a protective ring around their leader and his captive, tears of impotent rage spilled from Megan's eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

"Forgive me my weakness, Brenna," she whispered. But the tears fell faster, blurring her vision.

God in heaven. Sweet, noble Brenna was being taken from her home. For as long as she lived, Megan realized, she might never see that beloved face again.

With a curse that would have made a soldier blush, she swiped at the tears with the backs of her hands. Pulling herself up into a tree, she watched until the forest swallowed up the company of riders. Then she climbed down and began to make her way once more toward her destination. If she could but find him, her brother-in-law, Brice Campbell, would know how to rescue Brenna. He had an army of Highlanders at his command.

Brenna held herself stiffly in Morgan's arms and willed back the tears that threatened. As the horses' hooves trampled the heather, she felt her heartbeat keeping time to the pounding rhythm. Lost. Lost. All was lost.

They passed through the Highland meadow where she and Megan had spent the night in the haystack. Brenna prayed the farmer and his neighbors would rise up and resist the Englishmen who despoiled their countryside. But as she rode past, she saw only silent, sullen stares from the man and his wife and children.

When they left the Highlands behind, the horses' gaits lengthened.

With ease they crossed the frigid waters of the River Tweed, then ate up the miles of lowland territory that separated Scotland from England.

As they departed Brenna's homeland, she could no longer contain the pain and rage that coursed through her. To keep from crying out, she bit her lip until she tasted her own blood. But even that was not enough to hold the tears at bay. She bent her head, allowing her hair to swirl forward like a veil, and prayed that it would hide her weakness.

Home. Home. Ne'er more will I see you. Farewell to all that I hold dear.

With hands bound and head bowed, she wept bitter tears.

Morgan felt the shudders that passed through the slender body in his arms and knew that the woman was silently weeping. He had a sudden urge to draw her close against his chest and offer her comfort. But he sensed that the regal Brenna would prefer to grieve in private.

Why was he moved by her tears? Was she not, after all, the woman who had driven her knife into his flesh? Had he not reacted quickly, she would have pierced his heart.

He frowned. The little fool would soon discover that she was going to a far better life than the one she left behind, From what little he had seen of her life here, it was austere at best. The court of Elizabeth was no dreary prison. And the wife of a titled Englishman would enjoy a life of riches beyond belief. Not to mention the pleasures of his bed.

At that thought he experienced a rush of annoyance and berated himself for caring about what happened to this woman. He reinforced his resolve. The sooner he got this beauty to England, the better.

"One day soon all the pain will be erased from your heart, ice maiden.

Go ahead and cry. "

His muffled words shocked her to the core, but not for the reason he might have expected.

"I do not cry. That is for frightened children."

"Aye." A smile touched his lips. His voice warmed.

"And it is plain that the one in my arms is no child." His hands came to rest at her rib cage, just below the fullness of her breasts.

Instantly she stiffened.

"I may be your prisoner, Morgan Grey. But I will not be sullied by your touch."

His smile vanished. His tone hardened.

"You had best hold your tongue, lass. My temper is legend among my men."

"Am I to fear you, then?" She turned her head until she was facing him.