Highland Heather - Highland Heather Part 25
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Highland Heather Part 25

Once, when Morgan was a callow youth, he had challenged a soldier reputed to be the most skilled equestrian in all' of England. During the jumping, the soldier's mount had taken the tall hedgerow easily, while Morgan's horse had pulled up short and refused to jump. Sailing through the air, Morgan had cleared the hedgerow, but landed on the far side on a boulder the size of a wagon seat. The blow would have killed a lesser man. He would never forget the feeling when all the air was knocked from his lungs, leaving him struggling for breath.

He felt the same way now.

Her gown was crimson satin, with a fashionably low neckline revealing high, firm breasts and a tiny waist. The skirt fell in soft gathers to the tips of her crimson slippers. The sleeves and skirt were inset with bands of delicate lace. A wide ruff of the same lace formed a stiff collar at the back of her neck.

Her dark hair had been pulled to one side and allowed to drift in soft curls over her breast.

Her pale column of throat was unadorned by jewelry. The effect was simple. And stunning.

The thought came unbidden to his mind. Every man at court would ask for her hand. The queen would have no trouble finding a suitable husband. Why did that thought bring such an unpleasant taste to his mouth?

The door to the sitting room opened and Alden entered. For a moment he glanced at his friend. Then his gaze was riveted on the beautiful young woman.

Alden cleared his throat.

"You look lovely, my lady."

Morgan said nothing. Mere words could not convey what he saw when he looked at her. How could he describe skin as pale as alabaster, eyes the shade of the violets that grew deep in the forest glades?

"Thank you, my lord."

She gave Alden a shy smile, and Morgan realized that he would give anything to see her smile at him that way. If the Lady Brenna was beautiful when angry, she was breathtaking when happy.

Then the hint of a smile was gone, replaced by a shy look.

"Your queen's seamstresses must have magic in their needles. Though I am skilled in sewing, I have never made anything as splendid as this."

Morgan crossed the room and picked up a goblet of wine from a silver tray. When he handed it to her, their fingers brushed and he felt the heat.

"The gown would be nothing without the woman who wears it."

Was that a blush he saw on her cheeks? It pleased him, though he couldn't say why.

Brenna took a sip of wine and felt a rush of warmth. It was the wine, she told herself. Not the nearness of this man. Though he had exchanged his soldier's garb for slim breeches and an elegantly tailored black silk tunic emblazoned with his family crest, he still had a look of danger about him. She must take great pains to keep her distance from him.

She turned to Alden.

"I am unaware of your customs, my lord. Will anything be expected of me at your queen's feast?"

"Our customs are not so different from your own. We will merely eat and drink, and enjoy the company of good friends."

"Friends."

Alden blithely ignored the sarcasm in her tone.

"These people will be your friends if you let them. Of course," he added with a gleam of humor in his eyes, "there will be many toasts to the queen's health. I would advise you to use caution, my lady. Enough toasts and the wine will go to your head."

"Thank you. I shall remember." The frown was back. It was necessary to keep her wits about her. Alden and Morgan were her enemies. As were the people below stairs.

She set the goblet down.

Morgan drained his glass before reluctantly offering his arm. The mere touch of her caused a tension in him that was completely out of character. He steeled himself against feeling anything for the woman beside him.

As they left the room, Brenna noted the two soldiers positioned outside her sleeping chamber. They came to attention and followed a few paces behind. So. Even here in the queen's palace, her freedom was to be restricted.

As they descended the stairs, they could hear the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. But when they entered the withdrawing room, all conversation suddenly ceased. All heads turned to watch the handsome couple.

A ripple of excitement coursed through the crowd. Hands were discreetly lifted while whispered exclamations were exchanged. Those who had been at court earlier were surprised at the transformation in the Scotswoman. Gone was the travel-weary creature, and in her place a vision of perfection.

Many a man in the crowd felt a twinge of envy at the prize Morgan Grey had captured. Many a woman hated her on sight.

Morgan felt the slight trembling of Brenna's hand upon his sleeve. So, the lady was not immune to the stares of these strangers. Though he was not aware of any kindness in his gesture, he covered her hand with his, as if to lend her his strength.

He led her across the room toward their regal hostess. Brenna felt the curious stares of the guests. But she kept her head lifted at a proud angle, looking neither left nor right. When they came to a stop before the queen, Brenna curtsied, while Morgan bowed slightly, then lifted Elizabeth's hand to his lips.

"Can this possibly be the same ragged waif you presented at court, Morgan?"

"Aye, Majesty. The Lady Brenna remarked that she thought your seamstresses had magic in their needles."

"There is indeed magic here." The queen studied the beautiful young woman with a thoughtful look.

"Or perhaps witchcraft." With a laugh she turned to Morgan.

"Beware, my friend, lest you be the one bewitched."

"You know me better, Majesty."

"Indeed."

Morgan led Brenna to one side as the queen continued to greet the guests who formed a long line behind them.

After each guest had been presented to the queen, they paused in front of Morgan for an introduction to the lady who had caused such speculation. After an hour he could read the fatigue in her eyes.

"So many names and titles," she whispered.

"Aye. But in no time you will know them as friends."

"They are your friends, my lord. To me they are English."

If her words angered him, he gave no indication.

Madeline d'Arbeville, Duchess of Eton, and her husband greeted Elizabeth with warmth. The affection was obviously returned, as the queen smiled and chatted before turning to include the others.

"Charles, your wife seems to have made a friend today. But you have not yet met the Scotswoman. Introduce the lady, Morgan."

"Charles Crowel, Duke of Eton, may I present Brenna MacAlpin, recently of the Scottish Borderland."

As the courtly gentleman bent to brush his lips over Brenna's hand, she studied the man who was married to the Frenchwoman. His green eyes were friendly, his smile genuine. His dark breeches and emerald satin tunic were perfectly tailored to his tall frame. His dark hair was gray at the temples, giving him a look of charm and elegance.