Highland Heather - Highland Heather Part 59
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Highland Heather Part 59

She stared at the flames until her eyelids fluttered, then closed.

Exhausted beyond belief, she slept.

Brenna woke with a start. The fire had burned down to ashes. The room was immersed in darkness. Had she heard a sound? Or had she only dreamed it?

She lay very still, listening. Beyond the balcony she could hear the flutter and chirp of night insects, the rustle of leaves in the trees, the sighing of the wind.

She stiffened. There was the sound again. A door being opened, perhaps? She strained, peering into the blackness. Had it been her door?

She sat up, feeling a chill of apprehension.

"Morgan. Is that you?"

For a long moment there was only silence, then the slightest movement, as though someone had stiffened at her words.

"Morgan." Her words were strained, angry.

"I know you are there."

"Were you hoping for your lover?" There was the stench of ale as the whispered words hung between them.

"Who...?"

"Since you are alone, I would be your lover, too, my lady."

For a moment she was paralyzed with fear. Then she tried to twist away, but a strong hand caught and held her. Before she could cry out a hand closed over her mouth, cutting off her scream.

She felt the blade of a knife against her throat.

"You will do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

She nodded, unable even to swallow, lest the blade pierce her flesh.

"Good. That is very good, my lady."

She heard a muted laugh that sent fresh terror through her veins. This was a madman, who would not flinch at the thought of killing her.

Oh, for a dirk at her waist or a sword at her bedside. If she were not a prisoner in this place, she would have a weapon with which to defend herself. But she was rendered helpless.

"Take off your night shift."

"Please..."

"You have forgotten my first order. I shall have to teach you."

She felt a sharp pain, then a warmth along her arm. It took her a moment to realize that her attacker had cut her. With a snarl of rage she sank her teeth into his arm and bit down until he howled with pain.

With a savage oath he slapped her once, then again, snapping her head from one side to the other. While she still reeled from the blow, the blade ripped through the delicate fabric of her night shift, slashing it from hem to bodice.

"Now," he said with a laugh that seemed to grow more shrill with each new act of terror, "I shall teach you my second lesson."

Shirtless, Morgan sprawled in a chaise pulled up before the fire. The decanter of ale stood on a table beside him. It was "his intention to drink the entire contents, if possible. At least then he would be assured of sleep.

The anger he had allowed to fester inside himself for so long seemed nothing compared with the disgust he felt for himself at the moment.

From the first minute he'd seen that cool, haughty Scotswoman, he'd been behaving like a fool. If he were going to be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he dragged her here to England, not to do the queen's bidding, but because he had not wanted her to spend any more time with the apple-cheeked Hamish MacPherson. He had experienced in those days at her castle his first pangs of jealousy.

And he had been too proud to admit it.

In fact, he thought, taking another long swallow of ale, it had been his pride that had been wounded from the first. He had wanted her to fall victim to his charms as most women did. If she had, he realized, he would have used her and discarded her like all the rest. But that damnably regal ice maiden would not behave like all the others. Aye, that was the thorn. She was like no other woman he'd ever met. She fought him when he least expected it. And fought like a soldier, if he would be honest. He loved her strength of will, loved dueling with her, seeing the way her eyes darkened like a summer's night before a storm. He loved the way she looked, all soft and feminine. Loved the way she constantly surprised him, saying or doing the unexpected. He loved the color of her hair, black as midnight, and her skin, pale as alabaster.

He poured another goblet, then paused, his hand in midair as the thought exploded through him. He loved her. God in heaven. That was the truth. He loved her. It was that simple. His heart contracted.

It was that complicated.

But what to do about it? His first marriage had been a mockery of everything holy. It had left him badly scarred. What had Richard said?

Aye, Morgan thought with a frown. That he was more a cripple than Richard.

"Twas the truth. And after so long a time, he was no longer certain if he dared to trust again. And after that scene with Brenna in the sitting chamber, he might not get another chance. She was a delicate lady whose sensibilities were no doubt offended by his unbridled passion. He felt another wave of disgust.

He looked up at a sound. A night bird perhaps?

He lifted the goblet to his lips, then paused. There was a sound coming from his sleeping chamber. Was Brenna crying? Dear God. Had she been crying all this time?

He set the goblet on the table and got to his feet. He would not invade her privacy. He had done a thorough job of that earlier. He would merely listen outside the door.

Brenna felt the mattress sag as her attacker leaned over her. In desperation she clutched at the candlestick and brought it crashing against his temple. He swore and snatched it from her hand, sending it rolling across the floor.

One of his hands caught at her hair, pulling her head viciously when she tried to turn away from his lips. Terror rose in her throat as she twisted away, determined to evade his cruel hands.

"No," she shouted.

"You will have to kill me first."

"So be it."

She saw the dark shadow of the man loom up in the darkness, the knife poised above his head. With one quick movement she rolled to one side and the knife plunged harmlessly into the pillow where, just moments before, her head had been.

With quick, jerking movements she slid off the bed and raced toward the door. Before she could pull it open an arm closed around her neck.

She was hauled backward against the man's body while the arm continued to press against her throat, cutting off her air. Though she fought with a strength born of desperation, she could not breathe.

With both hands she clawed at the arm, struggling to break free. But her attacker was too strong for her. She could feel her strength ebbing. Strange lights seemed to dance before her eyes. There was a loud buzzing in her ears. And then, just as she was beginning to lose consciousness, her attacker was suddenly pulled backward. The offending arm loosened its hold on her throat. She fell to the floor, gasping for air.

"God in heaven. Brenna."

As Morgan's voice washed over her, light spilled in from the sitting chamber, illuminating her where she lay choking. Blood streamed from the cut on her arm and ran in little rivers, staining the rug beneath her.