Highland Heather

  Highland Heather

  by

  ruth langan

  Ruth Langan traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no

  surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her

  historical novels. Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised

  five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and

  raised.

  Recent titles by the same author:

  HIGHLAND BARBARIAN

  Ruth Langan

  MILLS &l BOON <^^

  To Aubrey Langan Bissonnette. And to her proud parents, Carol and

  Bryon. And, of course, to Tom. Pounder of the dynasty. And the beat

  goes on.

  DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

  If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was

  reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor

  the publisher has received any payment for this book.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the

  imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone

  bearing, the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired

  by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents

  are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in

  part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with

  Harlequin Enterprises II B. V. The text of this publication or any part

  thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any ,

  means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

  storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the

  written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of

  trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated

  without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or

  cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

  condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent

  purchaser.

  MILLS & BOON and MILLS & BOON with the Rose Device are registered

  trademarks of the publisher.

  First published in Great Britain 2000 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,

  Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

  Ruth Ryan Langan 1991 ISBN 0 263 82300 8

  Set in Times Roman 10"A on 10% pt. 04000487428 Printed and bound in

  Spain by Litografia Roses S.A." Barcelona

  Chapter One

  Q^zn^s^Q

  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.
<
br />   "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.

  "I order your men to surrender their weapons, or I will give the order

  for my men to advance."

  Morgan Grey threw back his head in laughter.

  "Am I to tremble in fear of this old man?"

  "Nay, my lord," Brenna said softly. '"Tis the sight of your men

  surrounded by mine that will convince you to show Duncan the proper

  respect."

  Thunderstruck, Morgan turned. Behind each of his men stood a Scotsman,

  armed with both sword and dirk. And standing with the men was the

  small, slim girl who had raced to the safety of the castle when he and

  his men had approached. Though her hair was the color of spun gold and

  her eyes were tawny, there was no mistaking the similarity of features.

  She had to be sister to the woman who called herself leader.

  Instead of the calm, almost serene presence before him, the lass had

  the fiery look of a warrior.

  The English soldiers also turned and found themselves facing armed

  guards.

  "So." Morgan turned back to the woman.

  "I see I misjudged you."

  "A dangerous mistake. State your business, Morgan Grey, before I lose

  my patience."

  "You know of me?"

  "Aye." Her eyes narrowed.

  "They call you the Queen's Savage. But Elizabeth of England is not my

  queen. And here in Scotland we do not fear you."

  He took a step toward her. Instantly Duncan raised the tip of his

  sword to Morgan's tunic, at a place just above his heart.

  "Old man," Morgan said through clenched teeth.

  "If my mission were not peaceful, you would already lie in your own

  blood."

  "Ye will step back from the Lady Brenna."

  Morgan's hand tensed by his side. He longed to thrust his sword into

  the arrogant man's heart. Yet he admired the spirit of the two who

  faced him, despite the fact that they were nothing more than a

  doddering old fool and a fragile, helpless female. Still, he had his

  orders.

  Ignoring Duncan he withdrew a scroll from inside his tunic and handed

  it to Brenna with a slight bow.

  "I bring a message of peace from my queen, Elizabeth of England. She

  bids you receive my men and me in friendship and allow us to abide with

  you a few days. It is my queen's wish that these wars between our

  borders cease and that our citizens learn to live in peace."

  "And if we lower our weapons, will we not find a knife in our backs?

  Or worse," Brenna said softly, " will we wake to find our castle looted

  and our horses stolen? "

  "Nay, my lady. If we desired your horses we would have taken them. And

  if we desired your castle, we could have easily laid siege and

  conquered you in battle. I would remind you that my men outnumber

  yours five to one. The ones you see here are but a small portion of

  the rest who await my orders just outside your castle walls."

  Though her face did not change expression, he saw the quick flash of

  realization in her eyes. The hills had been black with men and

  horses.

  Yet only a hundred or so had followed him inside.

  "Why does your queen now seek a truce between our people?"

  Morgan's lips curled in a hint of a smile.

  "My queen is cousin to your queen. Mayhap they grow weary of

  dissent."

  What he said made sense. Possibly. Or was it only that she wished it

  so fervently?

  The Scottish clans who lived along the border between England and

  Scotland had suffered, for generations because of the tensions between

  their two countries. As leader of a Borderer clan, Brenna had tasted

  war from the moment of her birth.

  She studied him quietly.

  "How long do you wish to abide?"

  "A day or two. No more."

  She nodded.

  "Your men will sheathe their swords. If any weapon is drawn against

  one of my men, it is drawn against all."

  Morgan's hand curled into a fist at his side. She was so cool, so

  regal, he couldn't decide whether to bow, as though in the presence of

  royalty, or throttle her within an inch of her life.

  "Aye, my lady." He turned to his men.

  "Sheathe your weapons. Let no man raise a hand against another while

  we partake of the MacAlpin--hospitality."

  She heard the note of sarcasm in his tone.

  He turned toward Brenna, "My men will see to their horses first."

  "My servants will prepare food and lodging."

  "We are most grateful, my lady."

  She gave him a curt nod and turned her back on him,

  crossing the room to stand with her men.

  "My servants will see to your comfort."

  She paused beside her younger sister and touched a hand to her arm.

  Cool amber eyes, like those of a fox, appraised Morgan Grey before the

  young lass sheathed her sword and followed her sister from the room.

  How different they were, Morgan mused as he turned toward the fire.

  The younger one looked as feisty as his young page before battle,

  nearly trembling with energy. But it was the older sister who filled

  Morgan's mind, crowding out all other thoughts. She was so haughty, so

  controlled, she might have b
een born to royalty.

  He glanced at the tapestries lining the walls of the great hall. One

  central figure caught his eye. One man, from whom all the other

  figures descended. There was no mistaking the likeness of Kenneth

  MacAlpin, the first great monarch of Scotland. Morgan moved closer and

  studied the intricate needlework, tracing the lineage. It appeared

  that that infuriatingly regal air had been bred into the woman, Brenna,

  through the generations.

  His lips curved into a smile that was laced with danger. Morgan Grey

  had always enjoyed sparring with royalty. And winning.

  Chapter Two

  JVlorgan Grey leaned a hip against the doorway and watched as his men

  eagerly filed into the great hall. Behind them came the Scots, their

  weapons put away, or at least hidden from sight beneath their tunics

  and capes.

  Though there were two armies within the castle walls, the castle did

  not seem overcrowded. A giant fireplace at either end of the hall,

  filled with crackling logs, took the chill from the room. Tapers set

  in sconces along the walls cast a warm glow. The men's heavy boots

  scraped along the floor as they took their places at long wooden

  tables, scarred from generations of use.

  The English soldiers sat at one end of the hall; the Scots at the

  other. The room echoed with the sounds of rough language and coarse

  laughter, as the men, enemies for centuries, self-consciously took the

  measure of each other.

  Abruptly the crowd became subdued as the young women entered the

  hall.

  Morgan's eyes narrowed as he focused on the leader of the two.

  Brenna's gown was deep lavender velvet. It hugged her firm, high

  breasts and tiny waist, then fell in soft folds to the tips of her kid

  slippers. The wide sleeves were inset with ermine and tapered to

  narrow cuffs. Her dark hair had been braided with ribbons and fell

  over one shoulder in a cascade of ebony and silk.

  The girl behind her was gowned in pristine white. A cloud of yellow

  hair drifted around her shoulders like a veil. With her slender

  figure, she could be mistaken for a much younger lass. But there was

  nothing childlike about the way she openly studied the soldiers filling

  the room. Her misgiving about these foreign intruders was obvious.

  While the two walked to their position at the head table, the Scots

  soldiers remained standing at attention. The English soldiers,

  surprised at the respect being shown, followed suit.

  "My lord." A young servant approached Morgan. When he glanced at her,

  she timidly lowered her gaze.

  "My lady asks that you sit at her table while you sup."

  He gave her a curt nod and followed. When he reached the table, the

  two young women looked up in greeting.

  "It occurs to me that I have not yet introduced you to my sister.

  Megan is the youngest of the MacAlpin clan. "

  He bowed over the girl's hand and was aware of the way she cautiously

  appraised him. When he took her hand in his and brushed his lips over

  her knuckles, he felt her flinch.

  "There is no need to fear. I carry no weapons, my lady."

  Brenna saw the way his lips curved into the hint of a smile. But her

  younger sister was not amused.

  "That is wise, my lord. For I was not prepared to trust the word of an

  Englishman."

  She touched the hilt of a dagger at her waist.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Brenna put a hand on her sister's arm to still her words, then turned

  to soothe the tension of the man beside her.

  "We are not accustomed to entertaining English soldiers in our home."