“She said ye were the ugliest man created.”
Stephen’s eyes sparkled. “And what do you think?”
Morag grunted. “Ye’ll do. And don’t try to get compliments out of me.”
“Now that I’ve been put in my place, perhaps you’ll tell me who you are. I take it by your accent that you’re a Scot like my Bronwyn.”
“I’m Morag of MacArran.”
“Bronwyn’s maid?”
Morag’s back stiffened. “Ye’ll do well to learn that we’re freemen in Scotland. I do what I can to earn my bread. Why were ye late for yer own weddin’?”
Stephen looked back at Bronwyn. “My sister-in-law was very ill. I couldn’t leave until I knew she was going to live.”
“And ye couldna’ send a message?”
Stephen gave her a sheepish look. “I forgot. I was worried about Judith and I forgot.”
Morag gave her little cackle of a laugh. She could feel herself being charmed by this tall knight. “Ye’re a good man that ye could care enough about someone else to forget yer own interests.”
Stephen’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, I had no idea then what your mistress looked like.”
The woman laughed again. “Ye’re a good, honest boy…for an Englishman. Come inside and have some whiskey with me. Ye’re not afraid of a little whiskey so early in the day?”
He held out his arm to her. “Maybe I can get you drunk and ply you with questions about Bronwyn.”
Morag’s cackle rang out across the garden. “There was a time, young man, when men wanted me drunk for other reasons.” They walked together into the house.
Bronwyn frowned at the laugh. She’d been all too aware of the man staring at her, and she’d found it oddly unsettling. She glanced at him occasionally, and she had an impression of easy grace, power, and a strength held lightly under control. Morag’s too-intimate conversation with the man disturbed her. The old woman didn’t usually take to men, especially Englishmen, and Bronwyn wondered how this man could charm her so easily.
“Who is that man with Morag?”
Roger frowned. “I thought you’d met him. That’s Stephen.”
She stared at Stephen’s retreating form, watched how he offered his arm to the wrinkled woman. Morag’s head barely reached above Stephen’s elbow.
Suddenly Bronwyn felt even further insulted. What kind of man was he that would stand by while another courted the woman he was to wed? He’d been only a few feet away, yet he hadn’t even bothered to speak to her.
“Lady Bronwyn, has something upset you?” Roger asked, watching her closely.
“No,” she smiled. “Absolutely nothing. Please continue to play.”
It was nearly evening when Bronwyn saw Morag again. The setting sun made the room dim. Rab stood close by his mistress’s side while she combed her long hair. “I see you had a visitor this afternoon,” she said as if it were of no importance.
Morag shrugged.
“Did you speak of anything interesting?”
Again Morag merely shrugged.
Bronwyn put down her comb and went to the window seat where Morag sat. “Will you answer me!”
“Ye’re a nosy one. Since when do I have to make an answer about my private conversations?”
“You’ve been drinking in the afternoon again. I can smell it.”
Morag grinned. “That boy can certainly hold his whiskey. I bet he could drink a Scot under the table.”
“Who?” Bronwyn demanded.
Morag gave her a sly look. “Why, yer husband of course. Who else would ye be houndin’ me for answers about?”
“I am not…!” Bronwyn calmed herself. “He is not my husband. He doesn’t even bother to speak to me much less appear for his wedding.”
“So that’s what’s still botherin’ ye. I figured ye’d see us together. Were ye plannin’ to snub him while you had the arm of young Chatworth?”
Bronwyn didn’t answer.
“I thought so! Let me tell ye that Stephen Montgomery isn’t used to being snubbed by any woman, and if he does decide to marry ye after the way ye’ve carried on with Chatworth, ye should consider yerself fortunate.”
“Fortunate!” Bronwyn managed to gasp. It was all she could say. Another word from Morag and she just might wring that scrawny little neck. “Come, Rab,” she commanded and left the room.
She hurried down the stairs to the garden below. It had already grown dark, and the moon shone brightly over the trees and hedges. She walked along the paths for quite some time before she finally sat down on a stone bench in front of a low wall. How she wanted to go home! She wanted to get away from these foreigners, out of these foreign clothes, away from foreign men who looked at her only as a prize of war.
Suddenly Rab stood and gave a low growl of warning.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
The man stepped forward. “Stephen Montgomery,” he said quietly. He looked larger in the moonlight, towering over her. “May I sit with you?”
“Why not? What say do I have in any matter concerning the English?”
Stephen sat beside her and watched as she controlled Rab with a single hand gesture. He leaned back against the wall, his long legs stretched before him. Bronwyn moved closer to the edge of the bench, away from him. “You’ll fall if you move any farther.”
She stiffened. “Say what you want and have done with it.”
“I have nothing to say,” he said easily.
“You certainly seemed to have ‘nothing’ to say to Morag.”
He smiled, the moonlight showing his even, white teeth. “The woman tried to get me drunk.”
“And did she succeed?”
“You don’t grow up with three brothers and not learn how to drink.”
“You merely drank and had no conversation?”
Stephen was silent for a moment. “Why are you so hostile to me?”
She stood quickly. “Did you expect me to welcome you with open arms? I stood in my wedding gown for six hours waiting for you to come. I have seen my entire family slaughtered by the English yet I am told I must marry one. Then I am disregarded as if I did not exist. And now you make no apology to me but ask why I am hostile.”
She turned away and started back toward the house.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to look at him. She wasn’t used to a man so much taller than her. “If I offered you an apology, would you accept it?” His voice was quiet, deep, as liquid silver as the moonlight. It was the first time he’d ever touched her or even been so close. He took her wrists, ran his hands up her arms, gripping her flesh beneath the silk and velvet.
“King Henry only wants peace,” he said. “He thinks that if he puts an Englishman in the midst of the Scots, they’ll see we aren’t so bad.”
Bronwyn looked up at him. Her heart was pounding quite hard. She wanted to get away from him, but her body wouldn’t obey her. “Your vanity is alarming. Judging from your lack of manners, my Scots would see the English as worse than they feared.”
Stephen laughed softly, but it was obvious his mind was not on her words. He moved his left hand to touch her throat.
Bronwyn tried to jerk from his grip. “Unhand me! You have no right to paw me…or to laugh at me.”
Stephen made no effort to release her. “You’re a delicious thing. I can only think that had I not missed our wedding, I could take you upstairs to my chamber this very moment. Perhaps you’d like to forget the day of waiting for our wedding and go with me now?”
She gasped in horror, causing Rab to growl menacingly at Stephen. She twisted sharply away from the hands that held her. Rab stepped between his mistress and the man who touched her. “How dare you?” she said between clenched teeth. “Be grateful I do not turn Rab onto you for that insult.”
Stephen laughed in astonishment. “The dog values its life.” He took a step closer and Rab growled louder.
“Don’t come any closer,” Bronwyn warned.
Stephen looked at
her in puzzlement. He put his hands up in a pleading gesture. “Bronwyn, I didn’t mean to insult you. I—”
“Lady Bronwyn, may I help you?” Roger Chatworth asked, stepping from the shadows of the hedges.
“Have you lately taken to skulking in shadows, Chatworth?” Stephen snapped.
Roger was calm, smiling. “I prefer to think of myself as rescuing ladies in distress.” He turned to Bronwyn, his arm extended. “Would you like an escort to your chambers?”
“Chatworth, I’m warning you!”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Bronwyn said, disgusted at their childish quarrel. “Roger, thank you for your kindness, but Rab will be all the escort I need.” She turned to Stephen and gave him an icy glare. “As for you, sir, I am grateful for an excuse to leave your vile company.” She turned away from the men, and Rab followed her closely as she went back to the house.
Roger and Stephen stared after her for a long while, then, without looking at each other, they turned away.
Bronwyn had difficulty sleeping. Stephen Montgomery disturbed her a great deal. His nearness was unsettling, and tonight she hadn’t been able to think properly while he was touching her. Was this the man she was to present to her clan as a leader? He didn’t seem to have a serious bone in his body.
When she did sleep, she had bloody dreams. She saw the men of her clan following an English flag, and one by one they were slaughtered. Stephen Montgomery stood holding the banner, ignoring the Scots’ death as he kept trying to thrust his hand down Bronwyn’s dress.
In the morning her mood wasn’t lightened by an invitation from Stephen asking her to go riding with him. She’d crumbled the note and told Morag she wouldn’t go. But Morag had a way of nagging that always made anyone do what she wanted. The old woman had already gotten Bronwyn to tell her why she was so angry at Stephen.
Morag snorted. “He’s a healthy young man, and he asked ye to spend the night with him. I remember some other men asking, and ye certainly weren’t insulted then.”
Bronwyn was silent, thinking that the English had ended her days of freedom and laughter.
Morag didn’t allow Bronwyn’s silence to disturb her. She wanted something, and she wouldn’t stop until she got it. “He asks ye to spend the day with him. After all, yer wedding is set for tomorrow.”
“How do you know so much? I haven’t heard of the new date.”
“Stephen told me this morning,” Morag said impatiently.
“So! You’ve seen him again! What is it about him that interests you? There are other men, even Englishmen, who are better.”
Morag sniffed. “Not any I’ve met.”
“Roger Chatworth is a kind, intelligent man, and he has a strong strain of Scots blood.”
“Did he tell ye that?” Morag snapped. “Perhaps he meant he liked the Scots’ land. I think Roger Chatworth would love to have the land ye possess.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flashed angrily. “Isn’t that what all these Englishmen want? If I were fat and old, they’d still want me.”
Morag shook her head in disgust. “One moment ye decry Stephen for his hotness, the next ye complain that the men want only yer wealth and not yer person. Give him a chance to redeem himself. Talk to him, spend the day with him, ask him why he was late.”
Bronwyn frowned. She didn’t want to see Stephen again, ever, if that were possible. She could imagine Roger riding beside her, but she couldn’t imagine Stephen doing anything but what he wanted, regardless of her wants. She looked up at Morag. “I’ll try to talk to him…if he can keep his hands still long enough to talk.”
Morag cackled. “I think there’s hope in yer voice.”
Chapter Three
IN SPITE OF HER RELUCTANCE TO SPEND THE DAY WITH HER betrothed, Bronwyn dressed carefully. She wore a simple wool dress the color of dark wine. It was trimmed with a border of seed pearls around the deep, square neckline. The sleeves were tight, showing the curve of her arm.
As she walked down the stairs, Rab close at her heels, she held her head high. She planned to give Stephen Montgomery a chance to show that he meant well toward her and her people. Perhaps she had hastily judged him and he wanted what was best for her clan. She could forgive him for being late for their wedding. After all, what did her personal inconvenience matter? What was important was Stephen’s attitude toward her clan, whether they could accept him or not. She wanted peace between the Scots and the English as much as King Henry did—more, since it was her family members who had been slaughtered.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared out into the sunlit garden. Stephen was leaning against a low stone wall, waiting for her. She had to admit he was a handsome man, and her attraction to him was extraordinary, but she couldn’t let her personal feelings—either love or hate—stand before the needs of her clan.
“Good morning,” she said quietly as she walked up to him. He stared down at her with a burning intensity. He familiarly took a curl of hair from her shoulder.
“Is this the Scots’ custom, to not cover the hair?” He wrapped the silken stuff about his fingers.
“Until a woman has a child, she usually leaves her hair uncovered. Except when wearing a tartan,” she added, watching him to see if he’d make any comment or show any sign of recognition.
“A child.” Stephen smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” He nodded toward the far end of the garden. “I have a couple of horses waiting. Are you ready?”
She twisted her head so that he dropped her hair. “A Scotswoman is always ready to ride.” She lifted her long skirts and strode ahead of him, ignoring his amused chuckle.
A pretty black mare waited beside Stephen’s roan stallion. The mare pranced, lifting her feet high in excitement to be away. Before Stephen could help her, Bronwyn vaulted into the saddle. The heavy, full skirts were awkward, and she cursed the English manner of dress for the hundredth time. She was glad Stephen had not given her one of those absurd sidesaddles like Roger had.
Before Stephen had even mounted his horse, she urged the mare forward. It was a spirited animal, as anxious to run as Bronwyn was. She guided the horse, full speed, toward the path Roger had shown her. She leaned forward in the saddle, delighting in the wind on her face and throat.
Suddenly she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. Twisting around, she saw that Stephen was close behind her, gaining on her. She laughed aloud. No Englishman born could beat a Scotswoman on a horse! She talked to the mare and applied the crop to her flank. The horse sprang forward as if it had wings. A feeling of power and exultation coursed through Bronwyn.
Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at seeing Stephen still gaining on her. Ahead the path narrowed, too narrow for two horses side by side. If he wanted to pass her, he’d have to leave the path, go into the forest, and risk running his horse’s legs into a rabbit hole or hitting a tree. She guided the mare to the middle of the path. She knew what a Scotsman would do if she blocked his path, but these Englishmen were soft things, lacking guts and stamina.
The mare ran at a hard run. Stephen was nearly on her now, and Bronwyn smiled in triumph at his confusion. It was when her mare reared slightly and screamed that Bronwyn had her hands full keeping her seat. Stephen’s war-trained stallion had nipped the mare’s rump as it crowded the smaller horse.
Bronwyn worked hard at controlling the mare and cursed the English for taking her own horse from her. This animal was a stranger to her and not as receptive to her commands.
The mare screamed again as the stallion bit it a second time, then, against Bronwyn’s commands, it pulled aside and Stephen went thundering by. The look he threw Bronwyn made her utter a horrendous Gaelic oath. She jerked the reins and led the mare back to the center of the path.
Through all of the race Bronwyn had never allowed the mare to slow down. It was only through her extraordinary affinity with horses that she was able to control the animal as it jumped into the forest, away from the charging stallion.
When sh
e came to the stream and jumped it, Stephen was there, waiting for her. He’d dismounted and was standing calmly by his horse as it drank. “Not bad.” He grinned up at her. “You have a tendency to pull the right rein harder than the left, but you could be quite good with a little training.”
Bronwyn’s eyes shot blue fire at him. Training! She’d had her own pony when she was four, had ridden with her father in cattle raids since she was eight. She’d ridden at night across the moors, up the rocks by the sea coast…and he said she needed training!
Stephen laughed. “Don’t look so stricken. If it’ll make you feel any better, you’re the best woman rider I’ve ever seen. You could give most Englishwomen lessons.”
“Women!” she managed to gasp. “I could give all Englishmen lessons!”
“From where I stand, you just lost a race to an Englishman. Now get off that horse and rub it down. You can’t let a horse stand in its own sweat.”
Now he dared tell her how to tend to her horse. She sneered at him, raised her riding whip, and bent forward to strike him. Stephen easily sidestepped the lash, then gave her wrist one sharp, painful turn, and the crop fell to the ground. Bronwyn was caught off balance by the unexpected movement. The heavy English dress had wrapped around her leg in such a way that she lost her footing in the stirrup and pitched forward.
She grabbed the pommel and would have recovered herself but Stephen’s hands were already on her waist. He pulled her toward him and she pulled away from him. For a moment it was a struggle of strength, but what infuriated Bronwyn was that Stephen seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her humiliation. He was playing with her, letting her seem to win before he pulled her down again.
He laughed and gave one powerful tug and lifted her from the saddle, lifting her high above his head. “Did you know that that hole in your chin gets deeper when you’re angry?”
“Hole!” she gasped and drew her foot back to strike him.
Considering that her feet were a yard above the ground and her sole support was Stephen’s hands on her waist, it was not a wise move. He laughed at her again, tossed her in the air, then, as she struggled for balance, he caught her in his arms. He hugged her to him and kissed her ear loudly. “Are you always so entertaining?” he laughed.