Only this gown was to have been her wedding dress.
She plucked violently at a piece of gold thread.
“Here!” Morag commanded. “Don’t destroy the dress because ye’re mad at one Englishman. Perhaps the man had a reason to be late and miss his own weddin’.”
Bronwyn stood up quickly, causing Rab to move protectively to her side. “What do I care if the man never appears? I hope he had his throat cut and lies rotting in some ditch.”
Morag shrugged. “They’ll only find ye a new husband, so what does it matter if this one dies or not? The sooner ye have yer English husband, the sooner we can go back to the Highlands.”
“It’s easy for you to say!” Bronwyn snapped. “It’s not you who must wed him and…and…”
Morag’s little black eyes danced. “And bed him? Is that what’s worryin’ ye? I’d gladly trade with ye if I could. Think this Stephen Montgomery would notice ’twere I to slip into his bed?”
“What do I know of Stephen Montgomery except that he has no more respect for me than to leave me waiting in my wedding dress? You say the men laugh at me. The man who is to be my husband holds me up for their ridicule.” She squinted at the door. “Were he to come through there now, I’d gladly take a knife to him.”
Morag smiled. Jamie MacArran would have been proud of his daughter. Even when she was still held prisoner she kept her pride and her spirit. Now she held her chin high, her eyes flashing with daggers of crystal-blue ice.
Bronwyn was startlingly beautiful. Her hair was as black as a moonless midnight in the Scots mountains, her eyes as deep blue as the water of a sunlit loch. The contrast was arresting. It wasn’t unusual for people, especially men, to be struck speechless the first time they saw her. Her lashes were thick and dark, her skin fine and creamy. Her lips of dark red were set above her father’s chin, strong, square on the tip, and slightly cleft.
“They’ll think ye’re a coward if ye hide in this room. What Scot is afraid of the smirks of an Englishman?”
Bronwyn stiffened her back and looked down at the cream-colored gown. When she’d dressed that morning, she thought to be wed in the dress. Now it was hours past time for the marriage ceremony, and her bridegroom had not shown himself, nor had he sent any message of excuse or apology.
“Help me unfasten this thing,” Bronwyn said. The gown would have to be kept fresh until she did marry. If not today, then at another time. And perhaps to another man. The thought made her smile.
“What are ye plannin’?” Morag asked, her hands at the back of Bronwyn’s dress. “Ye’ve a look of the cat that got the cream.”
“You ask too many questions. Fetch me that green brocade gown. The Englishmen may think I’m a bride in tears at being snubbed, but they’ll soon find the Scots are made of sterner stuff.”
Even though she was a prisoner and had been for over a month, Bronwyn was allowed the freedom of Sir Thomas Crichton’s manor. She could walk about the house and, with an escort, on the grounds. The estate was heavily guarded, watched constantly. King Henry had told Bronwyn’s clan that if a rescue attempt were made, she would be executed. No harm would come to her, but he meant to put an Englishman in the chiefship. The clan had recently seen the death of Jamie MacArran as well as of his three chieftains. The Scots retreated to watch their new laird held captive and planned what they’d do when the king’s men dared to try to command them.
Bronwyn slowly descended the stairs to the hall below. She knew her clansmen waited patiently just outside the grounds, hiding in the forest on the constantly turbulent border between England and Scotland.
For herself she did not care if she died rather than accept the English dog she was to marry, but her death would cause strife within the clan. Jamie MacArran had designated his daughter as his successor, and she was to have married one of the chieftains who had died with her father. If Bronwyn were to die without issue, there would no doubt be a bloody battle over who would be the next laird.
“I always knew the Montgomerys were smart men,” laughed a man standing a few feet from Bronwyn. A thick tapestry hid her from his view. “Look at the way the eldest married that Revedoune heiress. He’d hardly got out of his marriage bed when her father was killed and he inherited the earldom.”
“And now Stephen is following in his brother’s footsteps. Not only is this Bronwyn beautiful, but she owns hundreds of acres of land.”
“You can say what you like,” said a third man. His sleeve was empty, his left arm missing. “But I don’t envy Stephen. The woman is magnificent, but how long will he be able to enjoy her? I lost this fighting those devils in Scotland. They’re only half human, I tell you. They grow up learning nothing but plunder and robbery. And they fight more like animals than men. They’re a crude, savage lot.”
“And I heard their women stink to high heaven,” the first man said.
“For that black-haired Bronwyn I’d learn to hold my nose.”
Bronwyn took a step forward, a feral snarl on her lips. When a hand caught her arm, she looked up into a young man’s face. He was handsome, with dark eyes, a firm mouth. Her eyes were on a level with his.
“Allow me, my lady,” he said quietly.
He stepped forwa
rd to the group of men. His strong legs were encased in tight hose, his velvet jacket emphasizing the width of his shoulders. “Have you nothing better to do than gossip like old women? You talk of things you know nothing about.” His voice was commanding.
The three men looked startled. “Why, Roger, what’s wrong with you?” one asked, then stared over Roger’s shoulder and saw Bronwyn, her eyes glittering in stormy anger.
“I think Stephen had better come soon and guard his property,” one of the other men laughed.
“Get out of here!” Roger ordered. “Or shall I draw my sword to get your attention?”