“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.