“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.