“We’re a poor country and can’t afford the waste that I see here in England.” She was quiet while Stephen worked on the buttons. “You…fought well this morning.”
He paused for a moment before he started again on the buttons. “That must have been hard for you to say, considering that you were hoping I was killed.”
“I wanted no one killed! All I wanted was—”
“Don’t tell me! I already know what you wanted! Roger Chatworth.”
It was an odd moment. Bronwyn felt strangely intimate with Stephen, as if they’d known each other for many years. She knew she couldn’t explain to him why she wanted Roger. She’d certainly tried often enough! Now it was almost pleasant to hear the note of jealousy in his voice. Let him think that she burned for Roger. It might do him good.
“There! Now get up and let’s get that dress off.”
When she didn’t move, he leaned over her and ran his lips along her neck. “Let’s not wait until tonight.”
His words as well as his actions made Bronwyn come alive. She quickly rolled out from under him. She grabbed the front of her dress as it fell forward. “I’ll put the dress o
n, but first you must leave.”
Stephen lay back on his elbow. “I have no intention of leaving.”
Bronwyn started to argue, but she knew it was no use. Besides, he’d seen her in wet underclothes twice before. At least this time she’d be hidden more completely by their dryness. She stepped out of the gown and carefully laid it across a wooden chest.
Stephen’s eyes watched her hungrily, and when she went to get the silver dress, he held it away from her so that she had to step very close to him to get it. He had time to plant one quick kiss on her shoulder before she moved away.
The heavy silver fabric was beautiful, and she ran her hand admiringly over the skirt before she slipped it over her head. It fit perfectly, hugging her small waist, flaring gracefully over her hips. As it settled about her body she looked up at Stephen in astonishment. The neckline was not the deep square that was fashionable but was high, all the way to the base of her throat, where a tiny collar of lace rested.
Stephen shrugged at her puzzlement. “I’d prefer that not so much of what’s mine be shown to the other men.”
“Yours!” she gasped. “Do you plan to always choose all in my life? Am I no longer to even select my own clothes?”
He groaned. “I knew your sweetness wouldn’t last for long. Now come over here so I may fasten it.”
“I can do it myself.”
He watched her struggle for a few moments before he pulled her to him. “Do you think you will ever learn that I am not your enemy?”
“But you are my enemy. All Englishmen are enemies to my clan and me.”
He pulled her between his legs and began to fasten the tiny buttons. When they were done, he turned her around, holding her fast between his knees. “I hope to someday teach you that I am more than an Englishman.” He ran his hands up her arms. “I am looking forward to tonight.”
Bronwyn tried to twist away from him. Stephen sighed and released her. He stood beside her, then took her hand in his. “The priest and our guests are waiting below.”
Bronwyn reluctantly took his hand. His palm was warm and dry, callused from years of training. Stephen’s squire waited outside the door, holding out a heavy velvet jacket to his master. Bronwyn watched as Stephen thanked the boy, who looked up proudly at his master and wished him luck and happiness.
Stephen smiled and raised Bronwyn’s hand to his lips. “Happiness,” he said. “Do you think that for us happiness is possible?”
She looked away and didn’t answer as they started down the stairs together, hand in hand. The silver dress weighed on her, and with each step she was reminded of this stranger’s domination of her.
Many people waited at the foot of the stairs, all men, all friends of Sir Thomas’s, men who’d fought against the Highlanders. They made no effort to conceal their animosity toward the Scots. They laughingly talked of Stephen’s “conquering” of the enemy that night. They laughed at the way Bronwyn had fought them after they killed her father. They said that if Bronwyn were half as wild in bed, Stephen was in for a treat.
She lifted her head high, telling herself that she was the MacArran and she must make her clan proud of her. The English were a crude, bragging lot of men, and she wouldn’t lower herself to their level by replying to their disgusting comments.
Stephen’s hand tightened on hers, and she looked up at him in surprise. His face was solemn, his mouth set in a grim line; a muscle worked in his jaw. She would have thought he would enjoy the comments of his countrymen since they were proof that he’d won a prize of war. He turned and looked down at her, and his eyes were almost sad, as if he meant to apologize to her.
The wedding was over very quickly. Truthfully, it didn’t seem much like a wedding at all. Bronwyn stood before the priest, and in that moment she realized how alone she was. When she’d imagined her marriage, it had been in the Highlands, in the spring, when the earth was just beginning to come alive. She would be surrounded by her family and all the members of her clan. Her husband would have been someone she knew.
She turned and looked at Stephen. They knelt side by side inside the little chapel in Sir Thomas’s house. Stephen’s head was reverently bowed. How far away he seemed, how remote. And how very little she knew of him. They had grown up in two different worlds, in completely separate ways of life. All her life she’d been taught that she had rights and powers, that her people would turn to her for help. Yet this Englishman had known only a society where women were taught to sew and to be extensions of their husbands.
Yet Bronwyn was condemned to sharing her life with this man. He’d already made it clear that he believed her to be his property, something he owned and could command at will.