She turned and hurried up the stairs to the top floor. From the bunch of keys at her side, she took one and unlocked an oak door. The heavy door creaked in protest as it swung on its unoiled hinges.
She thought she was braced for the sight of the room, but she wasn’t. She almost expected her father to look up at her and smile. She hadn’t been in the room since his death; she’d been afraid to see it again.
She stepped inside the room and looked about her. There was a plaid thrown across a chair, the bottom of it worn and ragged. Weapons hung on the stone walls, axes, Claymores, bows. She touched the worn place on her father’s favorite bow. Slowly she walked to the chair near the one window in the room. The leather held the imprint of Jamie’s body.
Bronwyn sat down in the chair, the dust whirling about her. Her father came often to this room to think and be alone. He allowed no one to enter it except himself and his two children. Bronwyn had teethed on an arrow from her father’s pack.
She looked from one familiar, loved object to another and felt her head begin to ache. It was all gone now. Her father was dead, her brother had turned away from her with hatred in his heart, and the beautiful young men she would have chosen were rotting in a grave somewhere.
Now there was no laughter or love at Larenston. The English king had married her to one of his killers, and all happiness was gone.
The English! she thought. They thought they owned the world. She hated the way Stephen’s men stood off from him, the way they bowed and scraped and called him “my lord.” The English were a cold lot. She’d tried hundreds of times to tell him about the ways of the Scots, but he was too vain to listen.
She smiled to herself. At least her men knew who was laird. They laughed at Stephen behind his back. All morning she’d heard stories of the aborted cattle raid the night before. How ridiculous Stephen must have looked standing there in his foolish armor.
A noise in the courtyard below drew her attention. She went to the window to look down.
At first she didn’t recognize Stephen. She thought only that he was a well-built man with an exceptional look of self-confidence. His belted plaid swung about his legs with a jaunty air. She gasped in indignation when she realized it was Stephen who walked so arrogantly and wore the Scots’ dress as if he had a right to wear it.
Several of her men stood about the courtyard, and she was glad to see that they made no effort to greet him. They certainly knew an impostor when they saw one.
The smile left her face as first one man then another walked toward Stephen. She saw him smile and say something, then flip the tail of his plaid up. She heard laughter echoing.
Douglas—her Douglas!—stepped forward and put out an arm to Stephen. Stephen grabbed it, and the two of them hooked ankles and forearms and began a standing wrestle. It wasn’t a minute later that Douglas went sprawling in the dirt.
She watched in disgust while Stephen challenged the men, one after another. She drew her breath in sharply when Margaret’s daughter stepped forward, her hips swaying provocatively. She lifted her skirt to expose trim ankles and proceeded to show Stephen a few Highlands dance steps.
Bronwyn turned away from the window and left the room, locking the door behind her. There was anger in every step she took down the stairs.
Stephen was standing there. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pink from his day’s exercise in the cold air. His eyes were flashing and bright. Behind him stood several of his men as well as Bronwyn’s, and several pretty young women.
He looked at her like a boy trying to please. He held out his leg to her. “Will I pass?” he teased.
She glared at him for a moment, ignoring his muscular leg. “You may fool some of them, but you’re an Englishman to me and will always be. Because you’ve changed your clothes doesn’t mean you’ve changed inside.” She turned and walked away from all of them.
Stephen stood still for a moment, frowning. Perhaps he did want them to forget he was an Englishman. Perhaps…
Tam slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so grieved.”
Stephen turned to see that the Scotsmen behind him were smiling.
“For all she’s a good laird, she’s still a woman,” Tam continued. “No doubt she was upset because ye were dancin’ with the women.”
Stephen tried to smile. “I wish you were right.”
“Why don’t ye go to her and soothe her?”
Stephen started to reply, then stopped. There was no use telling Tam that Bronwyn wouldn’t welcome anything about him. He followed her up the stairs. She was standing over a weaver, directing the arrangement of the weft threads of a new plaid.
“Stephen,” called one of the women, “but don’t you look good.” The pretty young woman almost leered at him in his short clothes.
Stephen turned to smile at the woman, but he caught sight of Bronwyn as she fairly snarled at him before she left the room. He caught her at the head of the stairs. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be pleased with my clothes. You said I must become a Scot.”
“Dressing as one doesn’t make you a Scot.” She turned away from him.
Stephen caught her arm. “What’s wrong? Are you angry because of something else?”
“Why should I be angry?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’m married to my enemy. I’m—”