“Come above stairs with me then.”
She smiled seductively. “In a moment. Perhaps you’d like to try a new drink I had made. It is of wine and fruit juices with a little spice.” She handed him a silver goblet.
Stephen hardly noticed what he drank. Bronwyn had never looked at him as she was doing now, and his blood was beginning to boil. Her thick lashes lowered over her eyes, which had turned to a luster like a blue pearl. The tip of her pink tongue touched her lower lip, and Stephen felt chills run up his spine. So this is what she looked like when she was willing!
He put his hand over hers and had to control himself from squeezing it hard enough to break her fingers. “Come with me,” he whispered huskily.
Before he’d finished climbing the stairs, he began to feel sleepy. By the time he reached the door to their bedroom, he could hardly keep his eyes open.
“Something’s wrong with me,” he whispered, the words an effort to get out.
“You’re tired, that’s all,” Bronwyn said sympathetically. “You spent most of the day in training with Tam, and he can wear a man out. Here, let me help you.” She put her arm around his waist and led him to the bed.
Stephen collapsed onto the bed’s softness. His limbs felt heavy and useless. “I’m sorry, I…”
“Quiet,” Bronwyn said softly. “Just rest. You’ll feel better after a little sleep.”
Stephen had no choice but to obey her as he easily slipped off into sleep.
Bronwyn stood over him for a moment, frowning. She hoped she hadn’t put too much of the sleeping drug in his drink. She had a sudden pang of conscience as he lay there so quietly. But she had to make sure he didn’t interfere tonight. She had to show the MacGregors they couldn’t steal her cattle and get away with it.
She turned to leave the room, then looked back. With a sigh she pulled Stephen’s boots off. He didn’t move but lay still, so still, not watching her, not asking anything of her. She bent and touched his hair, then on impulse she gently kissed his forehead. She backed away from him, her face pink, cursing herself for being so foolish. What did she care about the Englishman?
Her men were already saddled and waiting for her. She pulled her long skirt up and slung her legs into the saddle. The men needed no verbal command as they followed her down the narrow path onto the mainland.
Douglas’s informer had been right about the proposed cattle raid. Bronwyn and her men rode hard for two hours, then abandoned their horses and walked stealthily into the dark woods.
Bronwyn was the first to hear a man’s footsteps. She put up her hand to halt her men, then signaled them to spread out, Douglas to stay with her. The men of Clan MacArran were silent as they slipped through the trees and surrounded the cattle thieves.
When she was satisfied that her men had had time to get to their places, she opened her mouth and gave a high-pitched cry that set the cattle to nervous prancing. The MacGregors dropped the ropes they held and grabbed their Claymores. But it was too late, for Bronwyn’s men were upon them. They’d discarded their plaids so they were free to fight in their loose shirts. Their savage war cries echoed through the countryside. Bronwyn threw off her skirt and wore only her shirt and plaid, which reached just to her knees. She stayed in the background to direct the men and not hamper them with her frail strength. At times like this she cursed her lack of strength.
“Jarl!” she screamed in time to save one of her men from a Claymore across his head. She rushed across the grass just in time to thwart a MacGregor from jumping onto another man.
The moonlight caught the flash of a dirk as it poised above Douglas’s head. She saw that Douglas had lost his weapon. “Douglas!” she called, then tossed him her weapon. The MacGregor behind him turned to look at her, and in that instant Douglas caught him under the ribs with the dirk. The man fell slowly.
The fighting seemed to come to a halt instantly. Bronwyn, sensing a change in the men, looked down at the man at her feet. “The MacGregor,” she whispered. “Is he dead?”
“No,” Douglas answered, “only wounded. He’ll come to in a minute.”
She looked about her. The other MacGregors had faded into the trees now that their leader was down. She knelt beside the fallen man. “Give me my dirk,” she said.
Douglas obeyed her without hesitation.
“I’d like the MacGregor to remember me after tonight. How do you think he’d like my initial carved into his flesh?”
“Perhaps in his cheek?” Douglas said avidly.
Bronwyn gave him a cold look, her eyes made silver by the moonlight. “I don’t want to cause more war, only a memory. Besides, I’ve heard the MacGregor is a handsome man.” She pulled his shirt open.
“You seem taken with handsome men lately,” Douglas said bitterly.
“Perhaps it is you who are worried about my men. Is it your jealousy or your greed that eats at you? See to my men and stop your childish tantrums.”
Douglas turned away from her.
Bronwyn had heard tales of the MacGregor and knew he’d prize a scar made by a woman who had beaten him. She used the tip of her dirk and barely broke the skin as she carved a small B in his shoulder. She’d make sure he remembered her the next time he tried to steal her cattle.
When she’d finished, she ran back to her men, and together they ran to their horses. It was a heady experience: her first victory as laird of her clan.