His mouth on hers made her stop talking.
“Come here, wench,” he whispered as he pulled her down into the leaves.
It was quite cold, but neither of them felt it. The leaves came up around them and sheltered them, hid them, warmed them. Bronwyn felt Stephen’s thighs against hers, and she pulled him closer and closer to her.
They wrestled together, laughing. There were sticks and rocks poking their skin, but neither of them minded. Once Stephen began tickling Bronwyn, and the sound of her laughter, so unusual a sound to him, fired his passion to white-hot.
“Bronwyn,” he whispered before pulling her under him and becoming serious.
When they came together, it was somehow different from the other times. In spite of their differences, their impossible situation, they made love as if they were free for the first time. There was not only passion but a sense of joy and fun too.
“I had no idea you were ticklish,” Stephen whispered sleepily as he held Bronwyn close to him.
Rab snuggled on her other side. “Neither did I. Shouldn’t we get our clothes?”
“In a minute,” Stephen whispered. “In a min—”
They were awakened very early by Rab’s growling. Stephen’s reflexes were instant. He sat up and pushed Bronwyn behind him. He stared at a man who was some twenty feet away. He was a short, wiry man with brown hair and eyes. And he wore the MacGregor cockade.
“Good mornin’,” he called heartily. “I didna’ mean to disturb you. I came to get some water, but your dog wouldn’t let me pass.”
Stephen heard Bronwyn take in breath to speak. He turned and gave her a look of warning. She was half buried in the leaves, only her head and bare shoulders visible.
“Mornin’,” Stephen called just as heartily, his voice heavy with the Scots burr. “Rab, come away, let the fine gentleman pass.”
“I thank ye, sir,” the man said as he walked the few feet to the stream.
“Rab, fetch our clothes,” Stephen said, then watched as the dog obeyed. He looked back at the man at the edge of the stream, who was looking at the nude pair with curiosity. “A bit of Adam and Eve, aren’t we?” Stephen laughed.
The man laughed also. “Just what I was thinkin’.” He stood. “I didn’t see your wagon or horses, so I had no idea anyone was here.”
Stephen put on his shirt, then deftly threw his plaid about him and buckled his wide belt. Both men discreetly turned away as Bronwyn dressed. She didn’t speak but was fascinated by Stephen’s newly acquired accent.
“To tell the truth,” Stephen said, “we have only what we have on our backs.”
Bronwyn watched as he put his cap behind his back and tore the MacArran cockade from it.
“We were set upon by thieves.”
“Thieves!” the man said. “In the MacGregor’s land? He won’t like that.”
“Aye, that he won’t,” Stephen agreed. “Especially since it was some of those thievin’ MacArrans. Oh! I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to pull your hair,” he said when Bronwyn gave a little gasp of horror.
“Ah, the MacArrans,” the man said. “There’s never been a more dishonest, treacherous, cowardly lot ever put on the face of the earth. Did you know that not long ago they nearly killed the MacGregor, merely because the man was riding across the woman’s land? The hag took her knife to him and nearly mutilated him. I heard she tried to cut his manhood off. Probably jealous.”
Stephen whirled Bronwyn to face him so the man couldn’t see her face. “Let me help you with the brooch,” he said pleasantly in his heavy burr.
“I barely scratched him,” she said in disgust.
“What?” the man asked.
Stephen smiled. “My wife is warning me that I scratched her last time I fastened her brooch.”
The man chuckled. “I’m Donald Farquhar of Clan MacGregor.”
Stephen smiled happily. “I’m Stephen Graham, and this is my wife, Bronwyn.” He smiled at the face she pulled at him.
“Bronwyn!” Donald said. “ ’Tis an ill-favored name that one. Did ye know it was that witch the MacArran’s name?”