For a moment he was shocked, too stunned to move; then he took two long strides toward her. He grabbed her arm, pulled her into the alleyway behind the wagon. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said between clenched teeth.
“Selling the tonic,” she said quite calmly. “You and Donald didn’t seem to be doing such a good job, so I thought I’d help.”
He released her arm, then angrily began to button her blouse. “You were certainly enjoying yourself, weren’t you? Parading yourself like a joywoman!”
She looked up at him and smiled happily. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“Of course not!” he snapped, then stopped. “You’re damn right I’m jealous. Those dirty old men have no right to see what’s mine.”
“Oh, Stephen, that’s…that’s, I don’t know, but I find I’m quite pleased by your jealousy.”
“Pleased?” he asked in bewilderment. “Next time I hope you depend on your memory and don’t try to provoke the feeling afresh.” He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her fiercely, hungrily, possessively.
Bronwyn responded, pushing her body against his, letting herself go to his possession of her.
Suddenly a bellowing voice that fairly shook the houses around them interrupted their kiss. “Where’s the wench selling the tonic?”
Bronwyn reluctantly broke away, looking in puzzlement at Stephen.
“Where is she?” the voice boomed again.
“That’s the MacGregor,” she whispered. “I heard him once before.”
She turned toward the voice, but Stephen caught her arm. “You can’t go out there to meet the MacGregor.”
“Why not? He’s never seen me. He won’t know who I am, and besides, how can I refuse? This is the MacGregor’s land.”
Stephen frowned but he released her. A refusal would make them seem suspicious.
“Here I am,” she called as she left the alleyway, Stephen close behind her. The MacGregor sat on his horse, looking down at her in an amused way. He was a big, thick man, his hair gray at the temples, his jaw especially strong. His eyes were green and alive above a prominent nose. “And who wants me?” she asked arrogantly.
The MacGregor threw back his head and bellowed laughter. “As if you didn’t know your own laird,” he said, his eyes deepening to a shade of emerald.
She smiled up at him sweetly. “Is that the same laird who doesn’t know his own clan members?”
He didn’t lose his smile. “You’re a saucy wench. What’s your name?”
“Bronwyn,” she said proudly as if the name were a challenge. “The same as the laird of Clan MacArran.”
Stephen’s hand clamped on her shoulder in warning.
The MacGregor’s eyes turned hard. “Don’t mention that woman to me.”
Bronwyn put her hands on her hips. “Is that because you still bear her mark on your person?”
Suddenly there was dead silence around them. The crowd stilled, its breath held.
“Bronwyn,” Stephen began, aghast at what she’d said.
The MacGregor put his hand up. “You’re not only saucy but you have courage. No one else has dared mention that night to me.”
“Tell me, what made you so angry about such a small mark?”
The MacGregor was quiet as he seemed to consider both her and her question. “You seem to know a lot about it.” The tension seemed to suddenly leave him, and he smiled. “I think it was a matter of the woman herself. Had she looked a bit like you, I think I’d have born the mark proudly, but no witch-ugly woman is about to mark the MacGregor.”
Bronwyn started to speak, but Stephen put both hands on her waist until she couldn’t breathe. “Forgive my wife,” he said. “She tends to be a bit outspoken.”
“That she is,” the MacGregor agreed enthusiastically. “I hope you keep her firmly in hand.”