“All that I can reach,” Stephen laughed.
“I like a woman with spirit,” the MacGregor said. “This one’s beautiful and has a head on her too.”
“It’s just that I’d like her to keep her thoughts to herself once in a while.”
“Not many women can do that. Good day to you both,” he said as he reined his horse away.
“Damn you!” Bronwyn said fiercely as she whirled to face Stephen.
Before she could speak, he gave her a teeth-jarring shake. “You could have gotten us in trouble!” he began, then looked up at the crowd that still stared at them. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side of the wagon. “Bronwyn,” he said patiently, “don’t you know what you could have done? I could see you announcing yourself as laird of Clan MacArran.”
“And if I did?” she asked stubbornly. “You heard him say—”
He cut her off. “What a man boasts of to a pretty girl and what he must do when faced with a crowd are two different things. Did you consider Kirsty and Donald? They’ve been giving us shelter.”
To his astonishment Bronwyn relaxed, or rather deflated. The spirit seemed to leave her. She leaned forward into his arms. “You’re so right, Stephen. Will I ever learn?”
He held her tightly to him, stroking her hair. He liked having her lean on him, mentally as well as physically.
“Will I ever be smart enough to deserve being the MacArran?”
“You will, love,” he whispered. “The desire’s within you, and you’ll make it soon.”
“Bronwyn?”
They both looked up to see Donald standing close to them. “Kirsty wanted me to ask if you were ready to see the priest. We thought we’d have the baby christened before nightfall. Neither of us likes being inside walls all night.”
Stephen smiled. “Of course we’re ready.” He watched Donald, noticing that something was bothering the quiet young man. And why had he addressed Bronwyn first? It occurred to Stephen that if Donald had been inside the wagon, he could have heard them talk of Bronwyn being the MacArran. If he did know, Stephen could see that Donald didn’t mean to turn them over to the MacGregor.
The church was the largest building in the town, tall, awe-inspiring. Inside they were quiet, the baby asleep in Kirsty’s arms.
“Could I speak to you?” she asked quietly before they reached the altar. “Will you be godparents to our son?”
Bronwyn stared for a moment. “You know so little of us,” she whispered.
“I know more than enough. I know you’ll take the responsibility of being godparents seriously.”
Stephen took Bronwyn’s hand. “Yes, we’ll be godparents, and we’ll abide by all that it means. The boy will never want for anything as long as we’re alive,” he said.
Kirsty smiled at both of them and went forward to the waiting priest. The baby was christened Rory Stephen. Stephen, after a startled look, grinned broadly. There was no protest from Bronwyn when he gave the surname of Montgomery to the priest.
As they left the church, he carried the child back to the wagon. He looked at Bronwyn. “Why don’t we make one of these? I’d like a little boy with black hair and blue eyes and a hole in his chin.”
“Are you saying my looks are more suited to a male?” she teased.
He laughed. “You know, I’m beginning to like you now that you’re not always screaming that I’m an Englishman.”
She looked at his long hair, the way he wore a plaid so easily. “You don’t look much like an Englishman. What are your brothers going to say when they see their brother’s become half Scots?”
He snorted. “They’ll accept me as I am, and if they have any brains they’ll learn a few things from us Scots.”
“Us?” she asked sharply as she stopped walking.
“Come on and quit looking at me as if I’d grown two heads,” he said.
She followed, watching him, and suddenly realized that he now used the Scots burr all the time, even when they were alone. His plaid hit his knees at just the right angle, and he walked as if he’d always been a Scotsman. She smiled and hastened her step. He looked good, carrying the baby easily in one arm, and she liked the way he slipped his other arm around her shoulders.
They walked back to the wagon together, laughing, happy.