Kirsty’s head came up sharply.
“Be very still. Do you understand me?” She was no longer a laughing woman but the MacArran.
“Rory,” Kirsty whispered, her eyes wide.
“Listen to me and obey me.” Bronwyn spoke clearly and deliberately. “I want you to go through those high weeds and hide.”
“Rory,” Kirsty repeated.
“You must trust me!” Bronwyn said firmly.
Their eyes locked. “Yes,” Kirsty said. She knew she could trust this woman who’d become her friend. Bronwyn was stronger, faster than she, and Rory meant more to her than to risk him to a mother’s vanity. She turned and walked away through the weeds, then crouched where she could see Rory’s basket. She knew Bronwyn would have a better chance of escaping with the baby—the men could catch the weaker Kirsty in seconds.
Bronwyn stood quietly, waiting for she knew not what.
The rushing water was loud, and it covered the sound of the horses’ hoofs. Four riders came into sight around the rock ridge almost before Kirsty could hide. They were English, dressed in the heavy padded clothes. Their doublets were frayed, their hose patched, and their eyes had a hungry look.
They saw Bronwyn immediately, and she recognized the light that came into their eyes. Rory began to cry, and Bronwyn ran to the baby, clasped it against her breast.
“What do we have here?” said a blond-haired man as he led his horse directly in front of her.
“A beauty on the Scots moor,” laughed a second man as he led his horse behind her.
“Look at that hair!” said the first man.
“The women of Scotland are all whores,” said a third man. He and the fourth one closed the circle around Bronwyn.
The man in front urged his horse forward until she had to step backward. “She doesn’t look too frightened to me,” he said. “In fact, she looks like she’s just begging us to wipe that look off her face. Women should not have cleft chins,” he laughed. “It isn’t fitting.”
“Black hair and blue eyes,” said the second man. “Where have I seen that before?”
“I think I’d remember her if I’d seen her before,” said the third man. He drew his sword and held it out toward Bronwyn, put the tip of it under her chin.
She looked up at him, her eyes glassy and hard, steady as she assessed the situation.
“God in Heaven!” said the second man. “I just remembered who she is.”
“Who cares who she is,” said the first man, dismounting. “She’s something I plan to taste, and that’s all I care about.”
“Wait!” the second man Cried. “She’s the MacArran. I saw her at Sir Thomas Crichton’s. Remember that she was wed to one of the Montgomerys?”
The man standing by Bronwyn stepped away. “Is that true?” he asked quietly in a voice of awe.
She only stared at him, her hands trying to soothe the child she held.
One of the men on horseback laughed. “Just look at her! She’s the MacArran all right. Did you ever see a woman with such a proud look? I heard she made Montgomery fight for her even after King Henry promised her to him.”
“She did,” the second man confirmed. “But you can see why Montgomery was willing to draw his sword for her.”
“Lady Bronwyn,” said the first man, for her name was known in the higher circles of England, “where is Lord Stephen?”
Bronwyn didn’t answer him. Her eyes flickered once in the direction of the rocks that separated her from Harben’s cottage. The baby whimpered, and she put her cheek against its head.
“What a prize!” said the fourth man, who’d been very quiet. He said the words under his breath, wistfully. “What should we do with her?”
“Turn her over to the Montgomerys. I’m sure Stephen must be looking for her,” said the first man.
“And no doubt will pay handsomely for her return,” laughed another.