“Bronwyn,” he began.
“If you’re through here, I think we should ride. You are, of course, the master, and we will stay if that is your command.”
He stared for a moment at the icy blueness of her eyes. “No, I don’t want to stay,” he said after a while. He turned away from her and walked toward the front door of the house.
Bronwyn followed him slowly. The whole episode had started as a game, a childish game of one-upmanship, but through it she’d learned something startling about her husband. For some reason she thought she was the one who had to learn to trust him. She’d watched him over the last few months, dispassionately observed the changes in him. She’d seen him go from being an arrogant Englishman to becoming almost a Scot. She’d seen a lot of the coldness toward his men leave him, and the men, who were Englishmen, changed almost as much as their master. One by one they began wearing a plaid and stopped spending hours a day polishing their armor. Then, just a few days ago, Stephen had killed three Englishmen in an effort to save Bronwyn and Kirsty’s baby. To Bronwyn that act had been the final gesture she needed to make her believe in him.
But what had Stephen learned about her? He disapproved of everything she did. He cursed her if she led her men. He was angry if she risked her life to save someone else. What could she do to please him? Should she try to become someone else? Would he like her better if she were like…like his beautiful sister-in-law? She had a clear idea of what Judith was like: gentle, never raising her voice, always smiling sweetly at her husband, never arguing with him, always agreeable.
“That’s what men really want!” she said under her breath. Stephen expected her to sit still and be quiet, to never contradict his words. Just like the Englishwomen! Damn him! she cursed. She was no milk-and-water Englishwoman! She was the MacArran, and the sooner Stephen Montgomery learned tha
t the better for all of them.
She held her chin high as she walked toward the stables.
By a silent, mutual agreement they did not stop for the night. They rode at a steady pace, neither speaking, each with his own thoughts of the last two days. Stephen could think of little but the sight of Hugh’s hands on Bronwyn. He knew she’d repaid Hugh, but he couldn’t help wishing she’d not been so subtle and had taken a knife to the man.
As for Bronwyn, she had almost forgotten Hugh. What mattered to her was that Stephen hadn’t trusted her, had accused her of being a liar.
In the early dawn the walls of the old Montgomery castle rose before them. She had not expected this dark, massive fortress but a house more on the order of Hugh Lasco’s. She glanced at Stephen and saw his face was alight, much as she must look each time she saw Larenston.
“We’ll enter by the river gate,” he said as he spurred his horse forward.
The front of the tall walls were set with two massive gate towers protecting the closed gates. She followed Stephen to low walls that made a roofless tunnel leading to the smaller gate at the far side of the castle walls.
Stephen slowed and cautiously entered the mouth of the narrow, walled alley. Immediately an arrow flew though the air to land at the feet of Stephen’s horse.
“Who goes there?” demanded a faceless voice from the top of the wall above them.
“Stephen Montgomery!” he declared loudly.
Bronwyn smiled because Stephen’s voice held the burr of the Highlands.
“You’re not Lord Stephen, for I know him well! Now turn those nags about and leave. No one enters these walls but friends. Return in an hour to the front gate and beg entrance from the gatekeeper.”
“Matthew Greene!” Stephen shouted up. “Have you forgotten your own master?”
The man leaned over the wall and stared downward. “It is you!” he said after a moment. “Open the gate!” he shouted, his voice full of joy. “Lord Stephen is safe! Welcome home, my lord.”
Stephen waved his hand at the man and proceeded. All along the way men called in greeting from the top of the wall. At the end of the passageway a gate opened, and they rode inside to a private courtyard, the house looming over them.
“My lord, it’s good to see you,” said an old man as he took Stephen’s reins. “I wouldn’t have known you if the men hadn’t told me it was you.”
“It’s good to be home, James. Are my brothers here?”
“Lord Gavin returned no more than an hour ago.”
“Returned?”
“Aye, my lord, all your brothers have been searching for you. We heard you’d been killed by that heathen wife of yours.”
“Watch yourself, James!” Stephen commanded. He absently stepped backward and took Bronwyn’s hand. “This is my wife, the lady Bronwyn.”
“Oh, my lady,” the old man gasped. “Forgive me. I thought you were one of Lord Stephen’s…I mean, he’s often brought home…”
“You’ve said quite enough. Come, Bronwyn,” Stephen said.
He gave her no chance to prepare herself. She was to be presented to his family looking like a serving wench. Even his servant thought so. She knew how the English set such store by a person’s clothes, and she thought wistfully of the beautiful gowns she’d worn at Sir Thomas Crichton’s. The best she could do was hold her head high and endure the English snubs. Except for the perfect Judith. No doubt she’d be kind and considerate, a soft-spoken pillow.