“One of the children was sick. I stayed to tend the child.”
“You’re too kind-hearted, Lady Mary. You shouldn’t take in them beggars’ children. Some of them have murderers for fathers. And mothers too if the truth be known.”
Mary started to speak, then stopped and whirled to face Bronwyn. She smiled. “I had the oddest feeling I was being watched.” She stepped forward. “You must be Stephen’s Bronwyn.”
The courtyard was very dim with only the moonlight and one lantern for light. Mary was short and plump with a perfectly oval face. It was a face anyone would trust.
“How did you know?” Bronwyn smiled. “I haven’t been able to fool any of the Montgomerys.”
“I’ve heard of the heartiness of the Scots. And to withstand this wind when there is no need, it would take a great deal of stamina.”
Bronwyn laughed. “Come inside to the winter parlor, and I’ll have a roaring-hot fire for you in minutes.?
??
“It sounds heavenly,” Mary said, keeping her hands under her plain dark wool mantle.
Mary followed her sister-in-law into the large, paneled room, then stood quietly by as Bronwyn did indeed stoke and load the fire herself. She smiled, pleased that a lady of Bronwyn’s rank felt secure enough to do humble work.
Bronwyn turned. “You must be tired. Perhaps you’d rather have the fire lit in your room.”
Mary sat down in a cushioned chair and put her hands toward the fire. “I am tired, too tired to go to sleep. I’d just like to sit here a moment and get warm.”
Bronwyn paused a moment before returning the iron fire tool to its holder. Mary did indeed look like the Madonna. Her oval face had a high, clear forehead above soft, expressive brown eyes. Her mouth was small, tender, delicate, and there was a dimple in one cheek. Raine’s dimples, Bronwyn thought.
“It’s good to be home again,” Mary sighed, then looked back at Bronwyn. “Why are you awake?” she asked sharply. “Has Stephen…?”
Bronwyn laughed and took a chair beside Mary. “He and Gavin have returned to Scotland to…bring home the body of a friend.”
“Christopher,” Mary said and sighed as she leaned back in the chair.
“You know about him?” Bronwyn asked almost fearfully.
“Yes. Stephen wrote me about his death.”
Bronwyn was very quiet. “Did he say how I was the one who caused Chris’s death?”
“No! And you shouldn’t even think that. He said that Chris’s own arrogance caused his death. He said that all Englishmen were committing suicide when they entered the Highlands.”
“The English have killed many Highlanders!” Bronwyn said fiercely, then turned and looked quickly at Mary. “I apologize. I forget—”
“That we are English? That’s a compliment, I’m sure.” She studied Bronwyn in the soft glow of the firelight. “Stephen wrote me of your beauty, but he didn’t tell me half of it.”
Bronwyn grimaced. “He sets too much store by a woman’s looks.”
Mary laughed. “You’ve discovered what Judith has also. My brothers think all women are like me, without spirit or passion.”
Bronwyn looked at her. “But surely—”
Mary put her hand up. “But surely a woman with brothers as passionate as mine must have some of her own? Is that what you meant to say?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No, I’m afraid I tend to run away from life. Women like Judith—and you if I guess correctly from Stephen’s letters—grab life with both hands.”
Bronwyn didn’t know what to say. She thought about what an odd conversation they were having. They were talking as if they’d known each other for years instead of a few minutes. But somehow the quietness of the room, and the way the light of the fire seemed to isolate them from the dark corners, made everything seem quite ordinary.
“Tell me, are you lonely?” Mary asked. “Do you miss your Scots ways? What of your family and friends?”
It was a while before Bronwyn spoke. “Aye, I miss my friends.” She thought of Tam and Douglas and all her people. “Yes, I miss them very much.”
“And now it seems that Stephen is gone also. Perhaps tomorrow we could ride together. I’d like to hear some about Scotland.”