“You need not worry about Mary. I will take care of her.”
Something about the way he said “Mary” told Bronwyn a lot. “I am ready,” she said quietly and followed as he left the room.
Once they were outside in the cold night air, Brian turned to her. “I will arrange for a guard to accompany you. They will take you wherever you want. Or you may return with me to the Montgomery castle.”
It didn’t take Bronwyn long to make a decision. She’d had a month to think about it while she was confined in the room alone. She had to make peace with the MacGregors before she could see Stephen again. She had to prove that her love was worthy of him. “I must return to Scotland, and I want no English guards. I will travel more easily alone.”
Brian didn’t argue with her. His own misery and hate occupied all of his thoughts. He nodded curtly. “You may have a horse and whatever provisions you need.” He turned to leave but she caught his arm.
“You will care for Mary?”
“With my life,” he said from deep within him, “and I will revenge her death also.” He walked away.
Bronwyn frowned as she thought how Mary would hate any talk of revenge. Suddenly she looked about her and realized her freedom for the first time. She must go as quickly as possible, before more violence erupted in this place. She had much work to do. Perhaps the saving of lives, even Scot’s lives, would please Mary’s ghost. She turned toward the stables.
Chapter Nineteen
BRONWYN LEANED HER HEAD AGAINST THE WARM SIDE OF the cow as she milked it. She was glad she’d come to Kirsty’s parents’ cottage instead of returning to Larenston. Kirsty and Donald had taken little Rory Stephen and returned north to their home. Bronwyn turned back to her horse and started to mount when Harben caught her arm.
“Ye’ll stay with us, lass, until ye’ve met with the MacGregor. That is, if ye still want to.”
She looked from Harben to Nesta and back again. “How long have you known?”
“Donald told me after ye left. I always suspected something, though. Ye don’t talk like an ordinary woman. Ye have more…”
“Self-confidence?” Bronwyn asked hopefully.
Harben snorted. “More like as it’s more insolence.” He stared at her. “The MacGregor will like ye.” His eyes went to her expanding stomach. “I see that man of yers enjoyed my home brew.”
She laughed at him.
Harben led the way into his little cottage. “One thing I don’t understand. I can see that you’re the MacArran, but I can’t see that that man of yours is an Englishman. I’d rather believe in a MacArran than an Englishman.”
They went into the cottage, laughing, Nesta smiling at both of them. It was Nesta who kept the farm going and saw that Bronwyn and Harben worked while they argued.
It had taken a few days to arrange a meeting with the MacGregor. He agreed to tell no one and to bring no men with him, just as Bronwyn did. The next morning, at dawn, in the mist of the moors, they would meet.
She pulled harder on the cow and brushed at a stray strand of hair that bothered her. She finished the
milking, swatted absently at her hair, and carried the pail to the far end of the barn, noticing that it was already growing dark outside. Just as the last drops of milk splashed into the pail, she heard a noise that made her stop instantly.
There was a little bark, just a small sound, but something about it reminded her of Rab, and tears instantly came to her eyes. She remembered all too clearly seeing Rab on the ground, the gaping wound in his side.
The sound came again, and she turned, the bucket still in her hand. There, standing quietly, his eyes alight, his tail wagging, was Rab.
She just had time to drop the bucket because the next moment all one hundred and fifty pounds of the dog were upon her. The dog knocked her back against a manger and nearly broke her in half.
“Rab!” she whispered, hugging the dog in return. “Rab!” She laughed as he threatened to drown her in his exuberance. “Oh, sweet dog,” she cried. “Where did you come from? I thought you were dead!” She buried her face in his fur.
Suddenly a low piercing whistle came, and Rab went rigid. The next instant he stood on the ground in front of her. “What is it, boy?”
She looked up, and there stood Stephen. His hair was shorter but he wore the Scots dress. She looked him up and down slowly. It seemed she had forgotten how large he was, how strong and muscular he was. His blue eyes looked at her in an intense way.
“Do I get the same welcome as Rab?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t think but leaped at him, her arms going about his neck, her feet off the floor.
Stephen didn’t say a word but began kissing her with all the hunger he felt. It had been so very long since he’d touched her. He stepped backward, carrying her, and fell into a thick pile of hay. Even as they fell, his hands were on the buttons of her shirt.