She refused to look at him even though he held her aloft. Her arms were pinned to her sides or she would have struck him. “Are you always so flippant?” she retorted. “Do you never have a thought besides that of pawing women?”
He rubbed his face on her soft cheek. “You smell good.” He looked back at her. “I’ll admit you’re the first woman who’s affected me like this. But then you’re the first wife I’ve had, a woman who was completely and totally mine.”
She stiffened even more in his arms, if that were physically possible. “Is that all a woman is to you? Something to own?”
He smiled, shook his head, and set her down, his hands on her shoulders. “Of course. What else are women good for? Now pull some grass and get that sweat off your horse.”
She turned away from him gratefully. They didn’t speak while they unsaddled their horses and began rubbing them down. Stephen made no attempt to help her with the heavy saddle, pleasing Bronwyn because she would have refused him. She might be a woman, but she was far from helpless as he seemed to think.
When the animals were tethered, she looked back at him.
“At least you know something about horses,” he said. He laughed at her expression, then went to stand beside her. He ran his hand down her arm, and his face became serious.
“Please don’t start that again,” she snapped and jerked away from him. “Do you never think of anything else?”
His eyes sparkled. “Not when you’re around. I think you’ve bewitched me. I’d make you another proposition, but the last one made you too angry.”
Mentioning the scene in the garden made Bronwyn look about her. Rab lay quietly by the stream. It was odd that he’d not threatened Stephen when he’d touched her. The dog still growled whenever Roger got too near. “Where are your men?”
“With Sir Thomas, I assume.”
“You don’t need them for protection? What about my Scots? Didn’t you know they wait in the forest, ready to rescue me?”
Stephen took her hand and pulled her toward some rocks. She tried to free herself but he wouldn’t allow it. He pulled her down to sit beside him, then stretched out beside her, his head cradled in his hands. Apparently he didn’t seem to think her questions deserved an answer. Instead, he stared up through the trees at the brilliant blue sky. “Why did your father name you chief of his clan?”
Bronwyn stared at him for a moment, then smiled. This was what she wanted, to talk to him about what was most important in the world—her people. “I was to marry one of three men, any one of whom would have made an excellent laird. But none of the young men was within the nine degrees of kinship from which a chief can be chosen. My father named me the next MacArran, understanding that I’d marry one of those men.”
“And the men?”
Bronwyn’s mouth twisted angrily. “They were killed with my father. By the English!”
Stephen didn’t seem to respond except for a slight knitting of his brows. “So now whoever marries you must become the laird?”
“I am the laird of MacArran,” she stated firmly and started to rise.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the ground. “I wish you’d stop being angry with me for longer than a breath. How am I supposed to understand you if you run away?”
“I don’t run away from you!” She snatched her hand away because he’d begun to kiss her fingertips. Bronwyn made herself ignore the sensations running along her arm all the way to her earlobe.
Stephen sighed and lay back down. “I’m afraid I can’t look at you and talk at the same time.” He paused. “Surely your father must have had another relative who could inherit.”
Bronwyn calmed herself. She knew exactly what this stupid Englishman was saying. He meant that surely any man would have been better than a female. She did not mention her older brother, Davey. “The Scots believe women have intelligence and strength of character. They do not expect us to be only bearers of children and nothing else.”
Stephen grunted in reply, and Bronwyn had a delicious vision of smashing his head with a large rock. She smiled at the thought. As if understanding her, Rab lifted his big head and looked at her in question.
Stephen seemed unaware of the exchange near him. “What would be my duties as laird?”
She gritted her teeth and tried to be patient. “I am the MacArran, and my men answer to me. They would have to accept you before they obeyed you.”
“Accept me?” he asked and turned toward her, but her breasts above the pearl-bordered neckline distracted him so badly that he had to look away in order to keep his composure. “I would think it would be more whether I accepted them.”
“Spoken like a true Englishman!” she sneered. “You think that the circumstances of your birth place you above everyone else. You think your ways and ideas make you better than the poor Scots. No doubt you think us cruel and savage compared to you. But we do not capture your women and force them to marry our Scotsmen, though they’d make better husbands than any Englishman.”
Stephen didn’t take offense at her outburst. He merely shrugged. “I’m sure every man thinks his homeland is the best. Truthfully, I know very little about Scotland or the people there. I spent some time in the Lowlands, but I don’t believe that’s like the Highlands.”
“The Lowlanders are more English than Scots!”
He was quiet for a moment. “It seems that being the chief of a clan—pardon me,” he said with an amused little chuckle, “being the husband of a chief entails some responsibility. What must I do to be accepted?”
Bronwyn relaxed her shoulders. Since he looked away from her, she had leisure to look at him. He was so tall, taller than most of the men she’d met. His long body stretched out before her, and she was well aware of his nearness. In spite of his words she wanted to sit beside him, enjoyed gazing at him, at his strong legs, at the thickness of his chest, at the dark blond curls along his collar. She liked that his dress was subdued, not gaudy like so many of the Englishmen’s. She wondered how he’d look in a Scots tartan, his legs bare from mid-thigh to just below his knees.
“You must dress as a Scot,” she said quietly. “The men will always be aware that you’re one of the enemy if you do not wear a plaid.”
Stephen frowned. “You mean run around bare-legged? I heard the Highlands get quite cold.”
“Of course, if you aren’t man enough—” His arrogant look stopped her.
“What else?”
“You must become a MacArran, be a MacArran. The MacGregors will be your enemies, your name will become MacArran. You will—”
“What!” Stephen said as he jumped to his feet and towered over her. “Change my name! You mean to say I, a man, am to take my wife’s name?” He turned away from her. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Do you know who I am? I am a Montgomery! The Montgomerys have lasted through hundreds of wars, through many kings. Other families have risen and fallen, but the Montgomerys have survived. My family has owned the same land for over four hundred years.”
He turned back to her and ran his hand through his hair. “And now you expect me to give up the Montgomery name for that of my wife?” He paused, then chuckled. “My brothers would laugh me to hell and back if I were to consider such a thing.”
Bronwyn rose slowly, letting his words sink in. “You have brothers to carry on your family name. Do you know what would happen if I were to take an Englishman home who does not even attempt to understand our ways? First my men would kill him, then I would need to choose a new husband. Do you know what conflict that would cause? There are several young men who’d like to become my husband. They would fight.”
“So! I’m to give up my name so you can control your men? And what if they still didn’t accept me? Perhaps I should dye my hair or cut off an arm to please them. No! They’ll obey me or they’ll feel this!” He quickly drew his long sword from the sheath at his side.
Bronwyn stared at him. He was speaking of murdering her people, her friend
s, her relatives, the people whose lives she held in her hands. She could not return to Scotland with this madman.
“I cannot marry you,” she said quietly, her eyes hard and deadly serious.
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Stephen said as he resheathed his weapon. He hadn’t meant to get so angry, but the woman needed to know from the start who was in control…as did the Scots she called “her” men. “I am an Englishman,” he said quietly, “and I will remain English wherever I go. You should understand that, as I don’t believe you’re willing to change your Scots ways.”
Her body was feeling quite cold in spite of the warm autumn day. “It is not the same. You’d be living with my people, day in and day out, year after year. Can’t you see that they could not accept you if you strut about in your fine English clothes with your old English name? Every time they saw you, they’d remember their children the English had killed, they’d see my father, slain while he was a young man.”
Her plea reached Stephen. “I will wear the Scots’ garb. I’ll agree to that.”
Sudden, red-hot anger replaced the coldness in Bronwyn’s body. “So you’ll agree to wear the plaid and saffron shirt! No doubt you like the image of showing your fine, strong legs to my women.”
Stephen’s mouth dropped open slightly, then he grinned so broadly he threatened to split his face in half. “I hadn’t thought of that, no, but it’s nice to know you have.” He stuck his leg out, flexed the big muscle running from the top of his knee. “Do you think your women will agree with you?” His eyes sparkled. “Will you be jealous?”
Bronwyn could only stare in astonishment. This man could not be serious for a moment. He teased her and laughed at her when she talked of life and death. She grabbed her skirts and started toward the stream.
“Bronwyn!” Stephen called. “Wait! I didn’t mean to make light of what you said.” He’d instantly understood his mistake. He grabbed her wrist, whirled her to face him. “Please,” he begged, his heart in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that you’re so beautiful that I can’t think. I look at your hair and I want to touch it. I want to kiss your eyes. That damned dress is so low you’re about to fall out of it, and it’s driving me insane. How do you expect me to talk seriously about the disputes between the Scots and the Englishmen?”
“Disputes!” she spat. “ ’Tis more like war!”
“War, whatever,” he said, his focus on her breasts, his hands running up her arms. “God! I can’t stand so near you and not have you. I’ve been in this condition so long I’m in pain.”
Involuntarily she looked down, then her face turned red.
Stephen smiled at her with hooded eyes, a knowing smile.
She curled her lip back and snarled at him. He was a low-minded man, and he obviously thought she shared his lack of character. She twisted away from his searching hands, and when he refused to release her, she gave him a sharp shove. Stephen didn’t budge, but the impact against his hard chest made Bronwyn lose her balance. She had no idea she was so near the edge of the stream.
She fell backward as she frantically tried to grab hold of something. Stephen put out his hand to catch her, but even as it touched her wrist, she slapped at it. He gave a slight shrug and stepped back, since he had no desire to wet his own clothes from the splash she was going to make.
The water from the stream must have come from the mountains of the Highlands. There was no other way it could have been so cold. Bronwyn sat down hard in the water, and the heavy wool dress soaked up the liquid ice as if it’d been waiting for such a chance.
She sat still for a moment, slightly dazed, and looked up at Stephen. He was grinning at her as a cold drop of water clung to the tip of her nose. Rab stood beside Stephen and began to bark at her, his tail wagging in delight at her game.
“Could I offer you assistance?” Stephen asked cheerfully.
Bronwyn brushed a wet black curl off her cheek. Any moment her teeth would begin chattering, but she would yank them from her mouth before she’d let him see. “No, thank you,” she said as loftily as she could manage.
She looked around her for something to use as balance, but there was nothing unless she crawled to a rock some feet away. She would never crawl before him! “Come, Rab!” she commanded, and the large dog quickly splashed into the water after his mistress.
Bronwyn wiped more water from her face, studiously avoiding Stephen’s grinning face. Placing her hands on the dog’s back, she started to lift herself up. The wool dress was extremely heavy to begin with, but thoroughly soaked with water, it was impossible. This in addition to the slippery stones under her feet were too much.
She was in a half-crouch, a position that had taken her minutes to achieve, when her feet flew out from under her. Rab jumped away as Bronwyn fell again, this time flat on her back, her face going under the water. She came up gasping.
The first sound she heard was Stephen’s laughter, then with a sense of betrayal she heard Rab’s bark—a bark that sounded suspiciously like a canine laugh.
“Damn both of you!” she hissed and grabbed the cold, clinging, offending skirt.
Stephen shook his head at her, then entered the water. Before she could speak he’d bent and picked her up in his arms. She would have given a lot then to be able to pull him into the water with her, but his footing was too sure. When he bent to lift her, he kept his legs straight, using only his back and avoiding most of the contact with the water.
“I would like you to release me,” she said as primly as possible.
Stephen gave a one-shoulder shrug, then dropped his arms. In a reflex motion, to keep from falling back into the icy water, she gasped and threw her arms about his neck.
“Much better!” he laughed and hugged her to him so tightly she couldn’t remove her arms.
He waded ashore with her and then stopped, still holding her. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen blue eyes with black hair before,” he whispered, his eyes devouring her face. “I’m more than sorry I missed our wedding.”
She knew exactly why he was sorry, and his reasons didn’t help her mood any. “I am cold. Please release me,” she said flatly.
“I could warm you,” he said as he drew her earlobe between his teeth.
Bronwyn felt a chill run along her arm, a chill that had nothing to do with the wet dress she wore. The sensation frightened her; she didn’t want it. “Please let me go,” she said softly.
Stephen’s head came up quickly, and he looked at her with concern. “You are cold. Take that dress off and you can wear my jacket. Should I build a fire?”
“I’d prefer that you released me and we rode back to the house.”
Reluctantly, Stephen stood her in front of him. “You’re shivering,” he said as he moved his hands along her arms. “You’ll be ill if you don’t get out of that dress.”
She backed away from him. The sodden gown slapped about her legs, the sleeves dragged her arms down.
Stephen gave her a look of disgust. “That damned thing is so heavy you can scarcely walk. Why in the world you women wear such fashions is beyond me. It’s so heavy now I doubt if your horse could carry you.”
Bronwyn straightened her shoulders even though the dress threatened to drag them down again. “Women! It’s you Englishmen who impose these fashions on your women. It is an attempt to keep them immobile since you aren’t men enough to deal with free women. I had this dress made so I wouldn’t shame my clan. The English too often judge a person by her clothes.”
She held the fabric out. “Do you know how much this cost me? I could have purchased a hundred head of cattle for what this one garment cost me. Yet you have ruined it.”
“I? It was your stubbornness that ruined it. Just as now. You stand there shivering because you’d rather freeze than do what I say.”
She gave him a mocking smile. “At least you are not completely stupid. You do understand some things.”
Stephen chuckled. “I understand much m
ore than you imagine.” He removed his jacket and held it out to her. “If you’re so afraid of me, go into the woods and change.”
“Afraid!” Bronwyn snorted and ignored the offered clothing. She walked slowly, kicking the skirt as she moved, to the saddle on the ground. She withdrew a Highland tartan from the attached bag. She didn’t bother looking back at Stephen as she went into the woods, Rab following her.
She had a great deal of difficulty with the catches that ran down the back of the dress. By the time she got to the last one, her skin was nearly blue. She grabbed the dress and pulled it from her shoulders, the last hooks snapping apart. She let the dress fall in a heap at her feet.
The thin linen of her undertunic and the once-stiff petticoat were dyed pink from the burgundy wool. She longed to remove her underwear but didn’t dare with someone like Stephen Montgomery near. At the thought, she looked around her to make sure he wasn’t spying on her, then lifted the petticoat and removed her silk stockings. When she’d removed as much clothing as she dared, she wrapped herself in her plaid and walked back to the stream.
Stephen was nowhere in sight.
“Looking for me?” he asked from behind her.
When she turned, he was grinning at her, her wet dress thrown over his arm. It was obvious he’d hidden and watched her undress.
Her eyes were cold as she stared at him. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? You’re so confident that soon I will be at your feet that you treat me like a toy of yours. I’m not a toy, and most especially, I am not yours. For all your English vanity, I am a Scotswoman and I have some power.”
She turned to where the black mare was tied; then stopped and looked back at him. “What power I have, I will use.” Ignoring his presence, she pulled the tartan up to her knees, grabbed the horse’s mane, and swung onto its back. She kicked it forward, already in a gallop by the time she reached Stephen.
He didn’t try to stop her but mounted his stallion bareback and followed her. He would send someone later for the saddles.