Highland Velvet

Stephen sighed. “Magnificent!”

  Chris laughed at Stephen’s tone. “Two brothers couldn’t be as fortunate as you and Gavin. But why did you have to fight for her? I thought King Henry gave her to you.”

  Stephen stood up and caught the towel Chris tossed him. “I was four days late to the wedding, and I’m afraid Bronwyn has taken a…disliking to me. She has some absurd idea that if I marry her I must become a Scot, even change my name. I don’t know for sure, but I think Chatworth may have hinted that he’d do anything she wanted if she married him.”

  Chris snorted. “And no doubt she believed him. Roger always could charm the women, but I’ve never trusted him.”

  “We jousted for her, but when I tossed him in the dirt, he came at my back with a war club.”

  “The bastard! I always wondered how much of his brother was in him. Edmund was a vile man. I guess you won the fight.”

  “I was so damn mad that he’d attack me that I was close to killing him. Actually he begged me to do so, said I’d insult him if I didn’t.”

  Chris was thoughtful for a moment. “You’ve made an enemy of him. That could be bad.”

  Stephen walked to the bed, where his wedding clothes lay. “I don’t blame the man for trying for Bronwyn. She’d make any man fight for her.”

  Chris grinned. “I’ve never seen you act this way toward a woman before.”

  “I’ve never seen a woman like Bronwyn before.” He stopped, then yelled “Come in” to a knock on the door.

  A young maidservant stood there, her arms outstretched, a shimmering gown of silver cloth across them. She stared at the bare-chested Stephen.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you give the dress to the Lady Bronwyn?”

  The girl’s lower lip trembled.

  Stephen pulled his shirt on, then took the dress from the girl. “You can tell me,” he said quietly. “I know the Lady Bronwyn has a sharp tongue. I won’t beat you for repeating what she said.”

  The girl looked up. “She was in the hall, my lord, when I found her, and there were several people about. I gave her the dress, and she seemed to like it.”

  “Yes! Go on!”

  The girl finished in a rush. “But when I said it was from you, to be worn for the wedding, she threw it back at me. She said she had a wedding dress, and she’d never wear yours. Oh, my lord, it was awful. She was very loud, and all the people laughed.”

  Stephen took the gown from the girl and gave her a copper penny.

  As soon as the girl was gone, Chris began to laugh. “A sharp tongue did you say? It sounds to me like it’s more like a knife blade.”

  Angrily Stephen thrust his arms through his doublet. “I’ve had about enough of this. It’s time someone taught that young lady some manners.”

  He tossed the dress over his shoulder and left the room, taking long strides toward the Great Hall. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get the exquisite garment. Bronwyn had complained about her ruined dress after she’d fallen in the stream, and so Stephen had made an attempt to repay her—not that he’d done anything to cause her to fall in the water, of course. He’d ridden into town and found the silver fabric, then paid four women to sit up all night sewing it. The material was a soft, fine wool with every other weft-thread a hair-thin piece of silver wire. It was heavy and luxurious. It shimmered and glowed even in the darkness of the hallways. In all likelihood it had cost more than all the gowns Bronwyn owned.

  Yet she refused to wear it.

  He saw her as soon as he entered the Great Hall. She sat on a cushioned chair wearing a dress of ivory satin. A young man sat close to her strumming a psaltery.

  Stephen planted himself between them.

  She gave one startled glance at him, then turned away.

  “I would like you to wear this dress,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t look up at him. “I have a wedding dress.”

  Someone near Stephen gave a low chuckle. “Having women problems again, Stephen?”

  Stephen stood still a moment, then jerked Bronwyn to her feet. He didn’t say a word, but the black look on his face was more than enough to keep her quiet. He locked his fingers about her wrist and pulled her after him. Her feet tangled in her skirts, and once she nearly fell before she could lift the fabric with her free hand. She knew Stephen would drag her if she fell behind.

  He fairly tossed her inside her empty chamber, then slammed the door shut. He threw the dress on the bed. “Put it on!” he ordered.

  Bronwyn held her ground. “I am not now, nor will I ever be, yours to command.”

  His eyes were hard and dark. “I’ve done everything humanly possible to make up for being late.”

  “Late!” she snarled. “Do you think that’s why I hate you? Do you really know so little about me that you think I’m so vain as to hate you just because you have the manners of a boor? I wanted you to lose today because Roger Chatworth would have been better for my clan. They’ll hate you as I do because of your arrogance, because of the way you think you own everything. You even believe you can dictate the dress I wear to be married in.”

  Stephen took one step forward, then grabbed her jaw in his hand, his thumb and fingers digging into her cheeks. “I’m sick of hearing of your clan, and I’m even more sick of hearing Chatworth’s name from your lips. I had the dress made for you as a gift, but you’re too stubborn, too hot-headed to take it as such.”

  She tried to free her head but couldn’t. He tightened his grasp, causing tears to come to her eyes.

  “You are my wife,” he said, “and as such you will obey me. I know nothing about your people, and I can only deal with them when I meet them. But I do know how wives should act. I went to a great deal of trouble to have this dress made for you, and you are going to wear it.”

  “No! I will not obey you! I am the MacArran!”

  “Damn you!” he said, grabbing her shoulders and beginning to shake her. “This is not between England and Scotland nor between a laird and a clansman. This is between us—a man and a woman! You are going to wear that dress because I am your husband and I say you will!”

  He stopped shaking her and saw that his words had made no impression on her. He bent and flung her over his shoulder.

  “Release me!”

  He didn’t bother to answer her as he tossed her on the bed, face down.

  “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

  “You’ve done more than hurt me,” he retorted as his big fingers fumbled at the tiny buttons down the back of her dress. His legs straddled her. “Tonight I’ll show you the wounds Roger made on me. Hold still or I’ll tear this damn dress to pieces.”

  Instantly Bronwyn lay still.

  Stephen gave the back of her a look of disgust. “It seems that I get the most response out of you when I threaten to cost you some money.”

  “We’re a poor country and can’t afford the waste that I see here in England.” She was quiet while Stephen worked on the buttons. “You…fought well this morning.”

  He paused for a moment before he started again on the buttons. “That must have been hard for you to say, considering that you were hoping I was killed.”

  “I wanted no one killed! All I wanted was—”

  “Don’t tell me! I already know what you wanted! Roger Chatworth.”

  It was an odd moment. Bronwyn felt strangely intimate with Stephen, as if they’d known each other for many years. She knew she couldn’t explain to him why she wanted Roger. She’d certainly tried often enough! Now it was almost pleasant to hear the note of jealousy in his voice. Let him think that she burned for Roger. It might do him good.

  “There! Now get up and let’s get that dress off.”

  When she didn’t move, he leaned over her and ran his lips along her neck. “Let’s not wait until tonight.”

  His words as well as his actions made Bronwyn come alive. She quickly rolled out from under him. She grabbed the front of her dress as it fell forward. “I’ll put the dress o
n, but first you must leave.”

  Stephen lay back on his elbow. “I have no intention of leaving.”

  Bronwyn started to argue, but she knew it was no use. Besides, he’d seen her in wet underclothes twice before. At least this time she’d be hidden more completely by their dryness. She stepped out of the gown and carefully laid it across a wooden chest.

  Stephen’s eyes watched her hungrily, and when she went to get the silver dress, he held it away from her so that she had to step very close to him to get it. He had time to plant one quick kiss on her shoulder before she moved away.

  The heavy silver fabric was beautiful, and she ran her hand admiringly over the skirt before she slipped it over her head. It fit perfectly, hugging her small waist, flaring gracefully over her hips. As it settled about her body she looked up at Stephen in astonishment. The neckline was not the deep square that was fashionable but was high, all the way to the base of her throat, where a tiny collar of lace rested.

  Stephen shrugged at her puzzlement. “I’d prefer that not so much of what’s mine be shown to the other men.”

  “Yours!” she gasped. “Do you plan to always choose all in my life? Am I no longer to even select my own clothes?”

  He groaned. “I knew your sweetness wouldn’t last for long. Now come over here so I may fasten it.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  He watched her struggle for a few moments before he pulled her to him. “Do you think you will ever learn that I am not your enemy?”

  “But you are my enemy. All Englishmen are enemies to my clan and me.”

  He pulled her between his legs and began to fasten the tiny buttons. When they were done, he turned her around, holding her fast between his knees. “I hope to someday teach you that I am more than an Englishman.” He ran his hands up her arms. “I am looking forward to tonight.”

  Bronwyn tried to twist away from him. Stephen sighed and released her. He stood beside her, then took her hand in his. “The priest and our guests are waiting below.”

  Bronwyn reluctantly took his hand. His palm was warm and dry, callused from years of training. Stephen’s squire waited outside the door, holding out a heavy velvet jacket to his master. Bronwyn watched as Stephen thanked the boy, who looked up proudly at his master and wished him luck and happiness.

  Stephen smiled and raised Bronwyn’s hand to his lips. “Happiness,” he said. “Do you think that for us happiness is possible?”

  She looked away and didn’t answer as they started down the stairs together, hand in hand. The silver dress weighed on her, and with each step she was reminded of this stranger’s domination of her.

  Many people waited at the foot of the stairs, all men, all friends of Sir Thomas’s, men who’d fought against the Highlanders. They made no effort to conceal their animosity toward the Scots. They laughingly talked of Stephen’s “conquering” of the enemy that night. They laughed at the way Bronwyn had fought them after they killed her father. They said that if Bronwyn were half as wild in bed, Stephen was in for a treat.

  She lifted her head high, telling herself that she was the MacArran and she must make her clan proud of her. The English were a crude, bragging lot of men, and she wouldn’t lower herself to their level by replying to their disgusting comments.

  Stephen’s hand tightened on hers, and she looked up at him in surprise. His face was solemn, his mouth set in a grim line; a muscle worked in his jaw. She would have thought he would enjoy the comments of his countrymen since they were proof that he’d won a prize of war. He turned and looked down at her, and his eyes were almost sad, as if he meant to apologize to her.

  The wedding was over very quickly. Truthfully, it didn’t seem much like a wedding at all. Bronwyn stood before the priest, and in that moment she realized how alone she was. When she’d imagined her marriage, it had been in the Highlands, in the spring, when the earth was just beginning to come alive. She would be surrounded by her family and all the members of her clan. Her husband would have been someone she knew.

  She turned and looked at Stephen. They knelt side by side inside the little chapel in Sir Thomas’s house. Stephen’s head was reverently bowed. How far away he seemed, how remote. And how very little she knew of him. They had grown up in two different worlds, in completely separate ways of life. All her life she’d been taught that she had rights and powers, that her people would turn to her for help. Yet this Englishman had known only a society where women were taught to sew and to be extensions of their husbands.

  Yet Bronwyn was condemned to sharing her life with this man. He’d already made it clear that he believed her to be his property, something he owned and could command at will.

  And tonight…Her thoughts stopped because she could not bear to think of tonight. This man was a stranger to her—a total stranger. She knew nothing about him. She didn’t know what he liked to eat, if he could read or sing, what sort of family he had. Nothing! Yet she was to climb into bed with him and share the most intimate experience of life and everyone seemed to think she should enjoy it!

  Stephen turned and looked at her. He’d been aware of her staring at him, and it pleased him. There was puzzlement and perplexity on her lovely brow. He gave her a slight smile that he meant to be reassuring, but she looked away from him and again closed her eyes over her clasped hands.

  For Bronwyn the day seemed to wear on endlessly. The men who were the wedding guests made no attempt to hide the fact that their only interest was in the wedding night. They sat about the great trestle tables and ate and drank for hours. And the more they drank, the cruder their jests became. With each statement, each drunken jibe, Bronwyn’s hatred for the English increased. They cared nothing for the fact that she was a woman; to them she was only a trophy to be enjoyed.

  When Stephen reached for her hand, she drew back from him, and this action caused a new round of raucous laughter. She didn’t look at Stephen, but she saw that he drank deeply of the strong red wine.

  The rays of sun lengthened across the room, and a couple of the men, drunk, began a quarrel and proceeded to wrestle with each other. No one tried to stop them, as they were too drunk to do much harm.

  Bronwyn ate very little and drank even less. As the night approached she could feel her insides tightening. Morag had been right: what bothered her was the thought of tonight. She tried to reason with herself that she was a woman of courage. Several times she’d led cattle raids on the MacGregors. She’d rolled up in a plaid and slept through a snowstorm. She’d even fought the English beside her father. But nothing had ever frightened her like the idea of tonight. She knew about the physical act of mating, but what accompanied it? Would she change? Would this Stephen Montgomery own her after mating, as he seemed to believe? Morag said the bedding was a pleasant experience, but Bronwyn had seen young men turned to jelly because they believed they were in love. She’d seen happy, exciting women become plump, complaisant housewives after a man slipped a ring on their finger. Something more than just mating happened in a marriage bed, and she was afraid of that unknown thing.

  When Morag came from behind and told Bronwyn it was time to ready herself for bed, Bronwyn’s face turned white and her hands gripped the carved lions’ heads of the chair.

  Stephen held her arm for a moment. “They are jealous. Please ignore them. Soon we’ll be able to close the door and shut them out.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” Bronwyn snarled at him, then followed Morag out of the Great Hall.

  Morag didn’t speak as she unfastened the silver dress. Bronwyn was like an obedient doll as she slipped nude beneath the covers of the bed. Rab lay down on the floor, close to his mistress.

  “Come, Rab,” Morag called. The dog didn’t budge. “Bronwyn! Send Rab out. He won’t like being with you tonight.”

  Bronwyn glared at her. “You fear for the dog but not for me? Has everyone left me? Stay, Rab!”

  “Ye’re feelin’ sorry for yerself, ’tis all. Once it’s over and done with ye won’t feel s
o sad.” She stopped as the door suddenly burst open.

  Stephen rushed in and slammed the door behind him. “Here, Morag,” he said. “Go quickly. They’ll be angry when they see I’ve escaped them. But I can’t stand another moment of them, and I’ll not subject Bronwyn to any more of their crudities. Damn them!”

  Morag grinned and put her hand on his arm. “Ye are a good lad.” She leaned forward. “Beware of the dog.” She gave his arm a final pat. He opened the door for her and then closed it behind her.

  Stephen turned to Bronwyn and smiled at her. She sat up in the bed, her black hair cascading over the sheets. Her face was white, her eyes large and frightened in her face. Her knuckles, which clutched the sheet to her chin, were white from her hard clasp.

  Stephen sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes, then removed his jacket and doublet. As he was unbuttoning his shirt he spoke. “I’m sorry there wasn’t a more festive atmosphere for our wedding. What with Sir Thomas’s house so near the border, many of the men’s wives are afraid to visit.”

  He stopped as he heard the men pounding on the door.

  “No fair, Stephen!” they yelled. “We want to see the bride. You have her all your life.”

  Stephen stood up and turned to face his wife as he unbuckled his sword and small knife. “They’ll go away. They’re too drunk to do much harm.”

  When he was nude, he slipped beneath the sheet beside her. He smiled at her glassy, straightforward stare. He put his hand out to touch her cheek. “Am I so formidable that you can’t look at me?”

  Suddenly Bronwyn came alive. She jumped out of the bed and pulled the sheet with her. She backed against the wall, and a startled Rab came to stand before her. She stared at Stephen as he lay in the bed. His nude body, his muscular legs covered with pale blond hair, looked strangely vulnerable. His chest was even thicker than it seemed when clothed. She pressed her body closer to the wall. “Do not touch me,” she said under her breath.

  Slowly, and with great patience, Stephen threw his legs over the side of the bed. She kept her eyes on his face and could see that he considered her outburst little more than a nuisance. He walked past her to the table where a goblet and glasses sat beside a bowl of fruit. He poured her some wine. “Here, drink this and calm down.”