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  To Mia

  (the gorgeous one in Louisville)

  with love

  Author’s Note

  WHENEVER ANYONE HAS READ THIS BOOK BEFORE PUBLICATION, she has asked me the same questions: Why isn’t a kilt mentioned, and what were the tartan colors of Clan MacArran?

  The early Highlanders wore a simple garment (plaide is Gaelic for blanket) that they spread on the ground, then lay upon and pulled the edges to their sides and belted. This formed a skirt at the bottom, and the upper part of the plaid, or blanket, was pinned at one shoulder.

  There are several stories of how the kilt came into being. One story is about an Englishman who abridged the costume for the convenience of his Highland iron-workers. Of course, the Scots deny that this story is true. Whichever story is true, the modern kilt was not in existence before 1700.

  As for the tartan colors, the clan members wore whatever color appealed to them or could be made from dyes from plants in their area. The clans were identified by colored cockades in their hats.

  Again, there are several stories about the origin of the clan tartans. One is that the export merchants gave clan names to the yards of plaid they manufactured so they could be more easily identified. Another is that the British Army, with its love of uniformity, insisted that each Scots company wear a tartan of the same color and design. Either way, there were no clan tartans before 1700.

  Jude Deveraux, 1981

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  Prologue

  STEPHEN MONTGOMERY STILL SAT VERY STRAIGHT ON HIS horse even after the long night’s ride. He didn’t like to think of the bride who waited for him at the end of his journey—who had been waiting for him for three days. His sister-in-law, Judith, had had a few choice things to say about a man not bothering to show up for his own wedding, nor making the effort to send a message of regret at his lateness.

  But despite Judith’s words and the realization of the insult he’d paid his future wife, he’d been reluctant to depart King Henry’s estate. Stephen had been hesitant to leave his sister-in-law’s side. Judith, his brother Gavin’s beautiful golden-eyed wife, had fallen down a flight of stairs and lost the badly wanted child she carried. For days Judith hovered between life and death. When she woke and learned her baby was gone, one of her first thoughts was typically about someone other than herself. Stephen had not remembered his own wedding date nor given a thought to his bride. Judith, even in her grief and pain, had reminded Stephen of his duties and the Scotswoman he was to marry.

  Now, three days later, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, dark blond hair. He wanted to stay with his brother, Gavin. Judith was more than angry with him. Her fall had not been an accident but had been caused by Gavin’s mistress, Alice Chatworth.

  “My lord.”

  Stephen slowed his pace and turned to his squire.

  “The wagons are far behind us. They cannot keep pace.”

  He nodded without speaking and reined his horse toward the narrow stream that ran by the rough road. He dismounted, knelt on one knee, and splashed his face with cold water.

  There was another reason Stephen didn’t want to travel to meet this bride he’d never seen. King Henry meant to reward the Montgomerys for their faithful service over the years, so he gave the second brother a rich Scots bride. Stephen knew he should be grateful, but not after the things he’d heard of her.

  She was, in her own right, the laird of a powerful Scots clan.

  He looked across the green meadow on the far side of the stream. Damn the Scots anyway for their absurd belief that a mere woman was intelligent and strong enough to lead men. Her father should have chosen a young man for his heir instead of a woman.

  He grimaced as he imagined what kind of woman could inspire her father to name her chief. She had to be at least forty years old, hair the color of steel, a body thicker than his own. On their wedding night no doubt they’d arm wrestle to see who would get on top…and he’d lose.

  “My lord,” the boy said. “You do not look well. Perhaps the long ride has made you ill.”

  “It’s not the ride that’s turned my stomach.” Stephen stood up slowly, easily, his powerful muscles moving under his clothes. He was tall, towering over his squire, and his body was lean and hard from many years of strenuous training. His hair was thick with sweaty curls along his neck, his jaw strong, his lips finely chiseled. Yet now there were sunken shadows under the eyes of brilliant blue. “Let’s return to our horses. The wagons can follow us later. I don’t want to put off my execution any longer.”

  “Execution, my lord?”

  Stephen did not answer. There were still many hours before he’d reach the horror that awaited him in the solid, bulky shape of Bronwyn MacArran.

  Chapter One

  1501

  BRONWYN MACARRAN STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF THE English manor house, looking down at the courtyard below. The mullioned window was open against the warm summer sun. She leaned forward slightly to catch a whiff of fresh air. As she did so, one of the soldiers below grinned up at her suggestively.

  She stepped back quickly, grabbed the window, and slammed it shut. She turned away angrily.

  “The English pigs!” Bronwyn cursed under her breath. Her voice was soft, full of the heather and mist of the Highlands.

  Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, and she caught her breath, then released it when they went past. She was a prisoner, held captive on England’s northernmost border by men she’d always hated, men who now smiled and winked at her as if they were intimate with her most private thoughts.

  She walked to a small table in the center of the oak-paneled room. She clutched the edge of it, letting the wood cut into her palms. She’d do anything to keep those men from seeing how she felt inside. The English were her enemies. She’d seen them kill her father, his three chieftains. She’d seen her brother driven nearly insane with his futile attempts to repay the English in their own kind. And all her life she’d helped feed and clothe the members of her clan after the English had destroyed their crops and burned their houses.

  A month ago the English had taken her prisoner. Bronwyn smiled in memory of the wounds she and her men had inflicted upon the English soldiers. Later four of them had died.

  But in the end she was taken, by the order of the English Henry VII. The man said he wanted peace and therefore would name an Englishman as chief of Clan MacArran. He thought he could do this by marrying one of his knights to Bronwyn.

  She smiled at the ignorance of the English king. She was chief of Clan MacArran, and no man would take her power away. The stupid king thought her men would follow a foreigner, an Englishman, rather than their own chief because she was a woman. How little Henry knew of the Scots!

  She turned suddenly as Rab growled. He was an Irish wolfhound, the largest dog in the world, rangy, strong, hair like soft steel. Her father had given her the dog four years ago when Jamie’d returned from a trip to Ireland. Jamie had meant to have the dog trained as his daughter’s guardian, but there was no need. Rab and Bronwyn took to each other immediately, and Rab had often shown that he’d give his life for his beloved mistress.

  Bronwyn’s muscles relaxed when Rab’s growl stopped—only a friend produced such a reaction. She looked up expectantly.

  It was Morag who entered. Morag was a short, gnarled old woman, looking more like a dark burl of wood than a human being. Her eyes were like blac
k glass, sparkling, penetrating, seeing more of a person than what was on the surface. She used her lithe little body to advantage, often slipping unnoticed amid people, her eyes and ears open.

  Morag moved silently across the room and opened the window.

  “Well?” Bronwyn demanded impatiently.

  “I saw ye slam the window. They laughed and said they’d take over the weddin’ night ye’d be missin’.”

  Bronwyn turned away from the old woman.

  “Ye give them too much to speak of. Ye should hold yer head high and ignore them. They’re only Englishmen, while ye’re a MacArran.”

  Bronwyn whirled. “I don’t need anyone to tell me how to act,” she snapped. Rab, aware of his mistress’s distress, came to stand beside her. She buried her fingers in his fur.

  Morag smiled at her, then watched as the girl moved toward the window seat. She had been placed in Morag’s arms when Bronwyn was still wet from her birth. Morag had held the tiny bairn as she watched the mother die. It’d been Morag who’d found a wet nurse for the girl, who’d given her the name of her Welsh grandmother, and who’d cared for her until she was six and her father’d taken over.

  It was with pride that Morag looked at her charge now nearly twenty years old. Bronwyn was tall, taller than most men and as straight and supple as a reed. She didn’t cover her hair like the Englishwoman, but let it flow down her back in a rich cascade. It was raven-black and so thick and heavy it was a wonder her slender neck could support the weight. She wore a satin dress in the English style. It was the color of the cream from the Highland cattle. The square neck was low and tight, showing Bronwyn’s firm young breasts to advantage. It fit like skin to her small waist, then belled out in rich folds. Embroidery entwined with thin gold strands edged both the neck and the waist and fell in an intricate waterfall down the skirt.

  “Do I meet your approval?” Bronwyn asked sharply, still irritated over their quarrel about the English attire. She had preferred Highland clothes, but Morag persuaded her to wear English garb, telling her to give the enemy no reason to laugh at her in what they referred to as “barbaric dress.”

  Morag chuckled dryly. “I was thinkin’ it was a shame no man would be takin’ that gown from ye tonight.”

  “An Englishman!” Bronwyn hissed. “Do you forget that so soon? Has the red of my father’s blood faded before your eyes?”

  “Ye know it hasn’t,” Morag said quietly.

  Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat, the satin of the dress flowing about her. She ran her finger along the heavy embroidery. The dress had cost her a great deal, money that could have been spent on her clan. But she knew they would not have wanted to be shamed before the Englishmen, so she bought dresses that would have been the pride of any queen.

  Only this gown was to have been her wedding dress.

  She plucked violently at a piece of gold thread.

  “Here!” Morag commanded. “Don’t destroy the dress because ye’re mad at one Englishman. Perhaps the man had a reason to be late and miss his own weddin’.”

  Bronwyn stood up quickly, causing Rab to move protectively to her side. “What do I care if the man never appears? I hope he had his throat cut and lies rotting in some ditch.”

  Morag shrugged. “They’ll only find ye a new husband, so what does it matter if this one dies or not? The sooner ye have yer English husband, the sooner we can go back to the Highlands.”

  “It’s easy for you to say!” Bronwyn snapped. “It’s not you who must wed him and…and…”

  Morag’s little black eyes danced. “And bed him? Is that what’s worryin’ ye? I’d gladly trade with ye if I could. Think this Stephen Montgomery would notice ’twere I to slip into his bed?”

  “What do I know of Stephen Montgomery except that he has no more respect for me than to leave me waiting in my wedding dress? You say the men laugh at me. The man who is to be my husband holds me up for their ridicule.” She squinted at the door. “Were he to come through there now, I’d gladly take a knife to him.”

  Morag smiled. Jamie MacArran would have been proud of his daughter. Even when she was still held prisoner she kept her pride and her spirit. Now she held her chin high, her eyes flashing with daggers of crystal-blue ice.

  Bronwyn was startlingly beautiful. Her hair was as black as a moonless midnight in the Scots mountains, her eyes as deep blue as the water of a sunlit loch. The contrast was arresting. It wasn’t unusual for people, especially men, to be struck speechless the first time they saw her. Her lashes were thick and dark, her skin fine and creamy. Her lips of dark red were set above her father’s chin, strong, square on the tip, and slightly cleft.

  “They’ll think ye’re a coward if ye hide in this room. What Scot is afraid of the smirks of an Englishman?”

  Bronwyn stiffened her back and looked down at the cream-colored gown. When she’d dressed that morning, she thought to be wed in the dress. Now it was hours past time for the marriage ceremony, and her bridegroom had not shown himself, nor had he sent any message of excuse or apology.

  “Help me unfasten this thing,” Bronwyn said. The gown would have to be kept fresh until she did marry. If not today, then at another time. And perhaps to another man. The thought made her smile.

  “What are ye plannin’?” Morag asked, her hands at the back of Bronwyn’s dress. “Ye’ve a look of the cat that got the cream.”

  “You ask too many questions. Fetch me that green brocade gown. The Englishmen may think I’m a bride in tears at being snubbed, but they’ll soon find the Scots are made of sterner stuff.”

  Even though she was a prisoner and had been for over a month, Bronwyn was allowed the freedom of Sir Thomas Crichton’s manor. She could walk about the house and, with an escort, on the grounds. The estate was heavily guarded, watched constantly. King Henry had told Bronwyn’s clan that if a rescue attempt were made, she would be executed. No harm would come to her, but he meant to put an Englishman in the chiefship. The clan had recently seen the death of Jamie MacArran as well as of his three chieftains. The Scots retreated to watch their new laird held captive and planned what they’d do when the king’s men dared to try to command them.

  Bronwyn slowly descended the stairs to the hall below. She knew her clansmen waited patiently just outside the grounds, hiding in the forest on the constantly turbulent border between England and Scotland.

  For herself she did not care if she died rather than accept the English dog she was to marry, but her death would cause strife within the clan. Jamie MacArran had designated his daughter as his successor, and she was to have married one of the chieftains who had died with her father. If Bronwyn were to die without issue, there would no doubt be a bloody battle over who would be the next laird.

  “I always knew the Montgomerys were smart men,” laughed a man standing a few feet from Bronwyn. A thick tapestry hid her from his view. “Look at the way the eldest married that Revedoune heiress. He’d hardly got out of his marriage bed when her father was killed and he inherited the earldom.”

  “And now Stephen is following in his brother’s footsteps. Not only is this Bronwyn beautiful, but she owns hundreds of acres of land.”

  “You can say what you like,” said a third man. His sleeve was empty, his left arm missing. “But I don’t envy Stephen. The woman is magnificent, but how long will he be able to enjoy her? I lost this fighting those devils in Scotland. They’re only half human, I tell you. They grow up learning nothing but plunder and robbery. And they fight more like animals than men. They’re a crude, savage lot.”

  “And I heard their women stink to high heaven,” the first man said.

  “For that black-haired Bronwyn I’d learn to hold my nose.”

  Bronwyn took a step forward, a feral snarl on her lips. When a hand caught her arm, she looked up into a young man’s face. He was handsome, with dark eyes, a firm mouth. Her eyes were on a level with his.

  “Allow me, my lady,” he said quietly.

  He stepped for
ward to the group of men. His strong legs were encased in tight hose, his velvet jacket emphasizing the width of his shoulders. “Have you nothing better to do than gossip like old women? You talk of things you know nothing about.” His voice was commanding.

  The three men looked startled. “Why, Roger, what’s wrong with you?” one asked, then stared over Roger’s shoulder and saw Bronwyn, her eyes glittering in stormy anger.

  “I think Stephen had better come soon and guard his property,” one of the other men laughed.

  “Get out of here!” Roger ordered. “Or shall I draw my sword to get your attention?”

  “Deliver me from the hot blood of youth,” one man said wearily. “Go to her. Come, the outside is cooler. The passions have more room to expand in the out-of-doors.”

  When the men were gone, Roger turned back to Bronwyn. “May I apologize for my countrymen? Their rudeness is based on ignorance. They meant no harm.”

  Bronwyn glared at him. “I fear it is you who are ignorant. They meant great harm, or do you consider murdering Scots no sin?”

  “I protest! You’re unfair to me. I have killed few men in my life and no Scots.” He paused. “May I introduce myself? I am Roger Chatworth.” He swept his velvet cap from his head and bowed low before her.

  “And I, sir, am Bronwyn MacArran, prisoner to the English and, of late, discarded bride.”

  “Lady Bronwyn, will you walk with me in the garden? Perhaps the sunshine will take away some of the misery Stephen has foisted upon you.”

  She turned and walked beside him. At least he might keep the guards from tossing rude jests at her. Once they were outside, she spoke again. “You speak Montgomery’s name as if you know him.”

  “Have you not met him yourself?”

  Bronwyn whirled on him. “Since when have I been afforded any courtesy by your English king? My father thought enough of me to name me laird of Clan MacArran, but your king thinks I have too little sense to even choose my own husband. No, I have not seen this Stephen Montgomery, nor do I know anything about him. I was told one morning I was to marry him. Since then he has not so much as acknowledged my presence.”