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  “Stephen!” Chris said as they walked across the sand-covered field. They stopped by the edge of the peninsula, gazing out at the sea. “You’ve got to stop working like this. Can’t you see that they’re not interested in what you’re trying to do for them?”

  Stephen removed his helmet. The cool wind rushed at his sweat-dampened hair. Each day he was increasingly frustrated at his attempts to work with Bronwyn’s men. His own men trained each day, learning to handle their heavy armor and weapons. But Bronwyn’s men stood on the outskirts and watched the Englishmen as if they were animals in King Henry’s menagerie.

  “There must be a way to reach them!” he said under his breath.

  Suddenly he heard a man running toward them.

  “My lord,” one of Stephen’s men said. “There’s been an attack on some of the MacArran cattle in the north. The men are already saddling.”

  Stephen nodded once. Now he’d have a chance to show these Scotsmen what fighters his English knights were. He was used to protecting lands from poachers and thieves.

  The heavy steel armor made quick movement impossible. His squire waited with his horse, it too wearing armor. The horse was a heavy one, bred through hundreds of years to be able to bear the weight of a man in full armor. The horse would never be called upon for speed but must stand steady through the thickest of battles, obeying its master’s knee commands.

  By the time Stephen and his armored men mounted, the Scotsmen were gone. Stephen grimaced and thought of the necessary discipline he’d have to enforce for punishment.

  It wasn’t until years later that Stephen could remember the events of that night on the Scots moors without once again experiencing a sense of shame and bewilderment.

  It was dark when he and his men reached the place where the MacGregors had stolen the cattle. The noise they made as they rode echoed through the countryside. Their armor clanked; their heavy horses’ hoofs thundered.

  Stephen thought he must have expected the MacGregors to meet him like Englishmen in hand-to-hand combat. It was with consternation that he and his men sat atop their horses and watched the ensuing battle. It was like nothing Stephen had ever seen or imagined.

  The Scots left their horses and melted into the woods. They discarded their plaids from their shoulders, leaving them free to run in their loose shirts. There were great shouts from the trees, then the sounds of the Scots’ Claymores striking steel.

  Stephen motioned for his men to dismount, and they followed the sound of the Scots into the trees. But the Scots had already moved elsewhere. The heavy armor made the Englishmen too slow, too unsteady.

  Stephen was looking about in a confused manner when one of Bronwyn’s men stepped from the shadows.

  “We routed them,” the Scotsman said, his mouth in a slight smirk.

  “How many were hurt?”

  “Three injured, none killed,” he said flatly, then smiled. “The MacArrans are too fast for any MacGregor.” The man was flushed from the excitement of the battle. “Shall I get some men together to lift you onto your horse?” he said as he smiled openly at Stephen in his armor.

  “Why you—!” Chris began. “I’ll take a sword to you here and now.”

  “Come on, English dog,” the Scotsman taunted. “I can have your throat cut before you can move the hinges on that steel coffin.”

  “Cease!” Stephen commanded. “Chris, put your sword away. And you, Douglas, see to the wounded.” Stephen’s voice was heavy.

  “You can’t let him get away with such insolence,” Chris said. “How do you plan to teach them to respect you?”

  “Teach them!” Stephen snapped. “A man cannot teach another to respect him. He must earn respect. Come, let’s go back to Larenston. I have some thinking to do.”

  Bronwyn tossed in the bed, slamming her fist into the pillow. She kept telling herself that she didn’t care that Stephen preferred to spend the night somewhere else. She didn’t care if he chose someone else to spend it with. She thought of her clan members. Margaret’s daughter was a pretty thing, and she’d heard a couple of the men laughing about what a good time they’d had with her. She must speak to Margaret in the morning! It wasn’t good to have a girl like that around.

  “Damn!” she said aloud, and Rab growled. She sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her lovely breasts. It was cold in the bed alone. Morag had told her of the cattle raid. She had a few choice words to say about the MacGregors. Morag hissed when Bronwyn said she hoped Stephen wasn’t killed because his death would bring the English king down on their heads.

  Now she kept looking at the door, frowning once in a while.

  When the door began to open, she held her breath. It could be Morag with news. Her breath escaped when she saw Stephen enter, his hair as well as his shirt-front wet from dousing himself at the well.

  Stephen barely looked at her. His blue eyes were dark, a crease between his brows. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and began to remove his clothes. He couldn’t seem to put his mind on the task but kept pausing for long periods of time.

  Bronwyn searched for something to say. “Are you hungry?” He didn’t answer, so she moved across the bed to sit closer to him. The sheet was wrapped about her lower body, the upper bare. “I asked if you were hungry,” she said loudly.

  “Oh?” Stephen mumbled as he removed a boot. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Bronwyn had an urge to ask him what was wrong, but of course she’d never do anything like that. She didn’t care what was wrong with the Englishman. “Were any of my men hurt in the cattle raid?”

  When Stephen again didn’t answer, she pushed his shoulder. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question.”

  Stephen turned to her as if he’d just realized she was there. His eyes raked her nude body, but he showed no interest as he stood and unfastened his belt. “No one was seriously hurt. A few stitches in one man’s arm, but nothing else.”

  “Who? Whose arm needed stitches?”

  Stephen waved his hand and stepped nude into the bed. He put his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t attempt to touch her. “Francis, I think,” he said finally.

  Bronwyn was still sitting, frowning at him. What was wrong with him? “Did our Scots’ ways frighten you, Englishman? Were my men too strong for you or too fast?”

  To her amazement Stephen did not take the bait.

  “Too fast,” he said quite seriously, still watching the ceiling. “They moved quickly and freely. Of course, they’d never last in England, because a few armed knights could cut fifty of them apart. But here—”

  “Fifty!” Bronwyn breathed. The next instant she brought both her fists down against Stephen’s broad, bare chest. “You’ll never see the day when one Englishman can harm fifty Scots,” she fairly yelled as she beat her fists against his hard chest.

  “Here! Stop that!” Stephen said, grabbing her fists in his hands. “I have enough bruises without your adding to them.”

  “I’ll give you more than bruises,” she said as she struggled against his grip.

  Stephen’s eyes lightened. He pulled on her hands and drew her forward; her breasts pressed against him. “I’d like more than bruises,” he said huskily, his full attention at last on her. He released one of her hands and touched her hair. “Will you always bring me back to reality?” he asked as he touched her temple. “I think I could be worried about the greatest problem in the universe, and you would contrive to turn my thoughts to your lovely skin, your eyes,” he said, moving his fingers, “your lips.”

  Bronwyn felt her heart begin to pound. His breath was so soft and warm. His hair was still damp, and a curl stuck by his ear. She had an urge to touch that curl, but she was always careful to make no advances toward him. “And were you worried about some great problem?” she asked nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter.

  He stilled his fingers and his eyes captured hers. “Do I hear concern in your voice?” he asked quietly.

  �
�Never!” she spat and rolled away from him. She expected to hear his amused laughter, but when he was silent, she had an urge to turn and look at him, keeping her back to him. He was very still, and after a while she heard the quiet, even tone of his breathing that meant he was asleep. She lay very, very still, and after a while she felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes. There were times when she felt so alone that she didn’t know what to do. Her idea of marriage was of two people who shared their lives and their love. But she was married to an Englishman!

  Stephen turned suddenly and threw a heavy arm around her, then drew her close to him. She tried to remain stiff and aloof from him, but in spite of herself she wiggled her bottom against him, snuggling closer.

  “That’s not the way to help a man sleep,” Stephen whispered, then raised his head and kissed her temple. “What’s this?” he said. “Tears?”

  “Of course not. I merely had something in my eye, ’tis all.”

  He turned her about in his arms so that she faced him. “You are lying,” he said flatly. He searched her face with his eyes, touched the cleft in her chin. “You and I are strangers,” he whispered. “When will we become friends? When will you share yourself with me? When will you tell me the cause of your tears?”

  “When you become a Scotsman!” she said as fiercely as she could. But Stephen’s nearness made the words come out oddly, as if they were a plea instead of an impossible demand.

  “Done!” he said with great confidence, almost as if he could actually change into a Scotsman.

  She wanted to laugh at him, to tell him that he could never become a Scotsman—or her friend. But he pulled her even closer and began to kiss her. He kissed her as if he had all the time in the world, lazily, slowly. Bronwyn felt the blood pounding through her veins. She wanted to pull Stephen to her, but he held her off. He held her slightly away from his body so he could touch her breasts, stroke her ribs and stomach.

  She arched away from him, her legs entwined with his, her thighs clasping one of his. Stephen’s hand strayed downward to her legs, and he smiled when he felt her sharply indrawn breath.

  “My beautiful, beautiful wife,” he whispered as he ran his nails lightly along the tendon in the back of her knee. “I wish I knew how to please you out of bed.”

  She moved back to him, sought his lips, then ran her mouth down his neck. His skin tasted good, slightly salty with sweat, firm yet soft. She touched her tongue to his ear, and she felt a shiver run through him. A low rumble of laughter ran through her.

  Stephen grabbed her shoulders fiercely. “Come here, laird of Clan MacArran.” He pushed her down in the bed and lowered himself on top of her.

  She arched up to meet him, lifting her hips high. She was a Scotswoman, and she was equal to him. Now she did not wait for his advances but met him evenly, with as much passion as his.

  Later they lay together, so close they were as one. Bronwyn sleepily opened her eyes and saw the curl by Stephen’s ear. It was the one she’d wanted to touch earlier. She moved her head and kissed that curl, feeling the soft hair between her lips. Then she pulled away, her face flushing. Somehow that kiss seemed more intimate than their lovemaking.

  Stephen smiled slightly, his eyes closed, more asleep than awake, and pulled her even closer, more under him than beside him. Bronwyn could hardly breathe but it didn’t matter. No, breathing was the last of her thoughts.

  Stephen stood in the little crofter’s cottage, warming his hands before the peat fire. A raw wind was blowing outside, and the fire was needed. Tam was visiting his sister, leaving Bronwyn’s house for a few days. The thick older man sat on the far side of the stone-walled room, a fisherman’s net spread across his bare knees. He was working the knots, his big hands pulling at the coarse ropes.

  “So you want me to help ye to look less like a fool,” Tam said seriously.

  Stephen turned. He still wasn’t quite used to the way the Scotsmen sat or stood, according to their own wishes, in his presence. He was perhaps too used to being “my lorded.” “I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” he said. Thinking back over the events of the cattle raid, he shook his head. “I did look like a fool, both to my own men and to the Scots. I did feel as if I were standing in a steel coffin as Douglas said.”

  Tam paused for a moment as he tightened a knot. “Douglas always thought he should have been one of the men chosen by Jamie to be Bronwyn’s husband.” He chuckled at the expression on Stephen’s face. “Don’t worry, boy, Jamie knew what he was doing. Douglas is a follower, not a leader. He’s too awed of Bronwyn to ever be her master.”

  Stephen laughed. “No man is strong enough to be her master.”

  Tam didn’t comment on that statement, but he smiled to himself. Morag kept a close watch on the couple and reported to Tam. Tam wanted to make sure Bronwyn was in no danger of being harmed by the Englishman. From what Morag said, Stephen was the one in danger—of exhaustion.

  Tam looked up. “The first thing ye must do is rid yerself of those English clothes.”

  Stephen nodded; he’d expected this.

  “And then ye must learn to run, both for distance and speed.”

  “Run! But a soldier must stand and fight.”

  Tam snorted. “Our ways are different. I thought ye knew that already. Unless ye’re willin’ to learn, I’ll be no use to ye.”

  With an air of resignation Stephen agreed.

  An hour later he began to wish he hadn’t agreed. He and Tam stood outside in the cold autumn wind, and Stephen had never felt so bare in his life. Instead of the heavy, padded, warm English clothes, he wore only a thin shirt, a belted plaid over it. He wore wool socks and high boots, but he still felt as if he were bare from the waist down.

  Tam slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, boy, ye’ll get used to it. A little more hair and ye’ll be nearer a Scot than ever.”

  “This is a damned cold country to be running about bareassed,” Stephen muttered as he flipped up the plaid and shirt to show one bare cheek.

  Tam laughed. “Now you know what a Scotsman wears under his plaid.” His face turned serious. “There’s a reason for our dress. The plaid makes a man disappear in the heather. The dress is easy to remove, easy and fast to put on. Scotland’s a wet country, and a man can’t afford to have wet, clinging garments on his skin; he’d die of lung sickness if he did. The plaid is cool in summer, and the constant chafing of yer knees’ll make ye warm in winter.” His eyes twinkled. “And it allows free air circulation to all yer most vital parts.”

  “That it does,” Stephen said.

  “Ah! now ye look to be a man!” Morag said from behind him. She openly stared at his legs. “Wearin’ all that armor has put some muscle on ye.”

  Stephen grinned at her. “If I weren’t already married, I think I might consider asking you.”

  “And I might consider acceptin’. Though I wouldn’t like to fight Bronwyn for ye.”

  Stephen gave her a bleak look. “She’d give me away to anyone if she could.”

  “As long as she could have ye in bed, is that it?” Morag cackled before turning away.

  Stephen blinked once. The familiarity within a clan always startled him. Everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.

  “We’re wastin’ time,” Tam said. “Try runnin’ to that pole down there,” he pointed.

  Stephen thought that running would be easy. After all, even children ran, and he was in good condition. But he felt his lungs were about to burst after his first short sprint. It took several minutes to calm his racing heart and regain his breath. His heart sounded as if it were about to break his eardrums.

  “Here, drink some water,” Tam said as he held out a dipper. “Now that ye have yer breath, run it again.”

  Stephen raised one eyebrow in disbelief.

  “Come on, boy,” Tam said. “I’ll run it with ye. You wouldn’t let an old man beat ye, would ye?”

  Stephen gasped for air. “The last thing I’d call you is old.” He tossed t
he dipper aside. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Chapter Seven

  BRONWYN WAS STANDING ALONE AT THE FOOT OF THE stairs leading to the top of the old tower. Her eyes were dry and burning, almost swollen from the tears she hadn’t shed. Clutched tightly in her hand was a heavy silver belt buckle. On the back was engraved: “To Ennis from James MacArran.”

  An hour ago one of the crofters had brought the buckle to her. Bronwyn remembered when her father had given the buckles to the three young men he’d chosen to succeed him. It had almost been a ceremony. There’d been food and wine, dancing, and much, much laughter. Everyone was teasing Bronwyn about which man she’d choose for her husband. Bronwyn had flirted and laughed and pretended that all of them were worthless compared to her father.

  There’d been Ian, Tam’s son. Ian was only as tall as she was but thick like his father. Ramsey was blond, broad-shouldered, with a mouth that sometimes made Bronwyn nervous. Ennis had freckles and green eyes, and he could sing so sweetly he could make you cry.

  She squeezed the belt buckle until it cut into her palm. Now they were all dead. Strong Ian, handsome Ramsey, sweet Ennis—all dead and buried. Killed by the English!

  She turned and hurried up the stairs to the top floor. From the bunch of keys at her side, she took one and unlocked an oak door. The heavy door creaked in protest as it swung on its unoiled hinges.

  She thought she was braced for the sight of the room, but she wasn’t. She almost expected her father to look up at her and smile. She hadn’t been in the room since his death; she’d been afraid to see it again.