Highland Velvet Page 12

  She stepped inside the room and looked about her. There was a plaid thrown across a chair, the bottom of it worn and ragged. Weapons hung on the stone walls, axes, Claymores, bows. She touched the worn place on her father’s favorite bow. Slowly she walked to the chair near the one window in the room. The leather held the imprint of Jamie’s body.

  Bronwyn sat down in the chair, the dust whirling about her. Her father came often to this room to think and be alone. He allowed no one to enter it except himself and his two children. Bronwyn had teethed on an arrow from her father’s pack.

  She looked from one familiar, loved object to another and felt her head begin to ache. It was all gone now. Her father was dead, her brother had turned away from her with hatred in his heart, and the beautiful young men she would have chosen were rotting in a grave somewhere.

  Now there was no laughter or love at Larenston. The English king had married her to one of his killers, and all happiness was gone.

  The English! she thought. They thought they owned the world. She hated the way Stephen’s men stood off from him, the way they bowed and scraped and called him “my lord.” The English were a cold lot. She’d tried hundreds of times to tell him about the ways of the Scots, but he was too vain to listen.

  She smiled to herself. At least her men knew who was laird. They laughed at Stephen behind his back. All morning she’d heard stories of the aborted cattle raid the night before. How ridiculous Stephen must have looked standing there in his foolish armor.

  A noise in the courtyard below drew her attention. She went to the window to look down.

  At first she didn’t recognize Stephen. She thought only that he was a well-built man with an exceptional look of self-confidence. His belted plaid swung about his legs with a jaunty air. She gasped in indignation when she realized it was Stephen who walked so arrogantly and wore the Scots’ dress as if he had a right to wear it.

  Several of her men stood about the courtyard, and she was glad to see that they made no effort to greet him. They certainly knew an impostor when they saw one.

  The smile left her face as first one man then another walked toward Stephen. She saw him smile and say something, then flip the tail of his plaid up. She heard laughter echoing.

  Douglas—her Douglas!—stepped forward and put out an arm to Stephen. Stephen grabbed it, and the two of them hooked ankles and forearms and began a standing wrestle. It wasn’t a minute later that Douglas went sprawling in the dirt.

  She watched in disgust while Stephen challenged the men, one after another. She drew her breath in sharply when Margaret’s daughter stepped forward, her hips swaying provocatively. She lifted her skirt to expose trim ankles and proceeded to show Stephen a few Highlands dance steps.

  Bronwyn turned away from the window and left the room, locking the door behind her. There was anger in every step she took down the stairs.

  Stephen was standing there. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pink from his day’s exercise in the cold air. His eyes were flashing and bright. Behind him stood several of his men as well as Bronwyn’s, and several pretty young women.

  He looked at her like a boy trying to please. He held out his leg to her. “Will I pass?” he teased.

  She glared at him for a moment, ignoring his muscular leg. “You may fool some of them, but you’re an Englishman to me and will always be. Because you’ve changed your clothes doesn’t mean you’ve changed inside.” She turned and walked away from all of them.

  Stephen stood still for a moment, frowning. Perhaps he did want them to forget he was an Englishman. Perhaps…

  Tam slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so grieved.”

  Stephen turned to see that the Scotsmen behind him were smiling.

  “For all she’s a good laird, she’s still a woman,” Tam continued. “No doubt she was upset because ye were dancin’ with the women.”

  Stephen tried to smile. “I wish you were right.”

  “Why don’t ye go to her and soothe her?”

  Stephen started to reply, then stopped. There was no use telling Tam that Bronwyn wouldn’t welcome anything about him. He followed her up the stairs. She was standing over a weaver, directing the arrangement of the weft threads of a new plaid.

  “Stephen,” called one of the women, “but don’t you look good.” The pretty young woman almost leered at him in his short clothes.

  Stephen turned to smile at the woman, but he caught sight of Bronwyn as she fairly snarled at him before she left the room. He caught her at the head of the stairs. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be pleased with my clothes. You said I must become a Scot.”

  “Dressing as one doesn’t make you a Scot.” She turned away from him.

  Stephen caught her arm. “What’s wrong? Are you angry because of something else?”

  “Why should I be angry?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’m married to my enemy. I’m—”

  Stephen put his fingers to her lips. “Something is bothering you,” he said quietly. He watched her face, but she lowered her eyes so he couldn’t see the pain registering there. He took both her arms then ran his hands downward until they touched hers. Her left hand was clutched tightly over something. “What’s this?” he asked softly.

  She tried to pull away from him, but he forced her hand open. He stared at the buckle, read the inscription. “Did someone give this to you today?”

  She nodded silently.

  “Did it belong to your father?”

  She kept her eyes lowered, and again she could only nod.

  “Bronwyn,” he said, his voice rich and deep. “Look at me.” He put his hand gently under her chin and lifted her face. “I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

  “How can you know?” she snapped, jerking away from him. She silently cursed herself for almost believing in him, for letting his voice and his nearness affect her.

  “I know what it’s like to lose a father as well as a mother,” he said patiently. “I’m sure it hurt me as badly as you’ve been hurt.”

  “But I did not kill your father!”

  “Nor did I, personally, kill yours!” he said fiercely. “Listen to me, just once, listen to me as a man, not as a political pawn. We’re married. It’s done. There’s no more stopping it. We could be happy, I know we could, if only you’d be willing to give us a chance.”

  Her face hardened, her eyes turning cold. “And will you brag to your men that you have a Scotswoman eating from your hand? Will you try to win my men, as well as my women, to your side as you did today?”

  “Win!” Stephen began. “Damn you! I’ve spent all day running, literally, in this cold climate bare-legged and bare-assed too, if the truth be known, all to please you and those men you care about so much.” He pushed her away from him. “Go and wallow in your hatred. It will keep you cold company at night.” He turned away and left her.

  Bronwyn stood very still for a moment before slowly going down the stairs. She wanted to trust him. She needed a husband to trust. But how could she? What would happen if her lands were attacked by raiding Englishmen? Could Stephen be expected to fight against his own people?

  She knew how she reacted to him. It would be easy to forget their differences and succumb to his sweet touches, his rich voice. But when she needed to be wary and alert, her senses would be dulled. She couldn’t afford that. She wouldn’t risk her people’s lives merely because she enjoyed a lusty time in bed with a man who could be a spy.

  She sat in the little garden behind the tall stone house. She couldn’t trust him. For all she knew, his entreaties for her to believe in him were a means to use her. She knew he had brothers. Perhaps he’d call them to his side once he made an opening in Bronwyn’s defenses. Would he boast to his brothers that she would do what he wanted, that to make her pliable, he had only to kiss the back of her knees?

  She stood and began to walk quickly to the edge of the peninsula. The sea beat against the rocks, and she could see for miles. It was a great resp
onsibility to be laird of a clan. Many, many people looked to her for protection and, if need be, even for food. She worked hard at knowing her people and understanding them. She could not let her defenses down for even a moment. So when Stephen caressed her, held her, she had to protect herself against him, against allowing her emotions to rule her head. If ever she knew she could trust him, then she could ask what was in her heart.

  “Bronwyn.”

  She turned. “What is it, Douglas?” She looked into the young man’s brown eyes. She could see the unasked question in his eyes, as it was in all her men’s eyes. They didn’t know whether or not to trust Stephen and were waiting for her judgment. And she was to be judged also. If she was in error about him, they would no longer trust her.

  “I have received word that the MacGregors plan another cattle raid tonight.”

  Bronwyn nodded. She knew Douglas had access to an informer. “Have you told anyone else of this?”

  Douglas paused, reading her thoughts correctly, knowing she meant Stephen. “No one.”

  She looked back at the sea. “I will lead my men tonight, and we will show the MacGregors who is the MacArran. I’ll not be laughed at again.”

  Douglas smiled. “It will be good to ride with you again.”

  She looked back at him. “Tell no one of our plans. No one! Do you understand?”

  “Aye, I understand.” He turned and left her.

  The long dinner table was spread heavily with food. Stephen was at first suspicious of the abundance because Bronwyn’s Scots sense of thrift made her set a more modest table. At dinner she’d smiled at him. This had surprised him, since he’d assumed she’d be angry after what had happened that afternoon. But perhaps she’d listened to his words, perhaps she was willing to give him a chance.

  He sat back in his chair and ran his hand along her thigh. He smiled when he felt her jump.

  She turned to him, her eyes soft and warm, her lips parted, and Stephen felt his body grow hot. He leaned toward her.

  “This is not the time or place,” she said, a note of sadness in her voice.

  “Come above stairs with me then.”

  She smiled seductively. “In a moment. Perhaps you’d like to try a new drink I had made. It is of wine and fruit juices with a little spice.” She handed him a silver goblet.

  Stephen hardly noticed what he drank. Bronwyn had never looked at him as she was doing now, and his blood was beginning to boil. Her thick lashes lowered over her eyes, which had turned to a luster like a blue pearl. The tip of her pink tongue touched her lower lip, and Stephen felt chills run up his spine. So this is what she looked like when she was willing!

  He put his hand over hers and had to control himself from squeezing it hard enough to break her fingers. “Come with me,” he whispered huskily.

  Before he’d finished climbing the stairs, he began to feel sleepy. By the time he reached the door to their bedroom, he could hardly keep his eyes open.

  “Something’s wrong with me,” he whispered, the words an effort to get out.

  “You’re tired, that’s all,” Bronwyn said sympathetically. “You spent most of the day in training with Tam, and he can wear a man out. Here, let me help you.” She put her arm around his waist and led him to the bed.

  Stephen collapsed onto the bed’s softness. His limbs felt heavy and useless. “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Quiet,” Bronwyn said softly. “Just rest. You’ll feel better after a little sleep.”

  Stephen had no choice but to obey her as he easily slipped off into sleep.

  Bronwyn stood over him for a moment, frowning. She hoped she hadn’t put too much of the sleeping drug in his drink. She had a sudden pang of conscience as he lay there so quietly. But she had to make sure he didn’t interfere tonight. She had to show the MacGregors they couldn’t steal her cattle and get away with it.

  She turned to leave the room, then looked back. With a sigh she pulled Stephen’s boots off. He didn’t move but lay still, so still, not watching her, not asking anything of her. She bent and touched his hair, then on impulse she gently kissed his forehead. She backed away from him, her face pink, cursing herself for being so foolish. What did she care about the Englishman?

  Her men were already saddled and waiting for her. She pulled her long skirt up and slung her legs into the saddle. The men needed no verbal command as they followed her down the narrow path onto the mainland.

  Douglas’s informer had been right about the proposed cattle raid. Bronwyn and her men rode hard for two hours, then abandoned their horses and walked stealthily into the dark woods.

  Bronwyn was the first to hear a man’s footsteps. She put up her hand to halt her men, then signaled them to spread out, Douglas to stay with her. The men of Clan MacArran were silent as they slipped through the trees and surrounded the cattle thieves.

  When she was satisfied that her men had had time to get to their places, she opened her mouth and gave a high-pitched cry that set the cattle to nervous prancing. The MacGregors dropped the ropes they held and grabbed their Claymores. But it was too late, for Bronwyn’s men were upon them. They’d discarded their plaids so they were free to fight in their loose shirts. Their savage war cries echoed through the countryside. Bronwyn threw off her skirt and wore only her shirt and plaid, which reached just to her knees. She stayed in the background to direct the men and not hamper them with her frail strength. At times like this she cursed her lack of strength.

  “Jarl!” she screamed in time to save one of her men from a Claymore across his head. She rushed across the grass just in time to thwart a MacGregor from jumping onto another man.

  The moonlight caught the flash of a dirk as it poised above Douglas’s head. She saw that Douglas had lost his weapon. “Douglas!” she called, then tossed him her weapon. The MacGregor behind him turned to look at her, and in that instant Douglas caught him under the ribs with the dirk. The man fell slowly.

  The fighting seemed to come to a halt instantly. Bronwyn, sensing a change in the men, looked down at the man at her feet. “The MacGregor,” she whispered. “Is he dead?”

  “No,” Douglas answered, “only wounded. He’ll come to in a minute.”

  She looked about her. The other MacGregors had faded into the trees now that their leader was down. She knelt beside the fallen man. “Give me my dirk,” she said.

  Douglas obeyed her without hesitation.

  “I’d like the MacGregor to remember me after tonight. How do you think he’d like my initial carved into his flesh?”

  “Perhaps in his cheek?” Douglas said avidly.

  Bronwyn gave him a cold look, her eyes made silver by the moonlight. “I don’t want to cause more war, only a memory. Besides, I’ve heard the MacGregor is a handsome man.” She pulled his shirt open.

  “You seem taken with handsome men lately,” Douglas said bitterly.

  “Perhaps it is you who are worried about my men. Is it your jealousy or your greed that eats at you? See to my men and stop your childish tantrums.”

  Douglas turned away from her.

  Bronwyn had heard tales of the MacGregor and knew he’d prize a scar made by a woman who had beaten him. She used the tip of her dirk and barely broke the skin as she carved a small B in his shoulder. She’d make sure he remembered her the next time he tried to steal her cattle.

  When she’d finished, she ran back to her men, and together they ran to their horses. It was a heady experience: her first victory as laird of her clan.

  “To Tam!” she cried when she was on her horse. “Let’s rouse him from his bed. He’ll want to hear how the MacGregor wears the brand of the MacArran.” She laughed as she thought of the rage of the man when he saw the present she’d given him.

  But they weren’t destined to get home so easily. Suddenly the skies opened, and a deluge of very cold rain poured down on them. All of them wrapped their plaids over their heads, and Bronwyn thought with longing of the warm skirt she’d left on the ground. Lightning flashed and t
he horses jumped about, skittish at the light and sound.

  They rode back to Larenston along the cliff edge of the sea. It was not the safest way but the quickest, and they knew the MacGregors would not pursue them on unknown, dangerous pathways.

  Suddenly a stupendous bolt of lightning tore through the skies and hit the ground directly in front of Alexander. The horse reared, pawing the ground frantically with its forefeet. The next instant a roar of thunder threatened to bring the rocks down about their heads. Alexander’s horse changed direction, and its feet came down in midair, hanging over the edge of the cliff. For an instant horse and rider hung suspended, half on land, half in the air. Then suddenly they fell, Alex coming out of the horse’s saddle.

  Bronwyn was the first one to dismount. The cold rain pelted against her face. Her legs were blue with cold.

  “He’s gone!” Douglas shouted. “The sea has him now.”

  Bronwyn strained to see through the darkness and rain to look at the sea below. A flash of lightning showed her the horse’s body below, still as it lay against the rocks. But there was no sign of Alex.

  “Let’s go!” Douglas shouted. “You can’t help him.”

  Bronwyn stood. She was as tall as Douglas, on an equal level with him. “Do you give me orders?” she demanded, then looked back toward the water. “Hold my ankles so I can see farther over the edge.”

  Bronwyn stretched out on her stomach as Douglas grabbed her ankles. Immediately two men came to her side to steady her arms. Another man put his hands on Douglas’s shoulders.

  Inch by inch Bronwyn eased herself over the side until she could see down the side of the sheer rock wall. It was frightening hanging over the edge, trusting her life to the strong hands about her ankles. Her first impulse was to say she saw nothing but she couldn’t leave Alex if there was a chance he was still alive. She had to wait patiently for the next burst of lightning, then scan the area. Slowly she moved her head to see another part of the cliff. Her half upside-down position was making her dizzy, and the fear was making a knot in her stomach.