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  Standing up slowly, Stephen walked toward the fireplace. Bits of mud fell from his clothes as he moved. Sir Thomas could not know what the name Chatworth meant to Stephen. Alice Valence had been his brother’s mistress for years. Repeatedly, Gavin had asked her to marry him. She refused, preferring to marry the rich Edmund Chatworth. Soon after her marriage, Edmund was murdered and Alice reappeared in Gavin’s life. She was a treacherous woman, and she had climbed into bed with a drunken, sleepy Gavin, then arranged for Judith to see them together. In her agony Judith fell down the stairs and lost her child and nearly lost her own life.

  Roger Chatworth was Alice’s brother-in-law, and even the mention of the name made Stephen grit his teeth.

  “There must be more to this,” Stephen said finally.

  “Bronwyn hinted last evening that perhaps she’d be more pleased with Roger for a husband than one who is so…discourteous.”

  Stephen smiled and went back to the chair. “And how does Roger take all this?”

  “He seems amenable. He rides with her each morning, escorts her to supper in the evening, spends time in the garden with her.”

  Stephen drank the last of the wine and began to relax. “It’s well known that the Chatworths are a greedy bunch, but I didn’t know to what degree. He must be very hungry to endure the woman’s company.”

  “Endure?” Sir Thomas asked, surprised.

  “There’s no need to be dishonest with me. I heard how she fought like a man when she was surrounded, and worse how even her own father considered her enough of a man to name her his successor. I almost feel sorry for Roger. It would serve him right if I let him have the hideous woman.”

  Sir Thomas stood with his mouth agape, then slowly his eyes began to twinkle. “Hideous, is she?” he chuckled.

  “What else could she be? Don’t forget I’ve spent some time in Scotland. A wilder, more savage group of people I’ve never run across. But what could I say to King Henry? He thought he was rewarding me. If I stepped aside and let Roger have her he’d forever be in my debt. Then I could marry some sweet, pretty little woman who wouldn’t try to borrow my armor. Yes,” he smiled, “that’s just what I think I’ll do.”

  “I agree with you,” Sir Thomas said firmly. “Bronwyn is truly a hideous woman. I’m sure Roger is only interested in her land. But just so you can tell King Henry you were fair, why don’t you meet her? I’m sure she’ll take one look at you, filthy as you are, and refuse to marry you.”

  “Yes.” Stephen grinned, his white teeth only making him seem dirtier by contrast. “Then tomorrow both the woman and I can tell Roger of our decision. Then I can go home. Yes, Sir Thomas, it’s a splendid idea.”

  Sir Thomas’s eyes shone like a boy’s; they fairly danced. “You show an uncommon wisdom for a man so young. Just wait here, and I’ll have her brought down the back stairs to this room.”

  Stephen gave a low whistle. “Back stairs, is it? She must be worse than I imagine.”

  “You’ll see, my boy. You’ll see,” Sir Thomas said as he left the room.

  Bronwyn sat buried to her chin in a tub of hot, steamy water. Her eyes were closed, and she was thinking about going home. Roger would be with her, and together they’d lead her clan. It was a picture she was beginning to conjure more and more often in the last few days. Roger was one Englishman she could understand. Every day he seemed to know more about the Scots.

  As Morag burst into the room she opened her eyes. “He’s here,” the old woman announced.

  “Who is here?” Bronwyn asked stubbornly, knowing exactly whom Morag meant.

  Morag ignored her question. “He’s talking to Sir Thomas but I’m sure ye’ll be called for in a few minutes, so get out of that water and get dressed. Ye kin wear the blue dress.”

  Bronwyn leaned her head back. “I’m not finished with my bath, and I have no intention of meeting him merely because he’s bothered to appear. He kept me waiting for four days, so maybe I’ll make him wait for five.”

  “Ye’re bein’ childish, as ye well know. The stable boy said the man’s horses had been run near to death. Ye can see he tried to get here in a hurry.”

  “Or perhaps he always mistreats his horses.”

  “Ye’re not too big to take a switch to! Now get out of that tub or I’ll throw a bucket of cold water over yer head.”

  Before Morag could act, the door was suddenly thrust open again, revealing a pair of guards.

  “How dare you!” Bronwyn yelled as she sank lower into the water.

  Instantly Rab rose from his place at the foot of the tub, ready to attack.

  The men had barely a glimpse of Bronwyn before they were knocked off balance by a hundred and twenty pounds of snarling, sharp-toothed dog.

  Morag grabbed Bronwyn’s thin linen chemise and tossed it to her. She stood in the tub and hastily pulled it over her wet body, the hem of it falling into the water. She grabbed a woolen tartan from Morag as she stepped out of the tub.

  “Quiet, Rab!” Bronwyn ordered. The hound obeyed immediately, coming to her side.

  The guards stood up slowly, rubbing their wrists and shoulders where Rab had toyed with them. They did not know that the dog killed only on direct command from Bronwyn; otherwise he protected her without doing permanent damage. The men had seen the tub taken to Bronwyn’s room, had heard her splashing. They used Sir Thomas’s orders as an invitation to see her in her bath. Now she was wrapped from head to toe in a Scots plaid. There was no outline of her body showing, only her face, her eyes shining with humor.

  “What do you want?” Bronwyn asked, laughter in her voice.

  “You are to come to Sir Thomas’s study,” one of the guards said sullenly. “And if that dog ever again—”

  She cut him off. “If you ever again enter my room without my permission, I will allow Rab to have your throat. Now lead the way.”

  They looked from Bronwyn to the big wolfhound, then turned away. Bronwyn held her head high as she followed them down the stairs. She would let no one see her anger at the way she was being treated by this Stephen Montgomery. Four days late for his wedding, then, the moment he arrives, she is dragged before him like an errant serving wench.

  When Bronwyn was inside the study, she looked from Sir Thomas to the man standing by the fireplace. He was tall, but he was filthy beyond belief. Of his face she could tell nothing. It seemed to be swollen on one side, and she wondered if it was a permanent affliction.

  Suddenly one of the guards saw a way to repay her for her sport of him. Grabbing the trailing end of the long tartan, he gave Bronwyn a sharp shove. She fell forward, and the guard yanked back on the plaid.

  “You!” Sir Thomas bellowed. “Out of my sight! How dare you treat a lady like that! If you’re within fifty miles of here in the morning, I’ll have you hanged!”

  Both guards turned and quickly left the room as Sir Thomas bent to retrieve the garment.

  Only momentarily stunned, Bronwyn quickly got off her knees and stood. The thin chemise clung to her still-wet body as if she were nude. She started to cover herself with her hands until she glanced up at Stephen. He was no longer nonchalantly leaning against the fireplace but had come to attention, staring at her in open-mouthed disbelief. His eyes were wide, showing white all around them, his mouth so agape that his tongue fairly fell out.

  She curled her lip at him, but he didn’t even notice. All he could see was what was below her neck. She put her arms straight to her sides and glared at him.

  It seemed an extraordinarily long time before Sir Thomas placed Bronwyn’s plaid gently about her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly about her body.

  “Well, Stephen, shouldn’t you greet your bride?”

  Stephen blinked several times before he could recover himself. Slowly he walked to her.

  Bronwyn was a tall woman, but she had to look up to meet his eyes. He looked worse in the dim light. The candlelight seemed to make eerie shadows of the mud and dried blood on his face.

  Lifting a
curl from her breast, he felt it between his fingers. “You’ve made no mistake, Sir Thomas?” he asked quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. “This is the laird of Clan MacArran?”

  Bronwyn stepped back. “I have a tongue and a brain of my own. You need not speak as if I weren’t here. I am the MacArran of MacArran, and I am sworn to hate all Englishmen, especially ones who insult my clan and me by appearing late and unwashed before me.” She turned to Sir Thomas. “I find I am greatly fatigued. I would like to be excused, if you can grant this poor prisoner so great a request.”

  Sir Thomas frowned. “Stephen is your master now.”

  She whirled to face him, gave him one scathing look, then left the room without his permission.

  Sir Thomas turned to Stephen. “I’m afraid she lacks some in manners. These Scotsmen should take a firm hand to their womenfolk more often. But in spite of her sharp tongue, do you still think she is hideous?”

  Stephen could only stare at the doorway where Bronwyn had just left. Visions of her danced before him—a body he thought existed only in dreams, black hair and sapphire eyes. Her chin had jutted out at him so that he ached to kiss it. Her breasts were full, hard against the wet, clinging fabric; her waist small and firm; her hips and thighs round, impudent, tantalizing.

  “Stephen?”

  Stephen nearly fell into the chair. “Had I known,” he whispered, “had I any idea, I would have come weeks ago when King Henry promised her to me.”

  “Then she meets with your approval?”

  He ran his hand across his eyes. “I think I’m dreaming. Surely no woman could look like that and be alive. You must be playing a trick on me. You don’t plan to substitute the real Bronwyn MacArran on my wedding day, do you?”

  “I assure you she is real. Why do you think I keep her guarded so heavily? My men are like dogs ready to fight over her at any moment. They stand around and repeat stories of the treacherous Scots to each other, but the truth is, individually each of them has generously offered to take your place in the girl’s bed.”

  Stephen curled his lip at this. “But you have kept them from her.”

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  “And what of Chatworth? Has he taken my place with my wife?”

  Sir Thomas chuckled. “You sound as if you’re jealous, and a moment ago you were willing to give her to Roger. No, Roger has never spent an unchaperoned moment with her. She is an excellent horsewoman, and he would not ride out alone with her for fear she’d run to her Scots.”

  Stephen snorted in derision. “It’s more like the Chatworth name has too many enemies to ride out alone.” He stood up. “You should have locked her in her room and not let her ride with any man.”

  “I’m not so old that I can resist a face like Lady Bronwyn’s. She has merely to ask me for something, and I’ll give it to her.”

  “She is my responsibility now. Do I have the southeast room again? Could you send a bath and some food? Tomorrow she won’t be insulted by my appearance.”

  Sir Thomas smiled at Stephen’s calm self-assurance. Tomorrow should prove to be an exciting day.

  As the early-morning sunlight fell across the room, Bronwyn stood by the table, a note in her hand, a frown creasing her brow. She wore a velvet gown of peacock blue. The puffed sleeves were slashed, and tiffany silk of pale green was drawn through the openings. The front of the skirt was cut to show more of the green tiffany.

  She turned to Morag. “He asks me to meet with him in the garden.”

  “Ye look presentable enough.”

  Bronwyn crumbled the note in her hand. She was still angry over the way he’d commanded her presence last night. This morning he offered no apology nor explanation for his behavior or his lateness. He merely requested that she do exactly what he wanted when he wanted.

  She looked at the serving girl who waited for the answer. “Tell Lord Stephen I will not meet with him.”

  “Will not, my lady? You are unwell?”

  “I am quite well. Give my message as I said, then go to Roger Chatworth and tell him I will meet him in the garden in ten minutes.”

  The girl’s eyes widened, then she left the room.

  “Ye’d do well to make peace with yer husband,” Morag said. “Ye’ll gain nothing by making him angry.”

  “My husband! My husband! That’s all I hear. He is not my husband yet. Am I to jump at his call after he has ignored me these past days? I’m laughed at by everyone in the manor because of him, yet I am to fall at his feet like an obedient wife the moment he bothers to appear. I don’t want him to get the idea I’m a pliable, cowardly woman. I want him to know I hate him and all his kind.”

  “And what of young Chatworth? He’s an Englishman.”

  Bronwyn smiled. “At least he is part Scot. Perhaps I can take him to the Highlands and we can make a whole Scot of him. Come, Rab, we have an appointment.”

  “Good morning, Stephen,” Sir Thomas called. It was a lovely morning, the sunlight bright, the air fresh from a quick shower the previous night. The scent of roses was in the air. “You certainly look better than you did yesterday.”

  Stephen wore a short jacket of deep brown worsted. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his chest. His legs were encased in hose that hugged every muscular curve of his powerful thighs. His dark blond hair curled along his collar, his eyes sparkled above his strong jaw. He was extraordinarily handsome.

  “She refused to see me,” he said without small talk.

  “I told you her ways were sharp.”

  Stephen suddenly jerked his head up. Bronwyn was coming toward them. At first he did not see Roger beside her. His eyes were for her alone. Her heavy, thick hair flowed down her back, unhampered, uncovered. The sunlight flashed off it, making it glitter like specks of gold dust. The blue of her dress repeated the blue of her eyes. Her chin was as stubborn in the daylight as it had been at night.

  “Good morning,” Roger said quietly as they paused for a moment.

  Bronwyn nodded to Sir Thomas, then her eyes lingered on Stephen. She did not recognize him. She only thought that she’d never seen a man with such eyes. They seemed to see through her. It was with difficulty that she looked away and continued down the path.

  When Stephen recovered enough to finally realize that Roger Chatworth walked beside the woman he was to marry, he growled low in his throat and took a step forward.

  Sir Thomas caught his arm. “Don’t go after him like that. I’m sure Roger would like nothing better than a fight. And for that matter, so would Bronwyn.”

  “I may give it to them both!”

  “Stephen! Listen to me. You’ve hurt the girl. You were late, you sent no message. She is a proud woman, more proud than a woman has a right to be. Her father did that when he made her his heir. Give her time. Take her riding tomorrow and talk to her. She’s an intelligent woman.”

  Stephen relaxed and took his hand off his sword hilt. “Talk to her? How could I speak to a woman who looks like that? Last night I could hardly sleep because she haunted me so. Yes, I’ll take her riding, though perhaps it’s not the kind of riding you mean.”

  “Your wedding is set for the day after tomorrow. Leave the girl virgin until then.”

  Stephen shrugged. “She’s mine. I’ll do as I will with her.”

  Sir Thomas shook his head at the arrogance of the young man. “Come, look at my new hawks.”

  “My sister-in-law, Judith, showed Gavin a new lure. Perhaps you’d like to see it.”

  They left the garden and walked toward the mews.

  As she walked with Roger, Bronwyn kept looking about the garden for the man she’d met the night before. The only stranger she saw was the man with Sir Thomas. The rest of the men were the same, staring at her, laughing in the same derogatory way when she passed.

  But none of them resembled the ugly, filthy man she’d been dragged before. Once she glanced over her shoulder to where Sir Thomas had been. Both he and the stranger were gone. The man�
�s eyes haunted her. They made her want to run away from him yet at the same time kept her from moving. She blinked to clear her vision and turned to someone safer—Roger. His eyes were smiling and kind and not disturbing in any way.

  “Tell me, Lord Roger, what else is there to know about Stephen Montgomery besides that he is an ugly man?”

  Roger was startled by her question. He wouldn’t have thought a woman introduced to Stephen would think him ugly. Chatworth smiled. “Once the Montgomerys were rich, but their arrogance displeased a king and he took their wealth.”

  She frowned. “So now they must marry wealth.”

  “The wealthiest women they can find,” he emphasized.

  Bronwyn thought of the men who’d died with her father. She would have chosen one of them for her husband, and she would have wed a man who loved her, one who wanted something besides her lands.

  As Morag pulled a bucket of water from the well, her eyes never left the quiet young man who leaned against the garden wall. For the last several days Morag had never been too far from Bronwyn’s side, though the girl was often unaware of Morag’s presence. She didn’t like the way Bronwyn was flaunting herself with this Roger Chatworth. Nor did Morag like Chatworth, a man who’d court a woman a few days before she was to marry another.

  Morag had heard Bronwyn’s ravings the night she’d returned from meeting Stephen Montgomery. She’d heard what a leering, drooling idiot Montgomery was. Bronwyn screamed that she’d never marry him, that he was vile, repulsive.

  Morag set the water bucket on the ground. For nearly an hour she’d been watching the blue-eyed man stare at Bronwyn as she sang to a tune Roger was playing on a lute. The stranger had hardly even blinked. Just stood and watched her.

  “So ye’re the one she’s to marry,” Morag said loudly.

  Stephen had difficulty looking away. He peered down at the gnarled woman and smiled. “How did you know?”

  “It’s the way ye’re lookin’ at her, like ye already own her.”

  Stephen laughed.