Highland Velvet Read online

  It seemed a long way back to the manor house, and the horse’s sharp backbone hitting him seemed just punishment for his behavior. She was a proud woman, and he had treated her badly. It was just that she did things to him. He looked at her, and he had difficulty thinking. She tried to talk to him, and all he could think about was getting her in bed. Later, he thought, after they were married and he’d bedded her a few times, he’d be able to look at her without his blood boiling.

  Bronwyn stood before the mirror in her room. She felt much better now that she’d had a hot bath and some time to think. Stephen Montgomery was not the man to become her husband. If he antagonized her people as he did her, he would be killed instantly, and then the English would come down upon their heads. She’d not marry a man who would surely cause war as well as strife within her clan.

  She adjusted her hair again. She’d pulled the top of it back from her forehead, allowing the rest of it to hang freely down her back. A servant girl had brought her freshly cut autumn daisies, and Bronwyn had made a band of these across the back of her head.

  Her gown was of emerald-green silk. The trailing sleeves were lined with gray squirrel fur, accenting the gray silk revealed by the part in the front of the bell-shaped skirt.

  “I want to look my best,” Bronwyn said, catching a glimpse of Morag in the mirror.

  Morag snorted. “I’d like to think ye were dressin’ to please Sir Stephen, but I don’t think so.”

  “I will never dress for him!”

  “As far as I can tell, the man only wants ye undressed,” Morag mumbled.

  Bronwyn didn’t bother to answer, nor would she allow herself to become upset. What she needed to do would affect the lives of hundreds of people, and she couldn’t enter upon it when she was angry.

  Sir Thomas was waiting for her in the library. His smile of greeting was cordial but reserved. He heartily wished he could get rid of the beautiful woman so his men would stop snapping over her.

  When Bronwyn was seated, a glass of wine refused, she began. She knew the real reason that she couldn’t accept Stephen: because he refused to accept the Scots’ ways. But she’d planned a more English reason to give Sir Thomas.

  “But my dear,” he said in exasperation, “Stephen was chosen for you by King Henry.”

  Bronwyn lowered her head in shy submission. “And I’m willing to accept a husband chosen for me by the English king, but I am chief of Clan MacArran, and Stephen Montgomery is merely a knight. I would have trouble with my men if I were to marry him.”

  “But you think they’d accept Lord Roger?”

  “Since his brother’s recent death, he is an earl, more nearly my rank as chief.”

  Sir Thomas grimaced. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. Damn those Scots anyway for allowing a woman to think for herself. None of this would be happening if Jamie MacArran hadn’t named his daughter his successor.

  He walked to the door and asked for Stephen and Roger to be brought to him.

  When the young men were seated, one on each side of Lady Bronwyn, Sir Thomas told them of her plan. He watched the men’s faces carefully. He saw the light come into Roger’s eyes, and Sir Thomas turned away from him. Stephen sat quietly; the only sign he gave that he heard was a slight darkening of his eyes. Bronwyn never moved, the green of her dress giving her eyes a new depth, the daisies in her hair making her appear sweet and innocent.

  Roger was the first to speak when Sir Thomas finished. “The Lady Bronwyn is right. Her title should be honored.”

  Stephen’s eyes flashed. “Of course you’d think that, since you plan to gain a great deal by such a decision.” He turned to Sir Thomas. “The king spent a year choosing a bride for me. He wanted to reward my family for helping patrol the Lowlands borders.”

  Bronwyn whirled on him. “Kill and rape, you mean!”

  “I meant what I said: patrol. We did very little killing.” His eyes went to her breasts and his voice lowered. “And almost no raping.”

  Bronwyn stood. “Sir Thomas, you’ve been to the Highlands.” She ignored his shudder of unpleasant memory. “My people would be dishonored if I were to bring back a lowly knight who was to be their laird. King Henry wants peace. This man,” she pointed at Stephen, “would only cause more trouble if he entered the Highlands.”

  Stephen laughed as he stepped behind Bronwyn and put a strong arm around her waist. He held her tightly against him. “This isn’t a matter of diplomacy but a girl’s anger. I asked her to come early to my bed, before the wedding, and she thought I’d insulted her.”

  Sir Thomas smiled, relieved. He started to speak.

  Roger stepped forward. “I protest! Lady Bronwyn is not a woman to be put aside so easily. What she says makes sense.” He turned to Stephen. “Are you afraid to put the winning of her to a test?”

  Stephen raised one eyebrow. “I don’t believe the Montgomery name has ‘coward’ attached to it. What did you have in mind?”

  “Gentlemen! Please!” Sir Thomas fairly shouted. “King Henry sent Lady Bronwyn here for a wedding, a happy occasion.”

  Bronwyn jerked from Stephen’s grasp. “Happy! How can you say the word when I am to be married to this greedy, insufferable lowling? I swear I’ll murder him in his sleep the first opportunity I get.”

  Stephen smiled at her. “So long as it’s after the wedding night, I might be content.”

  Bronwyn sneered.

  “Lady Bronwyn!” Sir Thomas commanded. “Would you leave us?”

  She took a deep breath. She’d said what she wanted, and now she could no longer bear being near Stephen. With great grace Bronwyn lifted her skirts and stepped from the room.

  “Stephen,” Sir Thomas began. “I wouldn’t like to be the cause of your murder.”

  “I’m not threatened by the words of a woman.”

  Sir Thomas frowned. “You say that from innocence. You’ve never been north to the Highlands. There is no government there, not like we have. The lairds rule their clans, and no one rules the lairds. All Lady Bronwyn has to do is murmur discontent, and every man, or woman for that matter, in her clan would be ready to end your life.”

  “I am willing to take that chance.”

  Sir Thomas stepped forward and put a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I knew your father, and I feel he wouldn’t want me to send his son into sure death.”

  Stephen stepped back from the friendly hand. His face changed into one of furor. “I want that woman! You have no right to take her from me.” He whirled on Roger, who had begun to smile. “I’ll meet you on a battlefield, and then we’ll see who is most worthy to claim chiefship.”

  “Accepted!” Roger snapped. “Tomorrow morning. The winner will wed her in the afternoon, bed her at night.”

  “Done!”

  “No,” Sir Thomas murmured, but he knew he’d lost. They were two hot-blooded young men. He sighed heavily. “Leave me, both of you. Prepare your own battlefield. I want nothing to do with it.”

  Chapter Four

  STEPHEN STOOD BESIDE HIS STALLION, COVERED IN STEEL from head to foot, the sun beating down on his armor. It was weighing him down, but he’d long ago learned to handle its weight.

  “My lord,” his squire said, “the sun will be in your eyes.”

  Stephen nodded curtly. He was well aware of the fact. “Let Chatworth have what advantage he can. He’ll need it.”

  The boy smiled in pride at his master. It had taken a long while to dress Sir Stephen in the layers of padded cotton and leather that went under the steel plates.

  Stephen mounted his horse with ease, then reached to take his lance and shield from the boy. He didn’t bother to look to his right. He knew Bronwyn stood there with a face as white as the gold-trimmed ivory dress she wore. It didn’t help his spirit any to know the woman would like to see him lose or perhaps even be killed.

  He adjusted the long wooden lance against his armor. He and Roger had not spoken since last night, and Sir Thomas had been true to his word; he was
ignoring the fight. Thus no rules had been established. It was a joust, a fight to see who could stay on his horse longest.

  Stephen’s war-horse, a massive black stallion with heavy feathering on its feet, pranced once in impatience. The animals were bred for power and stamina rather than swiftness.

  Stephen’s men surrounded him, then pulled back as Roger appeared at the far end of the sand-covered field. A low wooden fence ran down the center.

  Stephen lowered his helmet plate, leaving only a slit for his eyes, his head completely covered. A young man raised a banner, and when he lowered it, the two noble men charged at each other, lances raised. It was not a test of speed, but of strength. Only a man in the peak of condition could withstand the lance shattering against his shield.

  Stephen gripped his horse hard with his powerful thighs when Roger’s lance squarely hit his shield. The lance shattered, as did Stephen’s. Stephen reined his horse back to his end of the field.

  “He’s good, my lord,” one of Stephen’s men said as he handed his master a new lance. “Watch the tip this time. I think he means to run it under your shield.”

  Stephen nodded curtly and shut his helmet again.

  The banner was lowered to begin the second charge. All Stephen had to do was knock his opponent from his horse, and by all rules of jousting, he’d win. When Roger charged again, Stephen dipped his shield lower and effectively kept Roger from hitting him. Taken aback, Roger didn’t see Stephen’s lance as it struck his side. He reeled in the saddle and nearly fell from the mighty blow, but he managed to keep his seat.

  “He’s dazed,” the man at Stephen’s side said. “Hit him this time and he’ll go down.”

  Again Stephen nodded and slammed his helmet shut.

  Roger concentrated on his attack and didn’t take care of defending himself. As he dipped his lance Stephen hit him again, this time much harder than before. Roger fell backward then toward the side, landing hard in the dirt at the feet of Stephen’s horse.

  Stephen glanced briefly at his opponent lying in the dust and then looked away toward Bronwyn.

  But Roger Chatworth was not a man to turn one’s back on. He grabbed a spike-headed club from his horse’s saddle and ran with it aloft.

  “Stephen!” someone screamed.

  Stephen reacted instantly but not quite quickly enough. Roger’s club came down hard on Stephen’s left thigh. The steel armor bent and jammed into his flesh. The unexpected impact sent him reeling, and he fell from his stallion, clutching at the pommel.

  Stephen righted himself and saw that Roger was again advancing on him, prepared to attack again. He rolled away, steel hinges creaking in protest.

  Stephen was thrown a club just as Roger’s club hit his shoulder. Stephen grunted and slammed his club into Roger’s side. As Roger staggered sideways Stephen pursued him. Stephen meant to win this battle.

  His second blow, on Roger’s right shoulder blade, sent Roger sprawling. The armor protected the men from cut flesh, but the immense force of each blow was stunning.

  Roger lay still, obviously dazed. Stephen withdrew his sword, straddled Roger’s shoulders, and kicked open his face plate. Then Stephen, with both hands on the hilt, held the sword over him.

  Roger glared up at the victor. “Kill me and be done with it! I would’ve killed you.”

  Stephen stared down at him. “I’ve won. It’s enough for me.” He stepped to one side of Roger’s inert form and removed his gauntlet. He held out his bare hand, palm up to his prostrate opponent.

  “You insult me!” Roger hissed, lifting his head and spitting on Stephen’s offered hand. “I’ll remember this.”

  Stephen raked his hand across his armor. “I’m not likely to forget it.” He resheathed his sword and turned away.

  He walked straight to Bronwyn, who was standing beside Morag. Bronwyn was rigid as Stephen approached. He stopped before her and slowly removed his helmet, tossing it to Morag, who caught it with a grin.

  Bronwyn retreated a step.

  “You cannot escape me again,” Stephen said as he grasped her upper arm with his uncovered hand. He pulled her to him, his one arm stronger than her whole body.

  He pulled her soft body against the steel of his armor. The coldness of it, the hardness of it, made Bronwyn gasp. More steel struck her back as his arms encircled her.

  “You’re mine now,” Stephen murmured as his lips touched hers.

  It was not the first time Bronwyn had kissed a man. There had been several stolen moments during fast cattle raids across the heather.

  But it was the first time she’d experienced anything like this kiss. It was soft and sweet, but at the same time it was taking from her things she’d never given before. His mouth played with hers, touching it, caressing it, yet plundering it. She stood on tiptoe to reach him better, turned her head to more of a slant. He seemed to want her to part her lips, and she did so. The cold-hot touch of the tip of his tongue on hers sent little shivers down her spine. Her body seemed to go limp, and when her head moved back, his followed hers, holding her captive more than any chains could.

  Abruptly Stephen pulled away, and when Bronwyn opened her eyes, he was grinning insolently at her. She realized that she was held entirely by his grip, that his kiss had made her surrender her entire body weight to him. She straightened, letting her own feet support her again.

  Stephen chuckled. “You are mine more than you know.” He released her and pushed her toward Morag. “Go and ready yourself for our wedding…if you can wait that long.”

  Bronwyn turned away quickly. She did not want him or anyone else to see her brilliantly red face or the tears that were forming. What none of his insults could do, his kiss was accomplishing in making her cry.

  “What are ye greeting about?” Morag snapped as soon as they were alone in the room. “He’s a fine, handsome man ye’re to marry. Ye got your way, and he had to fight for ye. He proved himself to be a strong, aggressive fighter. What more do ye want?”

  “He treats me like a tavern wench!”

  “He treats ye like a woman. That other one, that Roger, can’t see ye for yer lands. I doubt he even knows ye’re a woman.”

  “That’s not true! He’s like…Ian!”

  Morag frowned as she thought of the young man, killed when he was only twenty-five. “Ian was like a brother to ye. Ye grew up with him. Had he lived to marry ye he’d probably have felt guilty about bedding ye, felt like he was taking his sister to bed.”

  Bronwyn grimaced. “There’s certainly no guilt in this Stephen Montgomery. He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “What’s upsetting ye?” Morag demanded so loudly that Rab gave a little bark of concern. She stopped, and the wrinkles in her face rearranged themselves. Her voice became quieter. “Is it tonight?”

  Bronwyn looked at Morag with such a bleak expression that Morag gave a snort of laughter.

  “So ye are a virgin! I was never sure what with the way the laird let ye run wild with the young men.”

  “I was always protected. You know that.”

  “Sometimes a young man isn’t the best protector of a young woman’s virtue.” She smiled. “Now stop yer frettin’. ’Tis an enjoyable experience ahead of ye; and unless I miss my guess, this Stephen knows how to make a woman’s first time easier.”

  Bronwyn walked to the window. “I imagine he does. If I believed the way he acts, I’d think he’s bedded half of England.”

  Morag looked at Bronwyn’s back. “Are ye afraid yer inexperience will displease him?”

  Bronwyn whirled about. “No pale Englishwoman can compete with a Scotswoman!”

  Morag chuckled. “Yer color’s comin’ back. Now out of that dress, and let’s get ye in yer weddin’ dress. It’s only a few more hours before ye go to the kirk.”

  Bronwyn’s face lost its color again, and with resignation she set about the long process of changing.

  Stephen sat buried up to his neck in a tub of very hot water. His leg and should
er burned from the blows Roger had given him. His eyes were closed as he heard the door open and shut. “Go away!” he growled. “I’ll call when I need you.”

  “And what will you call?” came an amused, familiar voice.

  Stephen’s eyes flew open, and the next minute he was bounding across the room, nude, dripping water. “Chris!” he laughed as he clasped his friend to him.

  Christopher Audley returned the greeting briefly, then pushed Stephen away. “You’re soaking me, and I don’t want to have to change again for your wedding. I haven’t missed it, have I?”

  Stephen stepped back into the tub. “Sit over there so I can see you. You’ve lost weight again. Didn’t France agree with you?”

  “It agreed too well. The women nearly wore me away with their demands.” He set a chair by the tub. He was a short, thin, dark man with a small nose and chin and a short, well-trimmed beard. His eyes were brown and large, rather like a doe’s. He used his soft, expressive eyes to their best advantage in bringing women to him.

  He nodded toward Stephen’s shoulder and the bruise. “Is that a new wound? I didn’t know you’d been fighting lately.”

  Stephen dipped a handful of water over the injury. “I had to fight Roger Chatworth for the woman I’m to wed.”

  “Fight?” Chris said in astonishment. “I spoke to Gavin before I left, and he said you were almost sick at the prospect of the marriage.” He smiled. “I saw that wife of Gavin’s. She’s a beauty, but from what I hear she’s a hellion. She had the whole court agog with her escapades.”

  Stephen waved his hand in dismissal. “Judith’s calm compared to Bronwyn.”

  “Is Bronwyn the heiress you’re to marry? Gavin said she was fat and ugly.”

  Stephen chuckled as he soaped his legs. “You won’t believe Bronwyn when you see her. She has hair so black that it almost makes a mirror. The sun flashes off of it. She has blue eyes and a chin that juts out in defiance every time I speak to her.”

  “And the rest of her?”