•••
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.
“She said ye were the ugliest man created.”
Stephen’s eyes sparkled. “And what do you think?”
Morag grunted. “Ye’ll do. And don’t try to get compliments out of me.”
“Now that I’ve been put in my place, perhaps you’ll tell me who you are. I take it by your accent that you’re a Scot like my Bronwyn.”
“I’m Morag of MacArran.”
“Bronwyn’s maid?”
Morag’s back stiffened. “Ye’ll do well to learn that we’re freemen in Scotland. I do what I can to earn my bread. Why were ye late for yer own weddin’?”
Stephen looked back at Bronwyn. “My sister-in-law was very ill. I couldn’t leave until I knew she was going to live.”
“And ye couldna’ send a message?”
Stephen gave her a sheepish look. “I forgot. I was worried about Judith and I forgot.”
Morag gave her little cackle of a laugh. She could feel herself being charmed by this tall knight. “Ye’re a good man that ye could care enough about someone else to forget yer own interests.”
Stephen’s eyes sparkled. “Of course, I had no idea then what your mistress looked like.”
The woman laughed again. “Ye’re a good, honest boy…for an Englishman. Come inside and have some whiskey with me. Ye’re not afraid of a little whiskey so early in the day?”
He held out his arm to her. “Maybe I can get you drunk and ply you with questions about Bronwyn.”
Morag’s cackle rang out across the garden. “There was a time, young man, when men wanted me drunk for other reasons.” They walked together into the house.
Bronwyn frowned at the laugh. She’d been all too aware of the man staring at her, and she’d found it oddly unsettling. She glanced at him occasionally, and she had an impression of easy grace, power, and a strength held lightly under control. Morag’s too-intimate conversation with the man disturbed her. The old woman didn’t usually take to men, especially Englishmen, and Bronwyn wondered how this man could charm her so easily.
“Who is that man with Morag?”
Roger frowned. “I thought you’d met him. That’s Stephen.”
She stared at Stephen’s retreating form, watched how he offered his arm to the wrinkled woman. Morag’s head barely reached above Stephen’s elbow.
Suddenly Bronwyn felt even further insulted. What kind of man was he that would stand by while another courted the woman he was to wed? He’d been only a few feet away, yet he hadn’t even bothered to speak to her.
“Lady Bronwyn, has something upset you?” Roger asked, watching her closely.
“No,” she smiled. “Absolutely nothing. Please continue to play.”
