She turned away and started back toward the house.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to look at him. She wasn’t used to a man so much taller than her. “If I offered you an apology, would you accept it?” His voice was quiet, deep, as liquid silver as the moonlight. It was the first time he’d ever touched her or even been so close. He took her wrists, ran his hands up her arms, gripping her flesh beneath the silk and velvet.
“King Henry only wants peace,” he said. “He thinks that if he puts an Englishman in the midst of the Scots, they’ll see we aren’t so bad.”
Bronwyn looked up at him. Her heart was pounding quite hard. She wanted to get away from him, but her body wouldn’t obey her. “Your vanity is alarming. Judging from your lack of manners, my Scots would see the English as worse than they feared.”
Stephen laughed softly, but it was obvious his mind was not on her words. He moved his left hand to touch her throat.
Bronwyn tried to jerk from his grip. “Unhand me! You have no right to paw me…or to laugh at me.”
Stephen made no effort to release her. “You’re a delicious thing. I can only think that had I not missed our wedding, I could take you upstairs to my chamber this very moment. Perhaps you’d like to forget the day of waiting for our wedding and go with me now?”
She gasped in horror, causing Rab to growl menacingly at Stephen. She twisted sharply away from the hands that held her. Rab stepped between his mistress and the man who touched her. “How dare you?” she said between clenched teeth. “Be grateful I do not turn Rab onto you for that insult.”
Stephen laughed in astonishment. “The dog values its life.” He took a step closer and Rab growled louder.
“Don’t come any closer,” Bronwyn warned.
Stephen looked at her in puzzlement. He put his hands up in a pleading gesture. “Bronwyn, I didn’t mean to insult you. I—”
“Lady Bronwyn, may I help you?” Roger Chatworth asked, stepping from the shadows of the hedges.
“Have you lately taken to skulking in shadows, Chatworth?” Stephen snapped.
Roger was calm, smiling. “I prefer to think of myself as rescuing ladies in distress.” He turned to Bronwyn, his arm extended. “Would you like an escort to your chambers?”
“Chatworth, I’m warning you!”
“Stop it! Both of you!” Bronwyn said, disgusted at their childish quarrel. “Roger, thank you for your kindness, but Rab will be all the escort I need.” She turned to Stephen and gave him an icy glare. “As for you, sir, I am grateful for an excuse to leave your vile company.” She turned away from the men, and Rab followed her closely as she went back to the house.
Roger and Stephen stared after her for a long while, then, without looking at each other, they turned away.
•••
Bronwyn had difficulty sleeping. Stephen Montgomery disturbed her a great deal. His nearness was unsettling, and tonight she hadn’t been able to think properly while he was touching her. Was this the man she was to present to her clan as a leader? He didn’t seem to have a serious bone in his body.
When she did sleep, she had bloody dreams. She saw the men of her clan following an English flag, and one by one they were slaughtered. Stephen Montgomery stood holding the banner, ignoring the Scots’ death as he kept trying to thrust his hand down Bronwyn’s dress.
In the morning her mood wasn’t lightened by an invitation from Stephen asking her to go riding with him. She’d crumbled the note and told Morag she wouldn’t go. But Morag had a way of nagging that always made anyone do what she wanted. The old woman had already gotten Bronwyn to tell her why she was so angry at Stephen.
Morag snorted. “He’s a healthy young man, and he asked ye to spend the night with him. I remember some other men asking, and ye certainly weren’t insulted then.”
Bronwyn was silent, thinking that the English had ended her days of freedom and laughter.
Morag didn’t allow Bronwyn’s silence to disturb her. She wanted something, and she wouldn’t stop until she got it. “He asks ye to spend the day with him. After all, yer wedding is set for tomorrow.”
“How do you know so much? I haven’t heard of the new date.”
“Stephen told me this morning,” Morag said impatiently.
“So! You’ve seen him again! What is it about him that interests you? There are other men, even Englishmen, who are better.”
Morag sniffed. “Not any I’ve met.”
“Roger Chatworth is a kind, intelligent man, and he has a strong strain of Scots blood.”
“Did he tell ye that?” Morag snapped. “Perhaps he meant he liked the Scots’ land. I think Roger Chatworth would love to have the land ye possess.”
