Bronwyn’s eyes flashed angrily. “Isn’t that what all these Englishmen want? If I were fat and old, they’d still want me.”
Morag shook her head in disgust. “One moment ye decry Stephen for his hotness, the next ye complain that the men want only yer wealth and not yer person. Give him a chance to redeem himself. Talk to him, spend the day with him, ask him why he was late.”
Bronwyn frowned. She didn’t want to see Stephen again, ever, if that were possible. She could imagine Roger riding beside her, but she couldn’t imagine Stephen doing anything but what he wanted, regardless of her wants. She looked up at Morag. “I’ll try to talk to him…if he can keep his hands still long enough to talk.”
Morag cackled. “I think there’s hope in yer voice.”
Chapter Three
IN SPITE OF HER RELUCTANCE TO SPEND THE DAY WITH HERbetrothed, Bronwyn dressed carefully. She wore a simple wool dress the color of dark wine. It was trimmed with a border of seed pearls around the deep, square neckline. The sleeves were tight, showing the curve of her arm.
As she walked down the stairs, Rab close at her heels, she held her head high. She planned to give Stephen Montgomery a chance to show that he meant well toward her and her people. Perhaps she had hastily judged him and he wanted what was best for her clan. She could forgive him for being late for their wedding. After all, what did her personal inconvenience matter? What was important was Stephen’s attitude toward her clan, whether they could accept him or not. She wanted peace between the Scots and the English as much as King Henry did—more, since it was her family members who had been slaughtered.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs and stared out into the sunlit garden. Stephen was leaning against a low stone wall, waiting for her. She had to admit he was a handsome man, and her attraction to him was extraordinary, but she couldn’t let her personal feelings—either love or hate—stand before the needs of her clan.
“Good morning,” she said quietly as she walked up to him. He stared down at her with a burning intensity. He familiarly took a curl of hair from her shoulder.
“Is this the Scots’ custom, to not cover the hair?” He wrapped the silken stuff about his fingers.
“Until a woman has a child, she usually leaves her hair uncovered. Except when wearing a tartan,” she added, watching him to see if he’d make any comment or show any sign of recognition.
“A child.” Stephen smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” He nodded toward the far end of the garden. “I have a couple of horses waiting. Are you ready?”
She twisted her head so that he dropped her hair. “A Scotswoman is always ready to ride.” She lifted her long skirts and strode ahead of him, ignoring his amused chuckle.
A pretty black mare waited beside Stephen’s roan stallion. The mare pranced, lifting her feet high in excitement to be away. Before Stephen could help her, Bronwyn vaulted into the saddle. The heavy, full skirts were awkward, and she cursed the English manner of dress for the hundredth time. She was glad Stephen had not given her one of those absurd sidesaddles like Roger had.
Before Stephen had even mounted his horse, she urged the mare forward. It was a spirited animal, as anxious to run as Bronwyn was. She guided the horse, full speed, toward the path Roger had shown her. She leaned forward in the saddle, delighting in the wind on her face and throat.
Suddenly she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. Twisting around, she saw that Stephen was close behind her, gaining on her. She laughed aloud. No Englishman born could beat a Scotswoman on a horse! She talked to the mare and applied the crop to her flank. The horse sprang forward as if it had wings. A feeling of power and exultation coursed through Bronwyn.
Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at seeing Stephen still gaining on her. Ahead the path narrowed, too narrow for two horses side by side. If he wanted to pass her, he’d have to leave the path, go into the forest, and risk running his horse’s legs into a rabbit hole or hitting a tree. She guided the mare to the middle of the path. She knew what a Scotsman would do if she blocked his path, but these Englishmen were soft things, lacking guts and stamina.
The mare ran at a hard run. Stephen was nearly on her now, and Bronwyn smiled in triumph at his confusion. It was when her mare reared slightly and screamed that Bronwyn had her hands full keeping her seat. Stephen’s war-trained stallion had nipped the mare’s rump as it crowded the smaller horse.
Bronwyn worked hard at controlling the mare and cursed the English for taking her own horse from her. This animal was a stranger to her and not as receptive to her commands.
The mare screamed again as the stallion bit it a second time, then, against Bronwyn’s commands, it pulled aside and Stephen went thundering by. The look he threw Bronwyn made her utter a horrendous Gaelic oath. She jerked the reins and led the mare back to the center of the path.
Through all of the race Bronwyn had never allowed the mare to slow down. It was only through her extraordinary affinity with horses that she was able to control the animal as it jumped into the forest, away from the charging stallion.
When she came to the stream and jumped it, Stephen was there, waiting for her. He’d dismounted and was standing calmly by his horse as it drank. “Not bad.” He grinned up at her. “You have a tendency to pull the right rein harder than the left, but you could be quite good with a little training.”
Bronwyn’s eyes shot blue fire at him. Training! She’d had her own pony when she was four, had ridden with her father in cattle raids since she was eight. She’d ridden at night across the moors, up the rocks by the sea coast…and he said she needed training!
Stephen laughed. “Don’t look so stricken. If it’ll make you feel any better, you’re the best woman rider I’ve ever seen. You could give most Englishwomen lessons.”
“Women!” she managed to gasp. “I could give all Englishmenlessons!”
“From where I stand, you just lost a race to an Englishman. Now get off that horse and rub it down. You can’t let a horse stand in its own sweat.”
Now he dared tell her how to tend to her horse. She sneered at him, raised her riding whip, and bent forward to strike him. Stephen easily sidestepped the lash, then gave her wrist one sharp, painful turn, and the crop fell to the ground. Bronwyn was caught off balance by the unexpected movement. The heavy English dress had wrapped around her leg in such a way that she lost her footing in the stirrup and pitched forward.
She grabbed the pommel and would have recovered herself but Stephen’s hands were already on her waist. He pulled her toward him and she pulled away from him. For a moment it was a struggle of strength, but what infuriated Bronwyn was that Stephen seemed to be thoroughly enjoying her humiliation. He was playing with her, letting her seem to win before he pulled her down again.
He laughed and gave one powerful tug and lifted her from the saddle, lifting her high above his head. “Did you know that that hole in your chin gets deeper when you’re angry?”
“Hole!” she gasped and drew her foot back to strike him.
