He was quiet for a moment. “It seems that being the chief of a clan—pardon me,” he said with an amused little chuckle, “being the husband of a chief entails some responsibility. What must I do to be accepted?”
Bronwyn relaxed her shoulders. Since he looked away from her, she had leisure to look at him. He was so tall, taller than most of the men she’d met. His long body stretched out before her, and she was well aware of his nearness. In spite of his words she wanted to sit beside him, enjoyed gazing at him, at his strong legs, at the thickness of his chest, at the dark blond curls along his collar. She liked that his dress was subdued, not gaudy like so many of the Englishmen’s. She wondered how he’d look in a Scots tartan, his legs bare from mid-thigh to just below his knees.
“You must dress as a Scot,” she said quietly. “The men will always be aware that you’re one of the enemy if you do not wear a plaid.”
Stephen frowned. “You mean run around bare-legged? I heard the Highlands get quite cold.”
“Of course, if you aren’t man enough—” His arrogant look stopped her.
“What else?”
“You must become a MacArran, be a MacArran. The MacGregors will be your enemies, your name will become MacArran. You will—”
“What!” Stephen said as he jumped to his feet and towered over her. “Change my name! You mean to sayI,a man, am to take my wife’s name?” He turned away from her. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Do you know who I am? I am a Montgomery! The Montgomerys have lasted through hundreds of wars, through many kings. Other families have risen and fallen, but the Montgomerys have survived. My family has owned the same land for over four hundred years.”
He turned back to her and ran his hand through his hair. “And now you expect me to give up the Montgomery name for that of my wife?” He paused, then chuckled. “My brothers would laugh me to hell and back if I were to consider such a thing.”
Bronwyn rose slowly, letting his words sink in. “You have brothers to carry on your family name. Do you know what would happen if I were to take an Englishman home who does not even attempt to understand our ways? First my men would kill him, then I would need to choose a new husband. Do you know what conflict that would cause? There are several young men who’d like to become my husband. They would fight.”
“So! I’m to give up my name so you can control your men? And what if they still didn’t accept me? Perhaps I should dye my hair or cut off an arm to please them. No! They’ll obey me or they’ll feel this!” He quickly drew his long sword from the sheath at his side.
Bronwyn stared at him. He was speaking of murdering her people, her friends, her relatives, the people whose lives she held in her hands. She couldnotreturn to Scotland with this madman.
“I cannot marry you,” she said quietly, her eyes hard and deadly serious.
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Stephen said as he resheathed his weapon. He hadn’t meant to get so angry, but the woman needed to know from the start who was in control…as did the Scots she called “her” men. “I am an Englishman,” he said quietly, “and I will remain English wherever I go. You should understand that, as I don’t believe you’re willing to change your Scots ways.”
Her body was feeling quite cold in spite of the warm autumn day. “It is not the same. You’d be living with my people, day in and day out, year after year. Can’t you see that they couldnotaccept you if you strut about in your fine English clothes with your old English name? Every time they saw you, they’d remember their children the English had killed, they’d see my father, slain while he was a young man.”
Her plea reached Stephen. “I will wear the Scots’ garb. I’ll agree to that.”
Sudden, red-hot anger replaced the coldness in Bronwyn’s body. “So you’ll agree to wear the plaid and saffron shirt! No doubt you like the image of showing your fine, strong legs to my women.”
Stephen’s mouth dropped open slightly, then he grinned so broadly he threatened to split his face in half. “I hadn’t thought of that, no, but it’s nice to know you have.” He stuck his leg out, flexed the big muscle running from the top of his knee. “Do you think your women will agree with you?” His eyes sparkled. “Will you be jealous?”
Bronwyn could only stare in astonishment. This man could not be serious for a moment. He teased her and laughed at her when she talked of life and death. She grabbed her skirts and started toward the stream.
“Bronwyn!” Stephen called. “Wait! I didn’t mean to make light of what you said.” He’d instantly understood his mistake. He grabbed her wrist, whirled her to face him. “Please,” he begged, his heart in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that you’re so beautiful that I can’t think. I look at your hair and I want to touch it. I want to kiss your eyes. That damned dress is so low you’re about to fall out of it, and it’s driving me insane. How do you expect me to talk seriously about the disputes between the Scots and the Englishmen?”
“Disputes!” she spat. “ ’Tis more like war!”
“War, whatever,” he said, his focus on her breasts, his hands running up her arms. “God! I can’t stand so near you and not have you. I’ve been in this condition so long I’m in pain.”
Involuntarily she looked down, then her face turned red.
Stephen smiled at her with hooded eyes, a knowing smile.
She curled her lip back and snarled at him. He was a low-minded man, and he obviously thought she shared his lack of character. She twisted away from his searching hands, and when he refused to release her, she gave him a sharp shove. Stephen didn’t budge, but the impact against his hard chest made Bronwyn lose her balance. She had no idea she was so near the edge of the stream.
She fell backward as she frantically tried to grab hold of something. Stephen put out his hand to catch her, but even as it touched her wrist, she slapped at it. He gave a slight shrug and stepped back, since he had no desire to wet his own clothes from the splash she was going to make.
The water from the stream must have come from the mountains of the Highlands. There was no other way it could have been so cold. Bronwyn sat down hard in the water, and the heavy wool dress soaked up the liquid ice as if it’d been waiting for such a chance.
She sat still for a moment, slightly dazed, and looked up at Stephen. He was grinning at her as a cold drop of water clung to the tip of her nose. Rab stood beside Stephen and began to bark at her, his tail wagging in delight at her game.
“Could I offer you assistance?” Stephen asked cheerfully.
Bronwyn brushed a wet black curl off her cheek. Any moment her teeth would begin chattering, but she would yank them from her mouth before she’d let him see. “No, thank you,” she said as loftily as she could manage.
