“Well?” Bronwyn demanded impatiently.
“I saw ye slam the window. They laughed and said they’d take over the weddin’ night ye’d be missin’.”
Bronwyn turned away from the old woman.
“Ye give them too much to speak of. Ye should hold yer head high and ignore them. They’re only Englishmen, while ye’re a MacArran.”
Bronwyn whirled. “I don’t need anyone to tell me how to act,” she snapped. Rab, aware of his mistress’s distress, came to stand beside her. She buried her fingers in his fur.
Morag smiled at her, then watched as the girl moved toward the window seat. She had been placed in Morag’s arms when Bronwyn was still wet from her birth. Morag had held the tiny bairn as she watched the mother die. It’d been Morag who’d found a wet nurse for the girl, who’d given her the name of her Welsh grandmother, and who’d cared for her until she was six and her father’d taken over.
It was with pride that Morag looked at her charge now nearly twenty years old. Bronwyn was tall, taller than most men and as straight and supple as a reed. She didn’t cover her hair like the Englishwoman, but let it flow down her back in a rich cascade. It was raven-black and so thick and heavy it was a wonder her slender neck could support the weight. She wore a satin dress in the English style. It was the color of the cream from the Highland cattle. The square neck was low and tight, showing Bronwyn’s firm young breasts to advantage. It fit like skin to her small waist, then belled out in rich folds. Embroidery entwined with thin gold strands edged both the neck and the waist and fell in an intricate waterfall down the skirt.
“Do I meet your approval?” Bronwyn asked sharply, still irritated over their quarrel about the English attire. She had preferred Highland clothes, but Morag persuaded her to wear English garb, telling her to give the enemy no reason to laugh at her in what they referred to as “barbaric dress.”
Morag chuckled dryly. “I was thinkin’ it was a shame no man would be takin’ that gown from ye tonight.”
“An Englishman!” Bronwyn hissed. “Do you forget that so soon? Has the red of my father’s blood faded before your eyes?”
“Ye know it hasn’t,” Morag said quietly.
Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat, the satin of the dress flowing about her. She ran her finger along the heavy embroidery. The dress had cost her a great deal, money that could have been spent on her clan. But she knew they would not have wanted to be shamed before the Englishmen, so she bought dresses that would have been the pride of any queen.
Only this gown was to have been her wedding dress.
She plucked violently at a piece of gold thread.
“Here!” Morag commanded. “Don’t destroy the dress because ye’re mad at one Englishman. Perhaps the man had a reason to be late and miss his own weddin’.”
Bronwyn stood up quickly, causing Rab to move protectively to her side. “What do I care if the man never appears? I hope he had his throat cut and lies rotting in some ditch.”
Morag shrugged. “They’ll only find ye a new husband, so what does it matter if this one dies or not? The sooner ye have yer English husband, the sooner we can go back to the Highlands.”
“It’s easy for you to say!” Bronwyn snapped. “It’s not you who must wed him and…and…”
Morag’s little black eyes danced. “And bed him? Is that what’s worryin’ ye? I’d gladly trade with ye if I could. Think this Stephen Montgomery would notice ’twere I to slip into his bed?”
“What do I know of Stephen Montgomery except that he has no more respect for me than to leave me waiting in my wedding dress? You say the men laugh at me. The man who is to be my husband holds me up for their ridicule.” She squinted at the door. “Were he to come through there now, I’d gladly take a knife to him.”
Morag smiled. Jamie MacArran would have been proud of his daughter. Even when she was still held prisoner she kept her pride and her spirit. Now she held her chin high, her eyes flashing with daggers of crystal-blue ice.
Bronwyn was startlingly beautiful. Her hair was as black as a moonless midnight in the Scots mountains, her eyes as deep blue as the water of a sunlit loch. The contrast was arresting. It wasn’t unusual for people, especially men, to be struck speechless the first time they saw her. Her lashes were thick and dark, her skin fine and creamy. Her lips of dark red were set above her father’s chin, strong, square on the tip, and slightly cleft.
“They’ll think ye’re a coward if ye hide in this room. What Scot is afraid of the smirks of an Englishman?”
Bronwyn stiffened her back and looked down at the cream-colored gown. When she’d dressed that morning, she thought to be wed in the dress. Now it was hours past time for the marriage ceremony, and her bridegroom had not shown himself, nor had he sent any message of excuse or apology.
“Help me unfasten this thing,” Bronwyn said. The gown would have to be kept fresh until she did marry. If not today, then at another time. And perhaps to another man. The thought made her smile.
“What are ye plannin’?” Morag asked, her hands at the back of Bronwyn’s dress. “Ye’ve a look of the cat that got the cream.”
“You ask too many questions. Fetch me that green brocade gown. The Englishmen may think I’m a bride in tears at being snubbed, but they’ll soon find the Scots are made of sterner stuff.”
Even though she was a prisoner and had been for over a month, Bronwyn was allowed the freedom of Sir Thomas Crichton’s manor. She could walk about the house and, with an escort, on the grounds. The estate was heavily guarded, watched constantly. King Henry had told Bronwyn’s clan that if a rescue attempt were made, she would be executed. No harm would come to her, but he meant to put an Englishman in the chiefship. The clan had recently seen the death of Jamie MacArran as well as of his three chieftains. The Scots retreated to watch their new laird held captive and planned what they’d do when the king’s men dared to try to command them.
Bronwyn slowly descended the stairs to the hall below. She knew her clansmen waited patiently just outside the grounds, hiding in the forest on the constantly turbulent border between England and Scotland.
For herself she did not care if she died rather than accept the English dog she was to marry, but her death would cause strife within the clan. Jamie MacArran had designated his daughter as his successor, and she was to have married one of the chieftains who had died with her father. If Bronwyn were to die without issue, there would no doubt be a bloody battle over who would be the next laird.
