Again Stephen nodded and slammed his helmet shut.
Roger concentrated on his attack and didn’t take care of defending himself. As he dipped his lance Stephen hit him again, this time much harder than before. Roger fell backward then toward the side, landing hard in the dirt at the feet of Stephen’s horse.
Stephen glanced briefly at his opponent lying in the dust and then looked away toward Bronwyn.
But Roger Chatworth was not a man to turn one’s back on. He grabbed a spike-headed club from his horse’s saddle and ran with it aloft.
“Stephen!” someone screamed.
Stephen reacted instantly but not quite quickly enough. Roger’s club came down hard on Stephen’s left thigh. The steel armor bent and jammed into his flesh. The unexpected impact sent him reeling, and he fell from his stallion, clutching at the pommel.
Stephen righted himself and saw that Roger was again advancing on him, prepared to attack again. He rolled away, steel hinges creaking in protest.
Stephen was thrown a club just as Roger’s club hit his shoulder. Stephen grunted and slammed his club into Roger’s side. As Roger staggered sideways Stephen pursued him. Stephen meant to win this battle.
His second blow, on Roger’s right shoulder blade, sent Roger sprawling. The armor protected the men from cut flesh, but the immense force of each blow was stunning.
Roger lay still, obviously dazed. Stephen withdrew his sword, straddled Roger’s shoulders, and kicked open his face plate. Then Stephen, with both hands on the hilt, held the sword over him.
Roger glared up at the victor. “Kill me and be done with it! I would’ve killed you.”
Stephen stared down at him. “I’ve won. It’s enough for me.” He stepped to one side of Roger’s inert form and removed his gauntlet. He held out his bare hand, palm up to his prostrate opponent.
“You insult me!” Roger hissed, lifting his head and spitting on Stephen’s offered hand. “I’ll remember this.”
Stephen raked his hand across his armor. “I’m not likely to forget it.” He resheathed his sword and turned away.
He walked straight to Bronwyn, who was standing beside Morag. Bronwyn was rigid as Stephen approached. He stopped before her and slowly removed his helmet, tossing it to Morag, who caught it with a grin.
Bronwyn retreated a step.
“You cannot escape me again,” Stephen said as he grasped her upper arm with his uncovered hand. He pulled her to him, his one arm stronger than her whole body.
He pulled her soft body against the steel of his armor. The coldness of it, the hardness of it, made Bronwyn gasp. More steel struck her back as his arms encircled her.
“You’re mine now,” Stephen murmured as his lips touched hers.
It was not the first time Bronwyn had kissed a man. There had been several stolen moments during fast cattle raids across the heather.
But it was the first time she’d experienced anything like this kiss. It was soft and sweet, but at the same time it was taking from her things she’d never given before. His mouth played with hers, touching it, caressing it, yet plundering it. She stood on tiptoe to reach him better, turned her head to more of a slant. He seemed to want her to part her lips, and she did so. The cold-hot touch of the tip of his tongue on hers sent little shivers down her spine. Her body seemed to go limp, and when her head moved back, his followed hers, holding her captive more than any chains could.
Abruptly Stephen pulled away, and when Bronwyn opened her eyes, he was grinning insolently at her. She realized that she was held entirely by his grip, that his kiss had made her surrender her entire body weight to him. She straightened, letting her own feet support her again.
Stephen chuckled. “You are mine more than you know.” He released her and pushed her toward Morag. “Go and ready yourself for our wedding…if you can wait that long.”
Bronwyn turned away quickly. She did not want him or anyone else to see her brilliantly red face or the tears that were forming. What none of his insults could do, his kiss was accomplishing in making her cry.
“What are ye greeting about?” Morag snapped as soon as they were alone in the room. “He’s a fine, handsome man ye’re to marry. Ye got your way, and he had to fight for ye. He proved himself to be a strong, aggressive fighter. What more do ye want?”
“He treats me like a tavern wench!”
“He treats ye like awoman.That other one, that Roger, can’t see ye for yer lands. I doubt he even knows ye’re a woman.”
“That’s not true! He’s like…Ian!”
Morag frowned as she thought of the young man, killed when he was only twenty-five. “Ian was like a brother to ye. Ye grew up with him. Had he lived to marry ye he’d probably have felt guilty about bedding ye, felt like he was taking his sister to bed.”
Bronwyn grimaced. “There’s certainly no guilt in this Stephen Montgomery. He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.”
