Bronwyn reluctantly took his hand. His palm was warm and dry, callused from years of training. Stephen’s squire waited outside the door, holding out a heavy velvet jacket to his master. Bronwyn watched as Stephen thanked the boy, who looked up proudly at his master and wished him luck and happiness.
Stephen smiled and raised Bronwyn’s hand to his lips. “Happiness,” he said. “Do you think that for us happiness is possible?”
She looked away and didn’t answer as they started down the stairs together, hand in hand. The silver dress weighed on her, and with each step she was reminded of this stranger’s domination of her.
Many people waited at the foot of the stairs, all men, all friends of Sir Thomas’s, men who’d fought against the Highlanders. They made no effort to conceal their animosity toward the Scots. They laughingly talked of Stephen’s “conquering” of the enemy that night. They laughed at the way Bronwyn had fought them after they killed her father. They said that if Bronwyn were half as wild in bed, Stephen was in for a treat.
She lifted her head high, telling herself that she was the MacArran and she must make her clan proud of her. The English were a crude, bragging lot of men, and she wouldn’t lower herself to their level by replying to their disgusting comments.
Stephen’s hand tightened on hers, and she looked up at him in surprise. His face was solemn, his mouth set in a grim line; a muscle worked in his jaw. She would have thought he would enjoy the comments of his countrymen since they were proof that he’d won a prize of war. He turned and looked down at her, and his eyes were almost sad, as if he meant to apologize to her.
The wedding was over very quickly. Truthfully, it didn’t seem much like a wedding at all. Bronwyn stood before the priest, and in that moment she realized how alone she was. When she’d imagined her marriage, it had been in the Highlands, in the spring, when the earth was just beginning to come alive. She would be surrounded by her family and all the members of her clan. Her husband would have been someone she knew.
She turned and looked at Stephen. They knelt side by side inside the little chapel in Sir Thomas’s house. Stephen’s head was reverently bowed. How far away he seemed, how remote. And how very little she knew of him. They had grown up in two different worlds, in completely separate ways of life. All her life she’d been taught that she had rights and powers, that her people would turn to her for help. Yet this Englishman had known only a society where women were taught to sew and to be extensions of their husbands.
Yet Bronwyn was condemned to sharing her life with this man. He’d already made it clear that he believed her to be his property, something he owned and could command at will.
And tonight…Her thoughts stopped because she could not bear to think of tonight. This man was a stranger to her—a total stranger. She knew nothing about him. She didn’t know what he liked to eat, if he could read or sing, what sort of family he had. Nothing! Yet she was to climb into bed with him and share the most intimate experience of life and everyone seemed to think she should enjoy it!
Stephen turned and looked at her. He’d been aware of her staring at him, and it pleased him. There was puzzlement and perplexity on her lovely brow. He gave her a slight smile that he meant to be reassuring, but she looked away from him and again closed her eyes over her clasped hands.
For Bronwyn the day seemed to wear on endlessly. The men who were the wedding guests made no attempt to hide the fact that their only interest was in the wedding night. They sat about the great trestle tables and ate and drank for hours. And the more they drank, the cruder their jests became. With each statement, each drunken jibe, Bronwyn’s hatred for the English increased. They cared nothing for the fact that she was a woman; to them she was only a trophy to be enjoyed.
When Stephen reached for her hand, she drew back from him, and this action caused a new round of raucous laughter. She didn’t look at Stephen, but she saw that he drank deeply of the strong red wine.
The rays of sun lengthened across the room, and a couple of the men, drunk, began a quarrel and proceeded to wrestle with each other. No one tried to stop them, as they were too drunk to do much harm.
Bronwyn ate very little and drank even less. As the night approached she could feel her insides tightening. Morag had been right: what bothered her was the thought of tonight. She tried to reason with herself that she was a woman of courage. Several times she’d led cattle raids on the MacGregors. She’d rolled up in a plaid and slept through a snowstorm. She’d even fought the English beside her father. But nothing had ever frightened her like the idea of tonight. She knew about the physical act of mating, but what accompanied it? Would she change? Would this Stephen Montgomery own her after mating, as he seemed to believe? Morag said the bedding was a pleasant experience, but Bronwyn had seen young men turned to jelly because they believed they were in love. She’d seen happy, exciting women become plump, complaisant housewives after a man slipped a ring on their finger. Something more than just mating happened in a marriage bed, and she was afraid of that unknown thing.
When Morag came from behind and told Bronwyn it was time to ready herself for bed, Bronwyn’s face turned white and her hands gripped the carved lions’ heads of the chair.
Stephen held her arm for a moment. “They are jealous. Please ignore them. Soon we’ll be able to close the door and shut them out.”
“I’d rather stay here,” Bronwyn snarled at him, then followed Morag out of the Great Hall.
Morag didn’t speak as she unfastened the silver dress. Bronwyn was like an obedient doll as she slipped nude beneath the covers of the bed. Rab lay down on the floor, close to his mistress.
“Come, Rab,” Morag called. The dog didn’t budge. “Bronwyn! Send Rab out. He won’t like being with you tonight.”
Bronwyn glared at her. “You fear for the dog but not for me? Has everyone left me? Stay, Rab!”
“Ye’re feelin’ sorry for yerself, ’tis all. Once it’s over and done with ye won’t feel so sad.” She stopped as the door suddenly burst open.
Stephen rushed in and slammed the door behind him. “Here, Morag,” he said. “Go quickly. They’ll be angry when they see I’ve escaped them. But I can’t stand another moment of them, and I’ll not subject Bronwyn to any more of their crudities. Damn them!”
Morag grinned and put her hand on his arm. “Ye are a good lad.” She leaned forward. “Beware of the dog.” She gave his arm a final pat. He opened the door for her and then closed it behind her.
Stephen turned to Bronwyn and smiled at her. She sat up in the bed, her black hair cascading over the sheets. Her face was white, her eyes large and frightened in her face. Her knuckles, which clutched the sheet to her chin, were white from her hard clasp.
Stephen sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and pulled off his shoes, then removed his jacket and doublet. As he was unbuttoning his shirt he spoke. “I’m sorry there wasn’t a more festive atmosphere for our wedding. What with Sir Thomas’s house so near the border, many of the men’s wives are afraid to visit.”
He stopped as he heard the men pounding on the door.
“No fair, Stephen!” they yelled. “We want to see the bride. You have her all your life.”
Stephen stood up and turned to face his wife as he unbuckled his sword and small knife. “They’ll go away. They’re too drunk to do much harm.”
When he was nude, he slipped beneath the sheet beside her. He smiled at her glassy, straightforward stare. He put his hand out to touch her cheek. “Am I so formidable that you can’t look at me?”
