“Stop! But—” She knew it was no use to go on. Only Morag felt as she did; the others needed their rest before they could continue. She took a deep breath and knew that being this close to home would help her sleep tonight. She dismounted her horse and unfastened her saddlebag. At least she could get out of the confining English clothes.
“What’s this?” Stephen asked, touching the plaid over her arm. “Is this what you wore the first night I met you?” he asked, his eyes bright with memory.
She snatched it from his grasp and walked into the darkness of the trees. It wasn’t easy to unfasten the English dress by herself, but she was determined to be rid of it. Once the heavy velvet dress was carefully placed on a rock, she stripped down to her skin. The Scots’ way of dress was simple and gave the people freedom. She slipped a soft cotton chemise over her head, then a saffron-colored, long-sleeved shirt. The sleeves were gathered at the shoulder, tight at the cuffs. The skirt was cut of wide gores, small at the hips but free-flowing enough to allow her to run or ride a horse. It was of a soft blue heather plaid. A wide belt with a big silver belt buckle went around her small waist. Another plaid, a six-yard cloak, she deftly threw about her shoulders, then pinned it with a big, hinged brooch. The heavy silver brooch had been handed from daughter to daughter for generations.
“Here, let me see,” came a voice from behind her.
She whirled about to face Stephen. “Were you spying on me again?” she asked coldly.
“I prefer to think of it as protecting you. There’s no telling what could happen to a pretty lady alone in the woods.”
She backed away from him. “I think the worst has already happened.” She didn’t want him near her, didn’t want a repeat of the power he’d had over her last night. She turned and ran back to camp.
“Didn’t you forget these?” Stephen called after her, holding up her shoes. He laughed when she didn’t look back.
Bronwyn limped into the tent that she’d been told was Stephen’s. His men were efficient at making a camp that resembled a small town. She winced even as her foot touched the edge of the carpet spread over the good Scots soil. She’d forgotten that it’d been months since she’d run barefoot across the open ground. Her feet had grown soft, and after her short run she’d cut and bruised them.
She sat down on the edge of the wide cot and bent to inspect them. When the tent flap opened and Stephen entered, she stood up quickly even though her hurt feet brought tears of pain to her eyes.
Stephen tossed her shoes into a corner. He sat down on the cot. “Let me see them.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said haughtily, walking away from him.
“Bronwyn, why must you always be so stubborn? You hurt your feet, I know you did, so come over here and let me look at them.”
She knew that sooner or later they’d have to be tended. Reluctantly she sat down on the cot beside him.
With a sigh of exasperation, he bent and pulled her feet into his lap. Bronwyn fell back onto her arms. Stephen frowned as he inspected the cuts, one of them quite deep. He bellowed for his squire to bring him a basin of hot water and clean bandages.
“Now put your feet in here,” he said when he’d set the water on the floor.
She watched as he tenderly washed and rinsed her feet and then put them into his lap to dry and bandage them. “Why do you do this for me?” she asked quietly. “I am your enemy.”
“No you’re not. You’re the one who fights me, not the other way around. I’d be only too willing to live in peace with you.”
“How can there be peace when my father’s blood is a wall between us?”
“Bronwyn—” he began, then stopped. It was no use arguing with her. Only his actions would be able to persuade her that he meant only good for her and her clan. He patted the bandage on her left foot. “That should hold you for a while.” When she started to move away, he held her feet in his lap. His eyes turned darker as he ran a hand up her calf. “You have beautiful legs,” he whispered.
Bronwyn wanted to pull away from him because she recognized the look in his eyes, but he hypnotized her, kept her still even though he held her lightly. Both of his hands went under her long skirt, and she lay back against the pillows, still as he caressed her legs and buttocks.
He lay beside her, pulled her into his arms, and began to kiss her face, her ears, her mouth. His hands expertly unfastened her brooch, her belt buckle. Her clothes slipped from her body before she knew they were even unfastened. Stephen moved away from her for only seconds while he discarded his own clothes. He laughed low in his throat as Bronwyn’s hands sought his body and pulled him back close to her.
He fastened his mouth onto hers, tasting the sweetness of her tongue. “Who am I?” he whispered as he ran his teeth along her neck.
She didn’t answer him but rubbed her thighs along his. Her heart was racing, and in spite of the cool night a slight sheen of sweat was beginning to form on her skin.
He grabbed her hair, the thickness of it swallowing his hand. “Who am I? I want to hear you say my name.”
“Stephen,” she whispered. “And I am the MacArran.”
He laughed, his eyes brilliant. Even in her passion she didn’t lose any of that incredible pride of hers. “And I am the conqueror of the MacArran,” he laughed.
“Never!” she said in a throaty whisper as she grabbed his hair and pulled back hard. His head jerked backward, and she put her teeth to his throat. “Who is the conqueror now?”
Stephen pulled her on top of him, ran his hands up and down her firmly. “We English would lose all our wars ’twere such as you the enemy.” Suddenly he lifted her, then slowly lowered her so that she sat on his shaft.
Bronwyn gasped in surprise, then gave a deep moan of pleasure as she bent over him and began to move up and down. Stephen stayed very still, allowing her to control their pleasure. When he felt her excitement begin to peak, he rolled her to her back, and she clasped at him with her strong arms and legs. They exploded together in a blinding flash.
