“I have no—” Bronwyn began but stopped when she heard the soft click of the door behind Morag. She turned and looked back at Stephen. She had to admit to herself that it upset her the way her body reacted to his touch. Quite often she found herself trembling as soon as the sun began to set. She was careful never to allow Stephen to see the way she felt. She never made an advance toward him or gave a word of affection to him; after all, he was her enemy, he was of the race that killed her father. It was easy to remember that he was her enemy during the day. He dressed as an Englishman, talked as one, thought as one. His difference screamed at her and her men. It was only at night when he touched her that she forgot who he was and who she was.
•••
“Stephen!” Chris said as they walked across the sand-covered field. They stopped by the edge of the peninsula, gazing out at the sea. “You’ve got to stop working like this. Can’t you see that they’re not interested in what you’re trying to do for them?”
Stephen removed his helmet. The cool wind rushed at his sweat-dampened hair. Each day he was increasingly frustrated at his attempts to work with Bronwyn’s men. His own men trained each day, learning to handle their heavy armor and weapons. But Bronwyn’s men stood on the outskirts and watched the Englishmen as if they were animals in King Henry’s menagerie.
“There must be a way to reach them!” he said under his breath.
Suddenly he heard a man running toward them.
“My lord,” one of Stephen’s men said. “There’s been an attack on some of the MacArran cattle in the north. The men are already saddling.”
Stephen nodded once. Now he’d have a chance to show these Scotsmen what fighters his English knights were. He was used to protecting lands from poachers and thieves.
The heavy steel armor made quick movement impossible. His squire waited with his horse, it too wearing armor. The horse was a heavy one, bred through hundreds of years to be able to bear the weight of a man in full armor. The horse would never be called upon for speed but must stand steady through the thickest of battles, obeying its master’s knee commands.
By the time Stephen and his armored men mounted, the Scotsmen were gone. Stephen grimaced and thought of the necessary discipline he’d have to enforce for punishment.
It wasn’t until years later that Stephen could remember the events of that night on the Scots moors without once again experiencing a sense of shame and bewilderment.
It was dark when he and his men reached the place where the MacGregors had stolen the cattle. The noise they made as they rode echoed through the countryside. Their armor clanked; their heavy horses’ hoofs thundered.
Stephen thought he must have expected the MacGregors to meet him like Englishmen in hand-to-hand combat. It was with consternation that he and his men sat atop their horses and watched the ensuing battle. It was like nothing Stephen had ever seen or imagined.
The Scots left their horses and melted into the woods. They discarded their plaids from their shoulders, leaving them free to run in their loose shirts. There were great shouts from the trees, then the sounds of the Scots’ Claymores striking steel.
Stephen motioned for his men to dismount, and they followed the sound of the Scots into the trees. But the Scots had already moved elsewhere. The heavy armor made the Englishmen too slow, too unsteady.
Stephen was looking about in a confused manner when one of Bronwyn’s men stepped from the shadows.
“We routed them,” the Scotsman said, his mouth in a slight smirk.
“How many were hurt?”
“Three injured, none killed,” he said flatly, then smiled. “The MacArrans are too fast for any MacGregor.” The man was flushed from the excitement of the battle. “Shall I get some men together to lift you onto your horse?” he said as he smiled openly at Stephen in his armor.
“Why you—!” Chris began. “I’ll take a sword to you here and now.”
“Come on, English dog,” the Scotsman taunted. “I can have your throat cut before you can move the hinges on that steel coffin.”
“Cease!” Stephen commanded. “Chris, put your sword away. And you, Douglas, see to the wounded.” Stephen’s voice was heavy.
“You can’t let him get away with such insolence,” Chris said. “How do you plan to teach them to respect you?”
“Teach them!” Stephen snapped. “A man cannot teach another to respect him. He must earn respect. Come, let’s go back to Larenston. I have some thinking to do.”
•••
Bronwyn tossed in the bed, slamming her fist into the pillow. She kept telling herself that she didn’t care that Stephen preferred to spend the night somewhere else. She didn’t care if he chose someone else to spend it with. She thought of her clan members. Margaret’s daughter was a pretty thing, and she’d heard a couple of the men laughing about what a good time they’d had with her. She must speak to Margaret in the morning! It wasn’t good to have a girl like that around.
“Damn!” she said aloud, and Rab growled. She sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her lovely breasts. It was cold in the bed alone. Morag had told her of the cattle raid. She had a few choice words to say about the MacGregors. Morag hissed when Bronwyn said she hoped Stephen wasn’t killed because his death would bring the English king down on their heads.
Now she kept looking at the door, frowning once in a while.
When the door began to open, she held her breath. It could be Morag with news. Her breath escaped when she saw Stephen enter, his hair as well as his shirt-front wet from dousing himself at the well.
Stephen barely looked at her. His blue eyes were dark, a crease between his brows. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and began to remove his clothes. He couldn’t seem to put his mind on the task but kept pausing for long periods of time.
