Bronwyn searched for something to say. “Are you hungry?” He didn’t answer, so she moved across the bed to sit closer to him. The sheet was wrapped about her lower body, the upper bare. “I asked if you were hungry,” she said loudly.
“Oh?” Stephen mumbled as he removed a boot. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Bronwyn had an urge to ask him what was wrong, but of course she’d never do anything like that. She didn’t care what was wrong with the Englishman. “Were any of my men hurt in the cattle raid?”
When Stephen again didn’t answer, she pushed his shoulder. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question.”
Stephen turned to her as if he’d just realized she was there. His eyes raked her nude body, but he showed no interest as he stood and unfastened his belt. “No one was seriously hurt. A few stitches in one man’s arm, but nothing else.”
“Who? Whose arm needed stitches?”
Stephen waved his hand and stepped nude into the bed. He put his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t attempt to touch her. “Francis, I think,” he said finally.
Bronwyn was still sitting, frowning at him. What was wrong with him? “Did our Scots’ ways frighten you, Englishman? Were my men too strong for you or too fast?”
To her amazement Stephen did not take the bait.
“Too fast,” he said quite seriously, still watching the ceiling. “They moved quickly and freely. Of course, they’d never last in England, because a few armed knights could cut fifty of them apart. But here—”
“Fifty!” Bronwyn breathed. The next instant she brought both her fists down against Stephen’s broad, bare chest. “You’ll never see the day when one Englishman can harm fifty Scots,” she fairly yelled as she beat her fists against his hard chest.
“Here! Stop that!” Stephen said, grabbing her fists in his hands. “I have enough bruises without your adding to them.”
“I’ll give you more than bruises,” she said as she struggled against his grip.
Stephen’s eyes lightened. He pulled on her hands and drew her forward; her breasts pressed against him. “I’d like more than bruises,” he said huskily, his full attention at last on her. He released one of her hands and touched her hair. “Will you always bring me back to reality?” he asked as he touched her temple. “I think I could be worried about the greatest problem in the universe, and you would contrive to turn my thoughts to your lovely skin, your eyes,” he said, moving his fingers, “your lips.”
Bronwyn felt her heart begin to pound. His breath was so soft and warm. His hair was still damp, and a curl stuck by his ear. She had an urge to touch that curl, but she was always careful to make no advances toward him. “And were you worried about some great problem?” she asked nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter.
He stilled his fingers and his eyes captured hers. “Do I hear concern in your voice?” he asked quietly.
“Never!” she spat and rolled away from him. She expected to hear his amused laughter, but when he was silent, she had an urge to turn and look at him, keeping her back to him. He was very still, and after a while she heard the quiet, even tone of his breathing that meant he was asleep. She lay very, very still, and after a while she felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes. There were times when she felt so alone that she didn’t know what to do. Her idea of marriage was of two people who shared their lives and their love. But she was married to an Englishman!
Stephen turned suddenly and threw a heavy arm around her, then drew her close to him. She tried to remain stiff and aloof from him, but in spite of herself she wiggled her bottom against him, snuggling closer.
“That’s not the way to help a man sleep,” Stephen whispered, then raised his head and kissed her temple. “What’s this?” he said. “Tears?”
“Of course not. I merely had something in my eye, ’tis all.”
He turned her about in his arms so that she faced him. “You are lying,” he said flatly. He searched her face with his eyes, touched the cleft in her chin. “You and I are strangers,” he whispered. “When will we become friends? When will you share yourself with me? When will you tell me the cause of your tears?”
“When you become a Scotsman!” she said as fiercely as she could. But Stephen’s nearness made the words come out oddly, as if they were a plea instead of an impossible demand.
“Done!” he said with great confidence, almost as if he could actually change into a Scotsman.
She wanted to laugh at him, to tell him that he could never become a Scotsman—or her friend. But he pulled her even closer and began to kiss her. He kissed her as if he had all the time in the world, lazily, slowly. Bronwyn felt the blood pounding through her veins. She wanted to pull Stephen to her, but he held her off. He held her slightly away from his body so he could touch her breasts, stroke her ribs and stomach.
She arched away from him, her legs entwined with his, her thighs clasping one of his. Stephen’s hand strayed downward to her legs, and he smiled when he felt her sharply indrawn breath.
“My beautiful, beautiful wife,” he whispered as he ran his nails lightly along the tendon in the back of her knee. “I wish I knew how to please you out of bed.”
She moved back to him, sought his lips, then ran her mouth down his neck. His skin tasted good, slightly salty with sweat, firm yet soft. She touched her tongue to his ear, and she felt a shiver run through him. A low rumble of laughter ran through her.
Stephen grabbed her shoulders fiercely. “Come here, laird of Clan MacArran.” He pushed her down in the bed and lowered himself on top of her.
She arched up to meet him, lifting her hips high. She was a Scotswoman, and she was equal to him. Now she did not wait for his advances but met him evenly, with as much passion as his.
Later they lay together, so close they were as one. Bronwyn sleepily opened her eyes and saw the curl by Stephen’s ear. It was the one she’d wanted to touch earlier. She moved her head and kissed that curl, feeling the soft hair between her lips. Then she pulled away, her face flushing. Somehow that kiss seemed more intimate than their lovemaking.
