He threw up his hand and motioned his men forward as he set spurs to his own mount.
Bronwyn made her horse come close to flying. The wind in her hair, the sense of freedom, were exhilarating. When she came to the stream, she was going full speed. She had no idea if the horse had ever taken a jump before, but she urged it on regardless of the risk. It sailed over the water as if it had wings. On the far side she pulled the animal to a halt and turned to look back.
Roger and his men were just approaching the stream.
“Lady Bronwyn!” Roger shouted. “Are you all right?”
“Of course,” she laughed, then led her horse through the water to where Roger waited for her. She bent forward and patted the horse’s neck. “He’s a good animal. He took the jump well.”
Roger dismounted and walked to her side. “You gave me a terrible fright. You could have been injured.”
She laughed happily. “A Scotswoman is not likely to be injured while atop a horse.”
Roger put his arms up to help her dismount.
Suddenly Rab jumped between them, his lips drawn back showing long, sharp teeth. He growled deeply, menacingly. Roger instinctively retreated.
“Rab!” The dog obeyed Bronwyn immediately. He moved away but his eyes, with a warning gleam, never left Roger. “He means to protect me,” she said. “He doesn’t like anyone touching me.”
“I’ll remember that in future,” Roger said warily as he aided Bronwyn off her horse. “Perhaps you’d like to rest after your ride,” he suggested. He snapped his fingers, and his squires brought two chairs upholstered in red velvet. “My lady,” Roger offered.
She smiled in wonder at the chairs set in the woods. The grass under their feet was like a velvet carpet. The stream played its music, and even as she thought that, one of Roger’s men began to strum a lute. She closed her eyes for a moment.
“Are you homesick, my lady?” Roger asked.
She sighed. “You could not know. No one not of the Highlands could know what it means to a Scot.”
“My grandmother was a Scot, so perhaps that qualifies me to have some understanding of your ways.”
Her head came up abruptly. “Your grandmother! What was her name?”
“A MacPherson of MacAlpin.”
Bronwyn smiled. It was good to even hear the familiar names once again. “MacAlpin. ’Tis a good clan.”
“Yes. I spent many evenings listening to stories at my grandmother’s knee.”
“And what sort of stories did she tell you?” Bronwyn asked cautiously.
“She was married to an Englishman, and she often compared the cultures of the two countries. She said the Scots were more hospitable, that the men didn’t shove the women into a room and pretend they had no sense as the English do. She said the Scots treated women as equals.”
“Yes,” Bronwyn agreed quietly. “My father named me laird.” She paused. “How did your English grandfather treat his Scots wife?”
Roger chuckled as if at some private joke. “My grandfather lived in Scotland for a while, and he knew my grandmother to be a woman of intelligence. He valued her all his life. There was never a decision made that was not made by both of them.”
“And you spent some time with your grandparents?”
“Most of my life. My parents died when I was very young.”
“And what did you think of this non-English way of treating women? Surely, now that you are older, you’ve learned that women are only of use in the bed, in creating and delivering children.”
Roger laughed out loud. “If I even had such a thought, my grandmother’s ghost would box my ears. No,” he said more seriously, “she meant for me to marry the daughter of a cousin of hers, but the child died before our marriage. I grew up calling myself MacAlpin.”
“What?” She was startled.
Roger looked surprised. “It was in the marriage contract that I’d become a MacAlpin to please her clan.”
“And you’d do that? I mentioned to Sir Thomas that my husband must become a MacArran, but he said that was impossible, that no Englishman would give up his fine old name for a heathen Scots name.”
