Roger’s eyes flashed angrily. “They don’t understand! Damn the English! They think only their ways are right. Why, even the French—”
“The French are our friends,” Bronwyn interrupted. “They visit our country as we do theirs. They don’t destroy our crops or steal our cattle as the English do.”
“Cattle.” Roger smiled. “Now there’s an interesting subject. Tell me, do the MacGregors still raise such fat beasts?”
Bronwyn drew her breath in sharply. “Clan MacGregor is our enemy.”
“True,” he smiled, “but don’t you find that a roast of MacGregor beef is more succulent than any other?”
She could only stare at him. The MacGregors had been the enemies of the MacArrans for centuries.
“Of course, things may have changed since my grandmother was a Highland lass,” Roger continued. “Then the favorite sport of the young men was a swift moonlight cattle raid.”
Bronwyn smiled at him. “Nothing’s changed.”
Roger turned and snapped his fingers. “Would you like something to eat, my lady? Sir Thomas has a French chef, and he has prepared us a feast. Tell me, have you ever eaten a pomegranate?”
She could only shake her head and look at him in wonder as the baskets were unloaded and Roger’s squire served the meal on silver plates. For the first time in her life she had the thought that an Englishman could be human, that he could learn, and desired to learn, the Scots’ ways. She picked up a piece of pâté, molded into the shape of a rose and placed on a cracker. The events of the day were a revelation to her.
“Tell me, Lord Roger, what do you think of our clan system?”
Roger brushed crumbs from his doublet of gold brocade and smiled to himself. He was well prepared for all her questions.
•••
Bronwyn stood in the room where she’d spent too much time in the last month. Her cheeks were still flushed and her eyes still bright from the morning’s fast ride.
“He’s not like other men,” she said to Morag. “I tell you, we spent hours together and we never once stopped talking. He even knows some Gaelic words.”
“ ’Tisn’t hard to pick up a few hereabouts. Even some of the Lowlanders know Gaelic.” It was Morag’s worst insult. To her the Lowlanders were traitorous Scots, more English than Scot.
“Then how do you explain the other things he said? His grandmother was a Scot. You should have heard his ideas! He said he’d petition King Henry to stop the English from raiding us, that that would bring more peace than this practice of capturing Scotswomen and forcing them to marry against their will.”
Morag screwed her dark, wrinkled face into walnut-shell ugliness. “Ye leave here this mornin’ hatin’ all English and come back bowin’ at one’s feet. All ye’ve heard from him are words. Ye’ve seen no action. What has the man done to make ye trust him?”
Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat. “Can’t you see that I want only what is best for my people? I am forced to marry an Englishman, so why not one who is part Scot, in mind as well as in blood?”
“Ye have no choice of husbands!” Morag said fiercely. “Can’t ye see that ye are a great prize? Young men will say anything to get under a pretty woman’s skirts. And if those skirts are covered with pearls, they’ll kill themselves to have them.”
“Are you saying he’s lying?”
“How would I know? I’ve only just seen the man. But I havenotseen Stephen Montgomery. For all ye know, his mother could have been a Scot. Perhaps he’ll appear with a tartan across his shoulder and a dirk in his belt.”
“I could not hope for so much,” Bronwyn sighed. “If I met a thousand Englishmen, not one of them would understand my clan as Roger Chatworth does.” She stood. “But you are right. I will be patient. Perhaps this man Montgomery is unique, an understanding man who believes in the Scots.”
“I hope ye do not expect too much,” Morag said. “I hope Chatworth has not made ye expect too much.”
Chapter Two
STEPHEN HAD RIDDEN FAST AND HARD ALL DAY AND WELLinto the night before he reached Sir Thomas’s house on the border. Stephen had long since left the wagons and his retainers behind. Only his personal guard managed to stay with him. A few hours ago they’d encountered a storm and a river about to burst its banks. Stephen slogged through the muck. Now, as he reined into the courtyard, he and his men were covered with lumps of mud. A tree branch had struck Stephen over the eye, and the blood had dried, giving him a swollen, grotesque appearance.
He dismounted quickly and threw the reins to his exhausted squire. The big manor house was lit by a myriad of candles, and music floated on the air.
Stephen stood inside the door for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the light.
“Stephen!” Sir Thomas called as he hobbled forward. “We’ve been worried about you! I was going to send men out to search for you in the morning.”
A man came to stand behind the aged and gout-crippled knight. “So this is the lost bridegroom,” he smiled, looking Stephen up and down, noting his filthy, torn clothing. “Not everyone has been worried, Sir Thomas.”
