Sir Thomas’s eyes shone like a boy’s; they fairly danced. “You show an uncommon wisdom for a man so young. Just wait here, and I’ll have her brought down the back stairs to this room.”
Stephen gave a low whistle. “Back stairs, is it? She must be worse than I imagine.”
“You’ll see, my boy. You’ll see,” Sir Thomas said as he left the room.
•••
Bronwyn sat buried to her chin in a tub of hot, steamy water. Her eyes were closed, and she was thinking about going home. Roger would be with her, and together they’d lead her clan. It was a picture she was beginning to conjure more and more often in the last few days. Roger was one Englishman she could understand. Every day he seemed to know more about the Scots.
As Morag burst into the room she opened her eyes. “He’s here,” the old woman announced.
“Who is here?” Bronwyn asked stubbornly, knowing exactly whom Morag meant.
Morag ignored her question. “He’s talking to Sir Thomas but I’m sure ye’ll be called for in a few minutes, so get out of that water and get dressed. Ye kin wear the blue dress.”
Bronwyn leaned her head back. “I’m not finished with my bath, and I have no intention of meeting him merely because he’s bothered to appear. He kept me waiting for four days, so maybe I’ll make him wait for five.”
“Ye’re bein’ childish, as ye well know. The stable boy said the man’s horses had been run near to death. Ye can see he tried to get here in a hurry.”
“Or perhaps he always mistreats his horses.”
“Ye’re not too big to take a switch to! Now get out of that tub or I’ll throw a bucket of cold water over yer head.”
Before Morag could act, the door was suddenly thrust open again, revealing a pair of guards.
“How dare you!” Bronwyn yelled as she sank lower into the water.
Instantly Rab rose from his place at the foot of the tub, ready to attack.
The men had barely a glimpse of Bronwyn before they were knocked off balance by a hundred and twenty pounds of snarling, sharp-toothed dog.
Morag grabbed Bronwyn’s thin linen chemise and tossed it to her. She stood in the tub and hastily pulled it over her wet body, the hem of it falling into the water. She grabbed a woolen tartan from Morag as she stepped out of the tub.
“Quiet, Rab!” Bronwyn ordered. The hound obeyed immediately, coming to her side.
The guards stood up slowly, rubbing their wrists and shoulders where Rab had toyed with them. They did not know that the dog killed only on direct command from Bronwyn; otherwise he protected her without doing permanent damage. The men had seen the tub taken to Bronwyn’s room, had heard her splashing. They used Sir Thomas’s orders as an invitation to see her in her bath. Now she was wrapped from head to toe in a Scots plaid. There was no outline of her body showing, only her face, her eyes shining with humor.
“What do you want?” Bronwyn asked, laughter in her voice.
“You are to come to Sir Thomas’s study,” one of the guards said sullenly. “And if that dog ever again—”
She cut him off. “If you ever again enter my room without my permission, I will allow Rab to have your throat. Now lead the way.”
They looked from Bronwyn to the big wolfhound, then turned away. Bronwyn held her head high as she followed them down the stairs. She would let no one see her anger at the way she was being treated by this Stephen Montgomery. Four days late for his wedding, then, the moment he arrives, she is dragged before him like an errant serving wench.
When Bronwyn was inside the study, she looked from Sir Thomas to the man standing by the fireplace. He was tall, but he was filthy beyond belief. Of his face she could tell nothing. It seemed to be swollen on one side, and she wondered if it was a permanent affliction.
Suddenly one of the guards saw a way to repay her for her sport of him. Grabbing the trailing end of the long tartan, he gave Bronwyn a sharp shove. She fell forward, and the guard yanked back on the plaid.
“You!” Sir Thomas bellowed. “Out of my sight! How dare you treat a lady like that! If you’re within fifty miles of here in the morning, I’ll have you hanged!”
Both guards turned and quickly left the room as Sir Thomas bent to retrieve the garment.
Only momentarily stunned, Bronwyn quickly got off her knees and stood. The thin chemise clung to her still-wet body as if she were nude. She started to cover herself with her hands until she glanced up at Stephen. He was no longer nonchalantly leaning against the fireplace but had come to attention, staring at her in open-mouthed disbelief. His eyes were wide, showing white all around them, his mouth so agape that his tongue fairly fell out.
She curled her lip at him, but he didn’t even notice. All he could see was what was below her neck. She put her arms straight to her sides and glared at him.
It seemed an extraordinarily long time before Sir Thomas placed Bronwyn’s plaid gently about her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly about her body.
