Bronwyn stood where she was for a long time. She had no idea he despised her so much. How many times had he been close to saying he loved her yet she’d ignored him? Oh, but she’d been fiery and proud when she told him that of course they cared for each other but that what she wanted was more important than love.
What meant more to her than Stephen’s love? She could see now that there was nothing nearly as important. She’d had that love in the palm of her hand, and she’d thrown it right back in his face. In Scotland he’d worked hard to be fair and to learn how to live in her country. Yet what had she done to conform to his way of life? Her biggest concession was to dress in the luscious English fashions, and she’d even complained about that.
She clenched her hand. Stephen was right! She was selfish. She demanded he become a Scot, change every fiber of his being, yet she’d never done a thing for him. From the moment they’d met, she’d made him pay for the privilege of marrying her.
“Privilege!” she gasped aloud. She’d made him fight for her on their wedding day. She’d taken a knife to him on their wedding night. What was it Stephen had said? “Someday you’ll know that one drop of my blood is more precious than any angry feelings you carry.”
How could she have hurt that beautiful body she knew so well? How could she have drawn blood from him?
Tears began to run down her face. He loved her no longer. He’d said that. She’d had his love and discarded it like so much rubbish.
She blinked at the tears and looked around her. Stephen was good and his family was good. She’d hated him for being an Englishman just as she’d hated all the MacGregors. But Stephen had shown her there were good MacGregors and warm, generous Englishmen.
Stephen had shown her! He’d taught her so much, yet she’d never so much as softened to him. When had she ever been kind to him? She drugged him, cursed him, defied him—anything to be spiteful.
Anything to keep from loving him, she realized. She hadn’t wanted to love an Englishman. She was afraid her clan would think she was weak, unworthy of being laird. Yet Tam had loved him, and most of her men had even come to love him.
She turned toward the door and went quietly through the Great Hall and outside into the courtyard. She looked about for Stephen. Perhaps she could find him. Somehow she knew he hadn’t gone upstairs.
“Stephen rode away a few minutes ago,” Miles said softly from behind her.
She turned slowly. This man was also kind to her. He’d held her after she’d been attacked.
Suddenly a cold wind brushed past her, and she had a vision of Scotland. More than anything else in the world she wanted to go home. Perhaps at home she could think what to do to win Stephen’s love again. Maybe she could imagine how to make him understand that she loved him too and that she was willing to bend as he had.
She looked at Miles as if she didn’t really see him, then turned and walked toward the stables.
“Bronwyn,” he said as he grabbed her arm. “What’s happened?”
“I’m going home,” she said quietly.
“To Scotland?” he asked, astonished.
“Aye,” she whispered, rolling her words. “Home to Scotland.” She smiled. “Would you give my regrets to Judith?”
Miles searched her face for a moment. “Judith understands things without being told. Come on, let’s get started.”
Bronwyn started to protest but then closed her mouth. She knew she couldn’t prevent Miles from accompanying her any more than she could stop her urge to go home.
They rode through that long, awful night without saying a word to each other. Bronwyn felt only her pain at having lost Stephen. Perhaps he’d be happier in England where his family was, where he didn’t have to struggle just to survive. She often held her hand to her stomach and wondered when it was going to begin to swell. She wanted an outward sign that she would soon have his child.
They crossed into Scotland in the early morning, and it suddenly occurred to her how selfish she’d been in allowing Miles to accompany her. There were too many Scotsmen who were like old Harben, who’d love to kill any Englishman on sight. She suggested to Miles that since they had no guard, they might be safer if he were to dress as a Highlander. Miles looked at her in an odd way that she didn’t understand.
Later, as they traveled north, she began to understand. Miles would always be safe wherever there were women. Pretty girls stopped and offered them dippers of milk, and their eyes offered Miles much more. One woman, walking with her four-year-old daughter, stopped and spoke to them. The little girl ran and leaped into Miles’s arms. Miles seemed to see nothing unusual about this action. He merely swung the child onto his shoulders and they walked quite some distance together.
Near sundown they came to an old crofter’s cottage, and an ugly, old, toothless crone greeted them. She smiled delightedly at Miles and took his hand. She rubbed it warmly between her own, then held his palm up to the dying light.
“What do you see?” Miles asked gently.
“Angels,” she cackled. “Two angels. A beautiful angel and a cherub.”
Miles smiled sweetly, and the woman laughed harder. “They’re angels to others but they’re the devil’s own to ye.” A bright streak of lightning flashed in the sky. “Oh, aye, that’s what they are. They’re angels of rain and lightning to ye.” She laughed again and turned to Bronwyn. “Now let me see yer palm.”
Bronwyn backed away from her. “I’d rather not,” she said flatly.
The old woman shrugged and invited them to spend the night with her.
In the morning she grabbed Bronwyn’s palm and her face clouded. “Beware of a blond-haired man,” she warned.
