She laughed at him, then handed him a juicy piece of roast pork. She was already eating, her lips red from the kiss, glossy from the meat. She grabbed a piece of meat pie when Stephen took the pork. “How did you come to this place? Who brought the food? How did you hear about the cliff?”
It was Stephen’s turn to laugh as he began to eat, but without Bronwyn’s gusto. He still hadn’t recovered from Bronwyn’s hand between his legs. Tam had been more than right about the convenience of the Scots’ dress.
“Douglas went to Tam,” he said after a while, then frowned. “I wish I could teach your men to come to me,” he said in disgust. “I seem to hear everything second-hand.”
Bronwyn had her mouth and both hands full of food. “Douglas was merely being an obedient son.”
“Son? What are you talking about?”
She blinked at him. “Douglas is Tam’s son.”
“But I thought Tam’s son was killed.”
She gave him a look of disgust as she buttered a piece of black bread. “A man may have more than one son. My father said Tam was trying to make his own clan. He has an even dozen sons, or did have until you English killed one.”
Stephen put his hand up in defense. “Who are they?”
“Douglas, Alex, Jarl, Francis, are the oldest. Then he has some boys who are too young to fight, and his new wife is about to bear him a new one any day.”
Stephen chuckled. It was always the quiet ones you needed to watch.
“You haven’t answered my questions,” Bronwyn said, not anywhere near to slowing down her eating. “And why did you bring me here?”
“I thought the ride might cool my temper, and I didn’t want your men interfering,” he said before answering her other questions.
“Tam tried to wake me but he couldn’t.” He gave Bronwyn a chastising look, but she ignored him. “Morag made me drink some disgusting concoction that nearly killed me. Before I could recover, I was on a horse and we were running along the cliff path. We got there just as Alex was being pulled up.”
He put down the chicken leg he was eating and gave her a searching look. “Why did you have to go over the side? Why the hell did those men of yours allow you to do that?”
She set down the scone she was eating. “Can’t you ever understand? I am the MacArran. It is I who allows or disallows. My men follow my orders, not the other way around.”
Stephen rose to put more peat on the fire. His English upbringing warred within him. “But you’re not strong. What if Alex had been unconscious and couldn’t have helped you? You haven’t the muscle to lift the dead weight of a man.”
She was patient with him, realizing that he was trying to understand. “I went myself because I’m small. There was very little room on the ledge, and I felt I could move about more easily than a large man. As for lifting Alex, I can’t lift his entire body but I knew I could get a rope under enough parts of him so that he could be pulled up. If I thought there’d been a better chance for Alex by sending someone else, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I always try to do what is best for my people.”
“Damn!” Stephen said fiercely, then jerked her to her feet. “I don’t like hearing words of wisdom from a woman.”
She blinked, then smiled at his honesty. “Don’t you know some good leaders who use their heads instead of their muscles?”
He stared at her, then pulled her into his arms, his hand buried in her hair. “I was so angry,” he whispered, “I didn’t at first believe the men when they told me where you were. I don’t think I breathed until I saw that you were all right.”
She lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes searching his face. “If I had been killed, I’m sure Tam would have given some of my estates to you.”
“Estates!” he gasped, then pushed her head back to his shoulder. “Sometimes you are a stupid woman. I should punish you for that insult.” He wouldn’t let her move when she tried to. “I think maybe I will delay your eating,” he said huskily. He lifted her face and kissed her greedily, laughing at the grease on her lips. “You’re an earthy thing,” he said, then said no more as she slipped her arms around his neck.
It took only moments to renew his passion. Recalling the events of the morning, his fear for her while she’d been suspended against a sheer rock wall, made him kiss her almost in desperation. He held her face in his hands, his tongue sweetly drawing on her nectar.
He put his arms beneath her knees and carefully laid her by the fire. He took his time undressing her, unbuckling her belt, then kissing her stomach. He slid her plaid away from her hips, then kissed her legs, the whole golden length of them.
“Come to me,” she whispered.
But it was his turn to be the torturer. He pushed her pleading hands away, then began unbuttoning her blouse. He kissed each patch of skin at it was bared and smiled when she arched toward him.
He only laughed when she pulled on his hair, demanding that he come to her. He shook his head vigorously, his face buried in her breasts, and her hands fell away. He sat back on his heels and looked at her. Her body was so beautiful.
She opened her eyes to stare up at him and wondered what he was thinking. She watched as he threw off his clothes and came to lay beside her. She gasped as his skin touched hers.
It was warm in the room, but their hot skin touching made it an inferno. “Stephen,” she whispered, the word sounding almost like an endearment.
“Yes,” he murmured before pulling her under him.
In spite of their passion their lovemaking was slow. They took their time with each other. Bronwyn pushed Stephen to his back once and controlled their movements. Then, as their desire rose, faster and higher, Stephen shoved Bronwyn to the floor for the last few deep, hard thrusts.
Weak, he collapsed on top of her, his lips against her neck. Within minutes they both fell asleep.
Two weeks later Stephen’s prediction that the MacGregor would hate Bronwyn came true.
Stephen had spent that two weeks learning from Bronwyn’s men. That one disastrous cattle raid had shown him the need for learning to fight in the Scots manner. He learned to run, to use the heavy Claymore. He could slip in and out of his plaid in seconds. His legs grew brown and weathered, and he didn’t even mind the cold when the first snows arrived.
As for Bronwyn, she watched him suspiciously, only relaxing her guard at night when she was in his arms.
Stephen had changed so much in the last few weeks that it seemed a long time since that cattle raid when Bronwyn had scratched her initial on her enemy’s shoulder. The first sign Lachlan MacGregor gave of his anger was when he burned three crofters’ houses on the northern estates.
“Was anyone hurt?” Bronwyn asked weakly when she heard the news.
Tam pointed to a young man standing amid the ruins. He turned, and on his cheek was branded an L.
Bronwyn put her hand to her mouth in horror.
“The MacGregor said he’d brand all the clan before he’s finished. He said he nearly died from blood poisoning from the wound ye gave him,” Tam continued.
She turned away and walked back to her horse. Stephen stopped her.
“You needn’t worry that I’ll lecture you,” he said flatly when he saw her face. “Perhaps you’ve learned something from this. Now it’s my turn to settle the matter.”
“What are you planning to do?” she asked.
“I’m going to try to meet with the MacGregor and settle this once and for all.”
“Meet with him!” she gasped. “He’ll kill you! He hates the English more than I do.”
“That’s impossible,” he said sarcastically as he mounted his horse and rode away from the smoldering ruins of the houses.
An hour later Chris was agreeing with Bronwyn. The two men, who had come to Scotland looking so much alike, were now very different in appearance. Chris still wore the English dress—a heavy velvet jacket lined in mink, satin breeches, and tight, fine woolen hose. But Stephen had changed completely; even his skin had
darkened. His hair hung past his ears, curling around them in a becoming manner. If anything, his legs were even more muscular from his daily sprints with the Scotsmen.
“She’s right,” Chris said. “You can’t go knocking on the door and ask to see the MacGregor. I’ve heard some of the tales of what he’s done. You’d be lucky if he killed you right away.”
“What am I supposed to do then? Sit back and watch my people branded, burned out?”
Chris stared at his friend. “Your people?” he asked quietly. “When did you become a Scotsman?”
Stephen grinned and ran his hand through his hair. “They’re good people, and I’d be proud to be one of them. It was just Bronwyn’s temper that caused this mess. I’m sure it can be straightened out.”
“Did you know this feud has been going on for hundreds of years? Every one of these clans is at war with one of the others. It’s a barbaric place!”
Stephen merely smiled at his friend. A few months ago he’d have said the same thing. “Come on inside and let’s have a drink. I got a letter from Gavin yesterday, and he wants me to bring Bronwyn home for Christmas.”
“Will she go?”
Stephen laughed. “She’ll go whether she wants to or not. What about you? Will you come with us?”
“I’d love to. I’ve had about all I can take of this cold country. I don’t understand how you can move about when half of you is bare.”
“Chris, you should try it. It gives a man a great deal of freedom.”
Chris snorted. “The freedom to freeze off my finer parts isn’t exactly what I want. Maybe you can tell me where to do some hunting. I thought I’d take some of your men and mine and see if I could get a deer.”
“Only if you promise to take some of Bronwyn’s men too.”
Chris gave a little snort of derision. “I don’t know whether I should be insulted by that or not.” He stopped at Stephen’s expression. “All right, I’ll do as you say. If there is any trouble, I guess it would be better if I had a few of your bare-legged men near me.” He smiled and put his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and we’ll have fresh venison.”
Stephen never saw Chris alive again.
The winter sun was just setting when four of Bronwyn’s men rode through the gates at the mouth of the peninsula. Their clothes were torn and bloody. One man bore a long, jagged gash across his cheek.
Stephen was on the training field, listening to Tam instruct him in the use of the lochaber axe. Bronwyn stood close by, watching the men.
Tam was the first one to see the disheveled and wounded men. He dropped the axe and ran forward, Stephen and Bronwyn close behind him. “What is it, Francis?” he gasped, pulling the young man from his horse.
“MacGregor,” he said. “The hunting party was attacked.”
Stephen was on his horse before Francis had dismounted. The boy looked up at Stephen. “Two miles past the loch on the East Road.” Stephen nodded once before he rode away. He didn’t seem to be aware that both Bronwyn and Tam were trying to keep up with him.
The fading sunlight flashed off Chris’s armor as he lay so still on the cold Scots ground. Stephen leaped from his horse and knelt beside his friend. He tenderly pushed back the face plate.
He didn’t look up when he heard the voice of one of Chris’s men over his shoulder. “Lord Chris wanted to show the Scots how the English could fight,” the man said. “He put on his armor and planned to meet the MacGregor face to face.”
Stephen glanced down at Chris’s quiet form. He knew the heavy armor had made his friend immobile, and the MacGregor had been free to hack at Chris at will. There were places unprotected by the armor, and now there were dents and mutilations in the steel.
“They tried to save him.”
Stephen noticed for the first time the three Scotsmen who lay beside Chris. Their strong young bodies were bloody and ugly.
Stephen felt rage well up inside him. His friend! His friend was dead. He stood, then grabbed Bronwyn, turned her so she faced the four dead men.
“This is what has happened because of your escapade. Look at them! Do you know them?”
“Yes,” she managed to whisper as she stared at them. She’d known the young men all her life, for all their short lives. She looked away.
Stephen buried his hands in her hair, pulling her head painfully back. “Do you remember the sound of their voices? Can you hear their laughter? Do they have any family?” He moved her head so she looked at Chris. “Chris and I were fostered together. We spent our childhoods together.”
“Let me go!” she said desperately.
Abruptly Stephen released her. “You drugged me and led your men in a cattle raid, and you carved your initial on the MacGregor. Stupid, childish actions! And now we have paid for your actions, haven’t we?”
She tried to hold her head high. She wouldn’t believe he was right.
Douglas held his Claymore aloft. He’d ridden to the scene behind Bronwyn and his father. “We must revenge this act,” he said loudly. “We must ride now and fight the MacGregor.”
“Yes!” Bronwyn shouted. “We must repay him now!”
Stephen took one step forward and sank his fist into Douglas’s face. He grabbed the Claymore just before Douglas fell.
“Hear me and hear me well,” Stephen said in a quiet voice that carried to all the men. “This will be settled, but not by more blood being shed. This is a useless feud, and I’ll not retaliate by drawing more blood. More deaths will not bring these men back.” He gestured to the four bloody corpses at his feet.
“You’re a coward,” Douglas said in a low voice as he stood, rubbing his bruised jaw.
Before Stephen could speak, Tam stood next to his son. In his hand was his dirk. He held it low, aimed at his son’s ribs. “Ye may disagree with the man, but ye’ll not call him a coward,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice.
Douglas locked eyes with his father, then he nodded once before he turned to Stephen. “We’ll be willin’ to follow ye,” he said after a while.
“Follow him!” Bronwyn fairly shouted. “I am the MacArran. Are you forgetting that he’s an Englishman?”
Tam spoke for his son. “I don’t think we’ve forgotten so much as we’ve learned,” he said quietly.
Bronwyn didn’t ask what he’d learned. She looked at the faces of one man after another, and she could see they were changing toward her. Had it been a gradual thing, or did they too blame her for the men’s deaths? She took a step backward from them, feeling as if she should put her hands up in protection. “No,” she whispered before she turned and ran for her horse.
She didn’t care where she went or how far. Tears blurred her vision so badly she could barely see. She rode for miles, across the hills and lochs. She never even noticed when she left the MacArran land.
“Bronwyn!” someone from behind her screamed.
At first she only spurred her horse faster, urging it away from the familiar voice. It wasn’t until he was beside her that she realized it was her brother who called to her.
“Davey,” she whispered and reined in her horse sharply.
Davey grinned at her. He was tall like Bronwyn, with their father’s black hair, but he had inherited their mother’s brown eyes. He was thinner than Bronwyn remembered, and his eyes seemed to have a wild inner glow. “You’ve been crying,” he said. “Because of the men the MacGregor killed?”
“You knew?” she said, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand.
“It’s still my clan, in spite of what Father said.” For an instant his eyes were hard and cold, then they changed. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. Sit with me and let your horse rest.”
Suddenly her brother seemed like an old friend, and she pushed from her mind the last time she’d seen him—the night Jamie MacArran had named her laird. It had been an unexpected announcement and therefore more painful. All the clan had gathered and was waiting for the proclamation that Davey would be the next lai
rd. James MacArran was always honest about himself and especially about his children. He told the clan about his children. He said Davey liked war too much, that he cared more for battle than for protecting his clan. He said Bronwyn had too much temper and too often acted before she thought. Both of his children felt deeply humiliated at their father’s complaints. Jamie went on to say that Bronwyn could be controlled if she had a level-headed husband such as Ian, Ramsey or Ennis. Even after that statement no one guessed what Jamie had in mind. When he announced Bronwyn as his successor, provided she marry one of the young men, the hall was silent. Then, one by one, the clan raised cups to salute her. It took Davey a few moments to realize what was happening. When he did, he rose and cursed his father, called him a traitor, and declared himself no longer his son. He asked for men to follow him, to forever leave the clan. Twelve young men walked out of the hall behind Davey that night.
Bronwyn had not seen her brother since that night. Since then several men had been killed, her father included; she had been married to an Englishman. Suddenly all that Davey’d said so long ago seemed unimportant.
She dismounted her horse and put her arms around him. “Oh, Davey, everything has turned out so badly,” she cried.
“The Englishman?”
She nodded against his bony shoulder. “He’s changed everything. Today my men looked at me as if I were the intruder. I saw it in their eyes that they thought he was right and I was wrong.”
“Do you mean he’s turning the men against you?” Davey snapped, moving away from her. “How could they be so blind? He must be a good actor to overcome the horror of our father’s death. How can the men forget that it was the English who killed the MacArran? And what of Ian? Has even Tam forgotten his son’s death?”
“I don’t know,” Bronwyn said as she sat down on a fallen log. “They all seem to trust him. He dresses as a Scotsman. He trains with my men. He even spends time with the crofters. I see them together, laughing, and I know they like him.”
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