Highland Velvet

by Jude Deveraux

  He started to answer, but the drink drew his attention. “This is really good. I think it’s making my head stop hurting.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t know your head was hurting.”

  “It hasn’t stopped since your brother’s arrow creased it.” He dismissed the subject. “I just had an idea. Were these lichens hard to find?”

  “Not at all,” she said, curious.

  Stephen’s eyes began to glow. “Today Donald told me about a town near here. He wants to take his son to be baptized. If you and I could make up a tub of this stuff, maybe we could sell it.”

  “What a clever idea!” she agreed, already making plans.

  They spent the evening hunting lichens. Donald took what money there was and used one of the wagon horses to go into town and buy more ale.

  It was late when they rolled their plaids on the ground near the dying fire and went to sleep. Bronwyn stayed close to Stephen, happy enough to be near him without needing to make love. This feeling of closeness was new to her and made her feel warm and content.

  Very early the next morning they hitched the wagon and rolled into the little walled town. There seemed to be hundreds of shops as well as tiny houses inside the walls, and the air was heavy and hardly worth breathing. The whole place made Bronwyn long for the out-of-doors.

  She’d been to few towns in her life. Instead the merchants had traveled to Larenston to sell their goods.

  Donald pulled the wagon off the narrow main street, just in front of an alleyway, and unhitched the horses. They set up a pot of the drink they’d made, then started to call to people to buy. Kirsty and Bronwyn sat inside the wagon and listened. Stephen’s deep voice boomed out over all the noise of the town. He made some rather extraordinary promises for the drink, talking about his own slight experience with it as if it’d cured him from leprosy.

  But no one bought from them.

  People paused and listened, but they offered no pennies to buy the miracle liquid.

  “Perhaps you should do some of those body flips like you did for Tam,” Bronwyn teased.

  Stephen ignored her taunts as he tried to coax a young man to buy by telling him the drink would improve his love life.

  “Maybe you need some help, but I don’t,” the young man replied. The crowd laughed and began to move away.

  “I think it’s time I gave this a try,” Bronwyn said as she began unbuttoning her shirt.

  “Bronwyn!” Kirsty protested. “Are you planning to do something that’ll make Stephen angry?”

  She smiled. “Probably. Is this low enough?” She glanced down at the generous curve of her breasts exposed by the unbuttoned shirt.

  “More than enough. Donald would have my hair if I walked about like that.”

  “The Englishwomen wear dresses cut as low as decently possible,” Bronwyn replied.

  “But you’re not English!”

  Bronwyn only smiled in answer as she climbed down the front of the wagon, on the far side of where Stephen stood.

  Stephen smiled in surprise when he first heard Bronwyn call out. “This will cure anything from boils to the sweating sickness,” she was saying. He watched as the crowd began to move to the side of the wagon.

  “Is your wife unhappy?” Bronwyn called. “Maybe it’s your fault. This drink will make you the most powerful of men. And as a love potion it’s unsurpassed.”

  “Do you think it’ll get me something like you?” a man shouted.

  “Only if you were to drink a whole hogshead of it,” Bronwyn replied instantly.

  The crowd laughed.

  “I think I’ll try it,” another man shouted.

  “I’m going to buy some for my husband,” a woman cried before she hurried to the end of the wagon, where Donald and Stephen waited.

  For a while Stephen was too busy filling the townspeople’s containers and taking pennies to really listen to Bronwyn. He was proud of the way she was selling and pleased that the people liked her. He chuckled once at the idea of an English lady acting as a barker with so much success.

  It was when he began to hear the low, suggestive laughter of the men that she really got his attention.

  One of the men holding out a cup turned to his companion. “She half as much promised to meet me by the town well.”

  Stephen’s face turned cold. “Did she tell you that I’d be there too?” he asked in a deadly voice.

  The man looked up at Stephen, at the challenge in the handsome face. The man backed away. “Don’t blame me, ’twas her that gave me the idea.”

  “Damn her!” Stephen said viciously and threw the ladle into the drink. Just what the hell did she think she was doing?

  He stopped when he rounded the corner of the wagon. Her shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a great deal of her high, firm breasts. She’d removed her concealing plaid, and her skirt clung to her hips. She walked back and forth in front of the ever increasing crowd of people. And the way she walked! Her hands were on her hips, and her hips swayed seductively.

  For a moment he was shocked, too stunned to move; then he took two long strides toward her. He grabbed her arm, pulled her into the alleyway behind the wagon. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Selling the tonic,” she said quite calmly. “You and Donald didn’t seem to be doing such a good job, so I thought I’d help.”

  He released her arm, then angrily began to button her blouse. “You were certainly enjoying yourself, weren’t you? Parading yourself like a joywoman!”

  She looked up at him and smiled happily. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

  “Of course not!” he snapped, then stopped. “You’re damn right I’m jealous. Those dirty old men have no right to see what’s mine.”

  “Oh, Stephen, that’s…that’s, I don’t know, but I find I’m quite pleased by your jealousy.”

  “Pleased?” he asked in bewilderment. “Next time I hope you depend on your memory and don’t try to provoke the feeling afresh.” He grabbed her in his arms and kissed her fiercely, hungrily, possessively.

  Bronwyn responded, pushing her body against his, letting herself go to his possession of her.

  Suddenly a bellowing voice that fairly shook the houses around them interrupted their kiss. “Where’s the wench selling the tonic?”

  Bronwyn reluctantly broke away, looking in puzzlement at Stephen.

  “Where is she?” the voice boomed again.

  “That’s the MacGregor,” she whispered. “I heard him once before.”

  She turned toward the voice, but Stephen caught her arm. “You can’t go out there to meet the MacGregor.”

  “Why not? He’s never seen me. He won’t know who I am, and besides, how can I refuse? This is the MacGregor’s land.”

  Stephen frowned but he released her. A refusal would make them seem suspicious.

  “Here I am,” she called as she left the alleyway, Stephen close behind her. The MacGregor sat on his horse, looking down at her in an amused way. He was a big, thick man, his hair gray at the temples, his jaw especially strong. His eyes were green and alive above a prominent nose. “And who wants me?” she asked arrogantly.

  The MacGregor threw back his head and bellowed laughter. “As if you didn’t know your own laird,” he said, his eyes deepening to a shade of emerald.

  She smiled up at him sweetly. “Is that the same laird who doesn’t know his own clan members?”

  He didn’t lose his smile. “You’re a saucy wench. What’s your name?”

  “Bronwyn,” she said proudly as if the name were a challenge. “The same as the laird of Clan MacArran.”

  Stephen’s hand clamped on her shoulder in warning.

  The MacGregor’s eyes turned hard. “Don’t mention that woman to me.”

  Bronwyn put her hands on her hips. “Is that because you still bear her mark on your person?”

  Suddenly there was dead silence around them. The crowd stilled, its breath held.


  “Bronwyn,” Stephen began, aghast at what she’d said.

  The MacGregor put his hand up. “You’re not only saucy but you have courage. No one else has dared mention that night to me.”

  “Tell me, what made you so angry about such a small mark?”

  The MacGregor was quiet as he seemed to consider both her and her question. “You seem to know a lot about it.” The tension seemed to suddenly leave him, and he smiled. “I think it was a matter of the woman herself. Had she looked a bit like you, I think I’d have born the mark proudly, but no witch-ugly woman is about to mark the MacGregor.”

  Bronwyn started to speak, but Stephen put both hands on her waist until she couldn’t breathe. “Forgive my wife,” he said. “She tends to be a bit outspoken.”

  “That she is,” the MacGregor agreed enthusiastically. “I hope you keep her firmly in hand.”

  “All that I can reach,” Stephen laughed.

  “I like a woman with spirit,” the MacGregor said. “This one’s beautiful and has a head on her too.”

  “It’s just that I’d like her to keep her thoughts to herself once in a while.”

  “Not many women can do that. Good day to you both,” he said as he reined his horse away.

  “Damn you!” Bronwyn said fiercely as she whirled to face Stephen.

  Before she could speak, he gave her a teeth-jarring shake. “You could have gotten us in trouble!” he began, then looked up at the crowd that still stared at them. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side of the wagon. “Bronwyn,” he said patiently, “don’t you know what you could have done? I could see you announcing yourself as laird of Clan MacArran.”

  “And if I did?” she asked stubbornly. “You heard him say—”

  He cut her off. “What a man boasts of to a pretty girl and what he must do when faced with a crowd are two different things. Did you consider Kirsty and Donald? They’ve been giving us shelter.”

  To his astonishment Bronwyn relaxed, or rather deflated. The spirit seemed to leave her. She leaned forward into his arms. “You’re so right, Stephen. Will I ever learn?”

  He held her tightly to him, stroking her hair. He liked having her lean on him, mentally as well as physically.

  “Will I ever be smart enough to deserve being the MacArran?”

  “You will, love,” he whispered. “The desire’s within you, and you’ll make it soon.”

  “Bronwyn?”

  They both looked up to see Donald standing close to them. “Kirsty wanted me to ask if you were ready to see the priest. We thought we’d have the baby christened before nightfall. Neither of us likes being inside walls all night.”

  Stephen smiled. “Of course we’re ready.” He watched Donald, noticing that something was bothering the quiet young man. And why had he addressed Bronwyn first? It occurred to Stephen that if Donald had been inside the wagon, he could have heard them talk of Bronwyn being the MacArran. If he did know, Stephen could see that Donald didn’t mean to turn them over to the MacGregor.

  The church was the largest building in the town, tall, awe-inspiring. Inside they were quiet, the baby asleep in Kirsty’s arms.

  “Could I speak to you?” she asked quietly before they reached the altar. “Will you be godparents to our son?”

  Bronwyn stared for a moment. “You know so little of us,” she whispered.

  “I know more than enough. I know you’ll take the responsibility of being godparents seriously.”

  Stephen took Bronwyn’s hand. “Yes, we’ll be godparents, and we’ll abide by all that it means. The boy will never want for anything as long as we’re alive,” he said.

  Kirsty smiled at both of them and went forward to the waiting priest. The baby was christened Rory Stephen. Stephen, after a startled look, grinned broadly. There was no protest from Bronwyn when he gave the surname of Montgomery to the priest.

  As they left the church, he carried the child back to the wagon. He looked at Bronwyn. “Why don’t we make one of these? I’d like a little boy with black hair and blue eyes and a hole in his chin.”

  “Are you saying my looks are more suited to a male?” she teased.

  He laughed. “You know, I’m beginning to like you now that you’re not always screaming that I’m an Englishman.”

  She looked at his long hair, the way he wore a plaid so easily. “You don’t look much like an Englishman. What are your brothers going to say when they see their brother’s become half Scots?”

  He snorted. “They’ll accept me as I am, and if they have any brains they’ll learn a few things from us Scots.”

  “Us?” she asked sharply as she stopped walking.

  “Come on and quit looking at me as if I’d grown two heads,” he said.

  She followed, watching him, and suddenly realized that he now used the Scots burr all the time, even when they were alone. His plaid hit his knees at just the right angle, and he walked as if he’d always been a Scotsman. She smiled and hastened her step. He looked good, carrying the baby easily in one arm, and she liked the way he slipped his other arm around her shoulders.

  They walked back to the wagon together, laughing, happy.

  Chapter Eleven

  THEY TRAVELED VERY SLOWLY FOR TWO DAYS. BRONWYN tried to get Kirsty to stay in the wagon, but she only laughed. Stephen said Kirsty came out in self-defense after trying some of Bronwyn’s cooking.

  “This is the worst rabbit stew I ever tasted,” Stephen said in disgust one evening. “It has no flavor at all.”

  “Rabbit?” Bronwyn said absently. She was holding the baby, watching its eyes follow the movement of the dying sunlight on her brooch. “Oh, no!” she said as she finally realized what Stephen had said. Her face turned a becoming shade of pink. “The rabbits are still hanging on the side of the wagon. I—”

  Stephen’s laughter cut her off. “What happened to that smart woman I married?”

  Bronwyn smiled at him with great confidence. “She’s still here. Anyone can cook. I can—” She stopped and looked up in bewilderment.

  “We’re waiting,” Stephen said.

  “Stop teasing her,” Kirsty said quietly. “Bronwyn, as beautiful as you are, you don’t need to cook. And besides, you are courageous, fearless, have great practical sense and—”

  Bronwyn laughed. “See!” she said to Stephen. “I’m glad someone appreciates me.”

  “Oh, Stephen appreciates you,” Kirsty smiled. “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen two people more in love than you two.”

  Bronwyn looked up from the baby, startled. Stephen was staring at her in an idiotic way, rather like the first time she’d seen him.

  “She is pretty, isn’t she?” he said. “If only she could cook.”

  He said it so wistfully that Bronwyn grimaced and threw a clump of dirt at his head.

  He laughed and seemed to come back to the present. “Let me hold my godson, will you? He spends too much time with women.” He laughed again at the reply Bronwyn made.

  Late the next evening they rolled into sight of Kirsty’s parents’ home. It was a typical crofter’s cottage, whitewashed stone with a thatched roof. There were a few fields of barley near it and some sheep as well as cattle. A steep rock formation ran along the back of the land not far from the cottage.

  Kirsty’s parents came out to meet them. Her father, Harben, was a short, gnarled little man, his right arm gone from his shoulder. His face was obscured by gray hair and a voluminous beard. But what could be seen looked to be forever angry.

  Nesta, Kirsty’s mother, was a tiny little thing, her gray hair pulled back tightly. She was as warm as Harben was cold. She hugged the baby, Kirsty, and Bronwyn all at once. She thanked Stephen and Bronwyn repeatedly for delivering her only grandchild. She kissed Stephen as enthusiastically as she did Donald.

  Stephen asked if they could stay the night and be on their way in the morning.

  Harben’s face looked as if he’d just been insulted. “Stay only one night?” he growled. “Wha
t kind of man are ye? That wife of yers is too skinny, and where are yer children?” He didn’t wait for Stephen to answer. “My home brew will put a baby in that flat belly of hers.”

  Stephen nodded his head as if he’d just heard a great piece of wisdom. “And here I always thought that it was what I did that’d make her pregnant, and all along it was the home brew.”

  Harben made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Come inside and welcome.”

  It was after a simple supper of milk, butter, cheese, and oatcakes that they all sat around a peat fire inside the single room. Stephen sat on a stool whittling a toy for Rory Stephen. Bronwyn sat on the dirt floor, leaning against his knee. Kirsty and her mother were on the other side, Donald and Harben facing the fire.

  Donald, who’d already shown he was a good storyteller, had just given a hilarious account of Bronwyn selling the drink and Stephen’s reaction to her enticing movements. He finished with the story of Bronwyn meeting the MacGregor.

  Bronwyn laughed at herself along with the others.

  Suddenly Harben jumped up, overturning his stool.

  “Father,” Kirsty said quietly, looking worried, “is your arm hurting you?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said with great bitterness. “It never stops, not since the MacArrans took it off.”

  Stephen immediately put his hand on Bronwyn in warning.

  “Now’s not the time,” Nesta began.

  “Not the time!” Harben shouted. “When isn’t it time to hate the MacArrans?” He turned to Bronwyn and Stephen. “See this?” he asked, indicating his empty sleeve. “What can a man do without a right arm? The MacArran himself took it off of me. Six years ago he raided my cattle and took my arm with him.”

  “Six years,” Bronwyn whispered. “Didn’t the MacGregor do some raiding too, and didn’t he kill four men then?”

  Harben waved his hand. “Served them right for stealin’ from us.”

  “Should the MacArran have sat still while you killed his men? He shouldn’t have revenged himself?”

  “Bronwyn—” Stephen warned.

  “Leave her alone,” Harben snapped. “Ye got yerself a good one there. What do ye know of the MacArran?”