Highland Velvet

by Jude Deveraux

  It wasn’t easy to wait. She was dressed long before it was time. For a moment she stood over the bed, caressed the pillow where Stephen usually slept. “Soon, my love, soon,” she whispered. Once there was peace between the clans, she could hold her head up before Stephen again. Maybe then he’d think her love was worthy of having.

  It was easy to slip out of her room. She and David had often, as children, sneaked out to the stables, sometimes to meet Tam or one of Tam’s sons. Rab followed her down the worn stone steps, sensing from his mistress the need for quiet.

  Roger Chatworth stepped from the shadows as quietly as a Scotsman.

  Bronwyn nodded to him curtly, then gestured Rab to be quiet. The dog had never liked Roger and made no secret of it. Roger followed her along the steep, dark path. She could feel the tension in his body, and more than once he grabbed her hand to steady himself. He clung to her and stood still until he got his breath.

  Bronwyn tried to conceal her disgust. She was glad she now knew that not all Englishmen were like this one. Now she knew there were brave, courageous men like her husband and his brothers. They were men a woman could cling to and not the other way around.

  Roger began to breathe easily once they reached the mainland and the horses. But they couldn’t speak until they were out of the valley of MacArrans. Bronwyn led them around the valley by the sea wall. She went slowly so Roger could steady his horse. The night was black, and she led by instinct and memory rather than sight.

  It was close to morning when they halted on the ridge that overlooked her land. She stopped in order to allow Roger to rest a moment.

  “Are you tired, Lady Bronwyn?” he asked, his voice shaky. He had just been through what, to him, was obviously an ordeal. He dismounted his horse.

  “Shouldn’t we go on?” she urged. “We aren’t very far from Larenston. When my men—”

  She stopped because she didn’t believe what she saw. Roger Chatworth, in one swift, fluid motion, took a heavy war axe from his saddle and struck Rab with it. The dog was looking at its mistress, concerned more with her than Roger, and so reacted too slowly to miss the lethal blow.

  Instantly Bronwyn was out of her saddle. She fell to her knees at Rab’s side. Even in the dark she could see a great gaping hole open in Rab’s side. “Rab?” she managed to gasp through a thickened throat. The dog moved its head only slightly.

  “It’s dead,” Roger said flatly. “Now get up!”

  Bronwyn turned on him. “You!” She wasted no more energy on words. One instant she was on the ground, and the next she was flying through the air, her knife drawn and aimed for Roger’s throat.

  He was unprepared for her action and staggered backward under the weight of her. Her knife blade cut into his shoulder, barely missing his neck. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head backward just as she brought her knee up between his legs. Roger staggered again, but he held on to her, and when he fell to the ground, he took her with him. She jerked her head to one side and bit him until he released her hair. When she was free, she charged him again with her knife.

  But the knife never made contact because four pairs of hands grabbed her and pulled her away.

  “You took long enough!” Roger snapped at the men holding Bronwyn. “Another minute and it might have been too late.”

  Bronwyn looked at Rab, silent on the ground, then back at Roger. “There was no message from Kirsty, was there?”

  Roger ran his hand across the cut she’d made in his shoulder. “What do I care about some damned Scot? Do you think I’d deliver messages like some serf? Have you forgotten that I am an earl?”

  “I had forgotten,” Bronwyn said slowly, “what you are. I had forgotten the way you attack a person from behind.”

  They were the last words she spoke for quite some time, for Roger’s fist came flying toward her jaw. She was able to move to one side quickly enough that he clipped her cheek instead of smashing her nose as was his aim. She crumpled forward in an unconscious heap.

  When Bronwyn woke, she had trouble knowing where she was. Her head pounded with a black fury that she’d never experienced before, and her thoughts were disorganized. Her body ached and her mouth was immobile. She gave no more than a few attempts at thought and went back to sleep.

  When she woke again, she felt better. She lay still and realized that half of her pain came from a gag around her mouth. Her hands and feet were also tightly tied. She listened and felt and knew she was in a wagon, thrown onto a heap of straw. It was night, and she knew she must have slept through the day.

  There were times when she wanted to cry from the pain of not moving. The ropes cut into her, and her mouth was dry and swollen from the gag.

  “She’s awake,” she heard a man say.

  The wagon stopped, and Roger Chatworth bent over her. “I’ll give you some water if you swear you won’t scream. We’re in a forest and no one could hear you anyway, but I want your word.”

  Her neck was so stiff she could barely move it. She gave him her word.

  He lifted her and untied the gag.

  Bronwyn knew she’d never felt anything so heavenly in her life. She massaged her jaws, wincing at the bruised place Roger’s fist had made.

  “Here,” he said impatiently, thrusting a cup of water at her. “We don’t have all night.”

  She drank deeply of the water. “Where are you taking me?” she gasped.

  Roger snatched the cup from her. “Montgomery may tolerate your insolence, but I won’t. If I wanted you to know anything, I’d tell you.” Before she could stop looking with longing at the cup he’d taken, he grabbed her hair, tossed the half-full cup aside, and replaced the gag. He shoved her back into the straw.

  Through the next day Bronwyn dozed. Roger threw burlap bags over her to hide her. The lack of air and movement made her lightheaded. Her senses drifted about, and she was in a state of half awareness, half sleep.

  Twice she was taken from the wagon, given food and water, and allowed some privacy.

  On the third night the wagon stopped. The bags were taken off her, and she was roughly lifted from the wagon bed. The cold night air hit her as if she’d been thrown into icy water.

  “Take her upstairs,” Roger commanded. “Lock her in the east room.”

  The man held Bronwyn’s limp form almost gently. “Should I untie her?”

  “Go ahead. She can scream all she wants. No one will hear her.”

  Bronwyn kept her eyes closed and her body limp, but she worked on regaining consciousness. She began to count, then she named all of Tam’s children and worked at remembering their ages. By the time the man placed her on a bed, her mind was functioning quickly. She had to escape! And now, before the castle could settle into a routine, was her best time.

  It was difficult to remain still and lifeless as the man gently untied her feet. She willed blood into them, using her mind instead of moving her ankles. She concentrated on her feet and tried to ignore the thousands of painful needles that seemed to be shooting through her wrists.

  The gag came last as she closed her mouth and moved her tongue over the dryness in her mouth. She lay still, her mind beginning to race as the man touched her hair and her cheek. She cursed his touch but it at least gave her body time to adjust to the blood that was once again beginning to flow.

  “Some men get everything,” the man said with a wistful sigh as he heaved himself off the bed.

  Bronwyn waited until she heard a footstep and hoped the man was walking away. She opened her eyes only slightly and saw him lingering by the door. She turned quickly and saw a pitcher on a table by the bed. She rolled toward it, grabbed it, and slung it across the room. The pewter clattered noisily against the wall.

  She lay still again, her eyes open only a slit, as the man rushed toward the noise. Bronwyn was off the bed in seconds and running toward the door. Her ankle gave way under her once but she kept going, never looking at the man. She grabbed the handle on the heavy door and slammed it shut, then slipped th
e bolt into place. Already she could hear the man pounding, but the sound was muffled and weak through the heavy oak.

  She heard footsteps and just had time to slip into a dark window alcove before Roger Chatworth came into sight. He stopped before the door, listening to the man’s pounding and the indistinct voice for a moment. Bronwyn held her breath. Roger smiled in satisfaction, then passed her as he went toward the stairs.

  Bronwyn allowed herself only seconds to calm her racing heart, and for the first time rub her aching wrists and ankles. She flexed her bruised jaw repeatedly as she slipped silently from the shadows and followed Roger down the stairs.

  He turned left at the bottom of the stairs and entered a room. Bronwyn slipped into a shadow just beside the half-open door. She could see inside the small room quite well. There was a table and four chairs, a single fat candle in the center of the table.

  A beautiful woman sat with her profile to Bronwyn. She wore a brilliant, flashing gown of purple-and-green striped satin. The delicate features of her face were perfect, from her little mouth to her blue, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Why did you have to bring her here? I thought you could have her any time you wanted,” the woman said angrily in a sneering voice, so unlike her lovely face.

  Roger had his back to Bronwyn as he sat in a chair facing the woman. “There was nothing else I could do. She wouldn’t listen to what I meant to tell her about Stephen.”

  “Wouldn’t listen to you?” the woman taunted. “Damn the Montgomery men! What was Stephen doing at King Henry’s court anyway?”

  Roger waved his hand. “Something about petitioning the king to stop the raids in Scotland. You should have seen him! He practically had the whole court weeping with his tales of the noble Scots and what was being done to them.”

  Bronwyn closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. Stephen! she thought. Her dear, sweet Stephen. She came back to the present and realized she was wasting time listening to these two. She must escape!

  But Roger’s next words halted her. “How the hell was I to know you’d choose this time to kidnap Mary Montgomery?”

  Bronwyn stopped dead still, her whole body listening.

  The woman kept her face turned as she smiled broadly, showing crooked teeth. “I meant to have his wife,” she said dreamily.

  “By that I take it you mean Gavin’s wife, Judith.”

  “Aye! that whore who stole my Gavin!”

  “I’m not sure he was ever yours, and if he was, you were the one who discarded him when you agreed to marry my dear, departed older brother.”

  The woman ignored him.

  “Why did you take Mary instead?” Roger continued. They may have been discussing the weather for all the interest he showed.

  “She was returning to that convent where she lives, and she was conveniently at hand. I’d like to kill all the Montgomerys one by one. It doesn’t matter which I begin with. Now! tell me of this one you captured. She is Stephen’s wife?” Still the woman did not turn. She kept her profile to both Roger and Bronwyn.

  “The woman has changed. In England, before she married, she was easy to manipulate. I told her an outrageous story about some cousins in Scotland.” He paused to give a derisive laugh. “How could she believe that I am related to a filthy Scot?”

  “You got her to ask for a fight between you,” the beautiful woman said.

  “It was easy enough to put ideas in her empty head,” Roger said. “And Montgomery was willing enough to fight for her. He was so hot for her his eyes were burning out of his head.”

  “I’ve heard she’s beautiful,” the woman said with great bitterness.

  “No woman is more beautiful than all that land she owns. Had she married me, I would have sent English farmers in there and gotten some good out of the land. Those Scots think they should share the land with the serfs.”

  “But you lost her and the fight,” the woman said quietly.

  Roger stood, nearly upsetting the heavy chair. “The bastard!” he cursed. “He ridiculed me. He laughed at me—and he’s made all of England laugh at me.”

  “Would you rather he killed you?” she demanded.

  Roger stood in front of her. “Wouldn’t you rather have been killed?” he asked quietly.

  The woman bent her head. “Yes, oh, yes,” she whispered, then her head came up. “But we will make them pay, won’t we? We have Stephen’s wife and Gavin’s sister. Tell me, what do you plan for the two of them?”

  Roger smiled. “Bronwyn is mine. If I can’t have the lands, I must make do with the woman herself. Mary is of course yours.”

  The woman put up her hand. “She is poor sport for anyone. She’s terrified of everyone and everything. Perhaps I should send her home like this,” she said with hatred as she turned her face so Bronwyn could see her fully.

  It was a combination of the sight of the woman’s hideously scarred cheek and the words about Mary that made Bronwyn gasp. Before she could move, Roger was at the door and had her by the arm. He pulled her into the room.

  Bronwyn winced with pain as Roger’s fingers bit into her skin.

  “So! This is the laird you captured,” the woman sneered.

  Bronwyn stared at her. The once beautiful face was distorted on one side, long ridges of ugly scars drawing the eye down, the mouth up. It gave her an evil, sneering look.

  “Look your fill!” the woman screeched. “You should see it, for you’ll help pay for what you’ve done.”

  Roger released Bronwyn and grabbed the woman’s hands. “Sit down!” he commanded. “We have more to settle than your immediate hatreds.”

  The woman sat down, but she continued to stare at Bronwyn.

  “Where is Mary?” Bronwyn asked quietly. “If you release her, I will not try to escape again. You may do with me what you want.”

  Roger laughed at her. “How very noble of you. But you have nothing to bargain with. You won’t be given a second chance to try to escape.”

  “But what use can Mary be to you? She’s never hurt anyone in her life.”

  “Do you call this nothing?” the woman screamed, her fingers running along her scars.

  “Mary didn’t do that,” Bronwyn said with conviction. She was beginning to believe the scars showed the woman’s true nature.

  “Quiet, both of you!” Roger said. He turned to Bronwyn. “This is my sister-in-law, Lady Alice Chatworth. Both of us have reason to hate the Montgomerys, and we have sworn an oath to destroy them.”

  “Destroy!” Bronwyn gasped. “But Mary—”

  Roger grabbed her arm. “Have you no concern for yourself?”

  “I know what men like you want,” she spat. “Can’t you get a woman without lies and treachery?”

  Roger drew his hand back to slap her, then stopped at Alice’s cackle. “That is what you went to Scotland for, isn’t it, Roger?” she laughed. “Why was it necessary to bring her back tied in a wagon?”

  Roger looked from one woman to the other, then grabbed Bronwyn and pulled her from the room. He half dragged her up the stairs, paused in front of the bolted door, then pulled her farther down the hall. He pushed her onto the wide bed in the center of the rich room. Dark brown velvet hung from the bed canopy. Brown velvet draperies covered the window. Gold braid elegantly trimmed the brown.

  “Undress!” he commanded.

  Bronwyn smiled at him. “Never,” she said in a friendly way.

  He returned her smile. “If you value Mary’s life, you will obey me. It will cost her one finger for every second you delay.”

  Bronwyn gaped at him, then began to unfasten her brooch. Roger leaned against a high, carved chest and watched her with interest.

  “Did you know I got drunk on your wedding night?” he asked. “No, of course you didn’t know. I’ll wager you never gave me a thought. I don’t like being used. You used me in some sort of game with Stephen Montgomery.”

  She stopped, her hand on the buttons of her shirt. “I never used you. Had you won the fight, I woul
d have married you. I thought you were being honest when you told me you cared for my clan.”

  He snorted in derision. “You’re stalling. I want to see what has cost me so much pain and dishonor.”

  Bronwyn bit her lip on her words. She wanted to tell him he had brought his own dishonor.

  Her hands were shaking on her buttons. She’d never undressed before any man except Stephen. She blinked back tears. Stephen would never love her again if another man took her. He was already so jealous that he mistrusted her every action. How would he be after Roger Chatworth got through with her?

  She stood, unfastened her belt and her skirt, and let them slide to the floor. And how would she react to Roger’s touch? Stephen had only to look at her and she fairly attacked him. His merest touch would set her to trembling with passion. Would Roger be able to do the same?

  “Hurry up!” Roger commanded. “I’ve been waiting months for this.”

  Bronwyn closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath as she let the shirt fall to the floor. She kept her chin high and her shoulders back as Roger took a candle and came toward her.

  He stared at her, his eyes roaming over her satin skin, her high, proud breasts. He touched her hip gently, ran his finger along the soft pad of flesh around her navel. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Montgomery was right to fight for you.”

  A sudden knock on the door made them both jump. “Quiet!” Roger commanded as he glanced at the door.

  “Roger,” came the voice through the door, a young man’s voice. “Are you awake?”

  “Get in the bed!” Roger said under his breath. “Stay under the covers and don’t make a sound. Do I need to threaten you?”

  Bronwyn obeyed him quickly, glad for any excuse to hide her nude body from his sight. She buried herself under the furs and coverlets while Roger hastily drew the curtains around the bed.

  “Brian, what is it?” Roger asked in a completely different, gentle voice as he opened the door. “Did you have another bad dream?”

  Bronwyn moved silently so she could see through the curtains. Roger lit several candles on a table by the bed. He stepped aside, and she could see the young man who entered.