“Death to all Montgomerys!” he cried.
Elizabeth grabbed his horse’s bridle, succeeding in nearly pulling her arm from its socket and making Roger’s horse rear. Both of them fought their horses for a moment.
“Why do you come riding with Montgomerys?” Roger bellowed.
“Because I am a Montgomery,” she shouted back.
That statement successfully made Roger pause.
“How dare you not tell me of the king’s order that I marry Miles!” she yelled at him. “What else have you lied to me about? Who killed my brother Brian?”
Roger’s anger made his face turn red. “A Montgomery—” he began.
“No! I want the truth!”
Roger looked at the guard of men behind her as if he were planning their deaths.
“You tell me the truth here and now or I ride with them back to Scotland. I have just been married to a Montgomery and my child has every right to be raised as one.”
Roger was breathing so hard, his chest was swelling to barrel size. “I killed Brian,” he shouted, then quietened. “I killed my own brother. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Elizabeth had expected any answer but that one and she felt deflated. “Come back to the house, Roger, and we’ll talk.”
When they were alone in the solar, Elizabeth demanded that Roger tell her everything about the wars between the Chatworths and the Montgomerys. It wasn’t an easy story to listen to and it was even harder to get Roger to tell the unbiased truth. Roger’s view of the events was colored by his emotions.
In Scotland he’d seen a chance to marry Bronwyn MacArran, which would have been an excellent match for him. He did tell the woman a few falsehoods in order to make him appear more favorable to her—but what were a few lies in courtship? He’d even maneuvered Stephen Montgomery into fighting for her, but when Stephen won so easily Roger’d been enraged and attacked Stephen’s back. Roger’s humiliation at that had been too much to bear. He’d kidnapped Bronwyn and Mary merely to show the Montgomerys he was a power to be reckoned with. He never meant the women any harm.
“But you did harm Mary,” Elizabeth said angrily.
“Brian wanted to marry her!” Roger defended himself. “After all I’d suffered at the hands of the Montgomerys and then Brian wanted to marry their old, plain, spiritless daughter. No one else in England would have her. Can you imagine how the Chatworths would have been laughed at?”
“Your pride sickens me. Brian lies dead rather than married. Did you get what you wanted?”
“No,” he whispered.
“Neither have I.” She sat down. “Roger, I want you to listen to me and listen well. The anger between the Montgomerys and Chatworths is over. My name is now Montgomery and my child will be a Montgomery. There will be no more fighting.”
“If he tries again to take you—” Roger began.
“Take me!” She stood so fast the chair fell over. “This morning I begged Miles Montgomery to take me with him, but he refused. And I don’t blame him! His family has lost someone they loved because of you, yet they have not killed you as probably they should have.”
“Brian—”
“You killed Brian!” she shouted. “You have caused all of this and so help me God, if you so much as look at a Montgomery wrong, I’ll take a sword to you myself.” With that she left the room, nearly tripping over Alice who, as usual, was eavesdropping.
It was three days before Elizabeth could control her anger enough to even think. When she did think, she decided to look at what she had and do something with it. She was not going to have her child growing up as she had. She would probably never live with Miles so the closest thing to a father her child would have was going to be Roger.
She found Roger brooding before the fireplace and if she’d been a man, she would have pulled him out of his chair and given his backside a good swift kick.
“Roger,” she said in a voice filled with honey, “I never noticed before, but you’re getting a roll about your middle.”
He put his hand to his flat stomach in surprise.
Elizabeth had to repress her smile. Roger was a very good-looking man and he was used to women noticing him. “Perhaps at your age,” she continued, “a man should grow stout and his muscles weak.”
“I’m not so old,” he said, standing, sucking in his stomach.
“That was one thing I liked about Scotland. The men were so trim and fit.”