Prologue
STEPHEN MONTGOMERY STILL SAT VERY STRAIGHT ON HIS horse even after the long night’s ride. He didn’t like to think of the bride who waited for him at the end of his journey—who had been waiting for him for three days. His sister-in-law, Judith, had had a few choice things to say about a man not bothering to show up for his own wedding, nor making the effort to send a message of regret at his lateness.
But despite Judith’s words and the realization of the insult he’d paid his future wife, he’d been reluctant to depart King Henry’s estate. Stephen had been hesitant to leave his sister-in-law’s side. Judith, his brother Gavin’s beautiful golden-eyed wife, had fallen down a flight of stairs and lost the badly wanted child she carried. For days Judith hovered between life and death. When she woke and learned her baby was gone, one of her first thoughts was typically about someone other than herself. Stephen had not remembered his own wedding date nor given a thought to his bride. Judith, even in her grief and pain, had reminded Stephen of his duties and the Scotswoman he was to marry.
Now, three days later, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, dark blond hair. He wanted to stay with his brother, Gavin. Judith was more than angry with him. Her fall had not been an accident but had been caused by Gavin’s mistress, Alice Chatworth.
“My lord.”
Stephen slowed his pace and turned to his squire.
“The wagons are far behind us. They cannot keep pace.”
He nodded without speaking and reined his horse toward the narrow stream that ran by the rough road. He dismounted, knelt on one knee, and splashed his face with cold water.
There was another reason Stephen didn’t want to travel to meet this bride he’d never seen. King Henry meant to reward the Montgomerys for their faithful service over the years, so he gave the second brother a rich Scots bride. Stephen knew he should be grateful, but not after the things he’d heard of her.
She was, in her own right, the laird of a powerful Scots clan.
He looked across the green meadow on the far side of the stream. Damn the Scots anyway for their absurd belief that a mere woman was intelligent and strong enough to lead men. Her father should have chosen a young man for his heir instead of a woman.
He grimaced as he imagined what kind of woman could inspire her father to name her chief. She had to be at least forty years old, hair the color of steel, a body thicker than his own. On their wedding night no doubt they’d arm wrestle to see who would get on top…and he’d lose.
“My lord,” the boy said. “You do not look well. Perhaps the long ride has made you ill.”
“It’s not the ride that’s turned my stomach.” Stephen stood up slowly, easily, his powerful muscles moving under his clothes. He was tall, towering over his squire, and his body was lean and hard from many years of strenuous training. His hair was thick with sweaty curls along his neck, his jaw strong, his lips finely chiseled. Yet now there were sunken shadows under the eyes of brilliant blue. “Let’s return to our horses. The wagons can follow us later. I don’t want to put off my execution any longer.”
“Execution, my lord?”
Stephen did not answer. There were still many hours before he’d reach the horror that awaited him in the solid, bulky shape of Bronwyn MacArran.
Chapter One
1501
BRONWYN MACARRAN STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF THE English manor house, looking down at the courtyard below. The mullioned window was open against the warm summer sun. She leaned forward slightly to catch a whiff of fresh air. As she did so, one of the soldiers below grinned up at her suggestively.
She stepped back quickly, grabbed the window, and slammed it shut. She turned away angrily.
“The English pigs!” Bronwyn cursed under her breath. Her voice was soft, full of the heather and mist of the Highlands.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, and she caught her breath, then released it when they went past. She was a prisoner, held captive on England’s northernmost border by men she’d always hated, men who now smiled and winked at her as if they were intimate with her most private thoughts.
She walked to a small table in the center of the oak-paneled room. She clutched the edge of it, letting the wood cut into her palms. She’d do anything to keep those men from seeing how she felt inside. The English were her enemies. She’d seen them kill her father, his three chieftains. She’d seen her brother driven nearly insane with his futile attempts to repay the English in their own kind. And all her life she’d helped feed and clothe the members of her clan after the English had destroyed their crops and burned their houses.
A month ago the English had taken her prisoner. Bronwyn smiled in memory of the wounds she and her men had inflicted upon the English soldiers. Later four of them had died.
But in the end she was taken, by the order of the English Henry VII. The man said he wanted peace and therefore would name an Englishman as chief of Clan MacArran. He thought he could do this by marrying one of his knights to Bronwyn.
She smiled at the ignorance of the English king. She was chief of Clan MacArran, and no man would take her power away. The stupid king thought her men would follow a foreigner, an Englishman, rather than their own chief because she was a woman. How little Henry knew of the Scots!
She turned suddenly as Rab growled. He was an Irish wolfhound, the largest dog in the world, rangy, strong, hair like soft steel. Her father had given her the dog four years ago when Jamie’d returned from a trip to Ireland. Jamie had meant to have the dog trained as his daughter’s guardian, but there was no need. Rab and Bronwyn took to each other immediately, and Rab had often shown that he’d give his life for his beloved mistress.
Bronwyn’s muscles relaxed when Rab’s growl stopped—only a friend produced such a reaction. She looked up expectantly.
It was Morag who entered. Morag was a short, gnarled old woman, looking more like a dark burl of wood than a human being. Her eyes were like black
glass, sparkling, penetrating, seeing more of a person than what was on the surface. She used her lithe little body to advantage, often slipping unnoticed amid people, her eyes and ears open.
Morag moved silently across the room and opened the window.
“Well?” Bronwyn demanded impatiently.
“I saw ye slam the window. They laughed and said they’d take over the weddin’ night ye’d be missin’.”
Bronwyn turned away from the old woman.
“Ye give them too much to speak of. Ye should hold yer head high and ignore them. They’re only Englishmen, while ye’re a MacArran.”
Bronwyn whirled. “I don’t need anyone to tell me how to act,” she snapped. Rab, aware of his mistress’s distress, came to stand beside her. She buried her fingers in his fur.
Morag smiled at her, then watched as the girl moved toward the window seat. She had been placed in Morag’s arms when Bronwyn was still wet from her birth. Morag had held the tiny bairn as she watched the mother die. It’d been Morag who’d found a wet nurse for the girl, who’d given her the name of her Welsh grandmother, and who’d cared for her until she was six and her father’d taken over.
It was with pride that Morag looked at her charge now nearly twenty years old. Bronwyn was tall, taller than most men and as straight and supple as a reed. She didn’t cover her hair like the Englishwoman, but let it flow down her back in a rich cascade. It was raven-black and so thick and heavy it was a wonder her slender neck could support the weight. She wore a satin dress in the English style. It was the color of the cream from the Highland cattle. The square neck was low and tight, showing Bronwyn’s firm young breasts to advantage. It fit like skin to her small waist, then belled out in rich folds. Embroidery entwined with thin gold strands edged both the neck and the waist and fell in an intricate waterfall down the skirt.
“Do I meet your approval?” Bronwyn asked sharply, still irritated over their quarrel about the English attire. She had preferred Highland clothes, but Morag persuaded her to wear English garb, telling her to give the enemy no reason to laugh at her in what they referred to as “barbaric dress.”
Morag chuckled dryly. “I was thinkin’ it was a shame no man would be takin’ that gown from ye tonight.”
“An Englishman!” Bronwyn hissed. “Do you forget that so soon? Has the red of my father’s blood faded before your eyes?”
“Ye know it hasn’t,” Morag said quietly.
Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat, the satin of the dress flowing about her. She ran her finger along the heavy embroidery. The dress had cost her a great deal, money that could have been spent on her clan. But she knew they would not have wanted to be shamed before the Englishmen, so she bought dresses that would have been the pride of any queen.