Highland Velvet Read online

  “Stephen!” Chris said as they walked across the sand-covered field. They stopped by the edge of the peninsula, gazing out at the sea. “You’ve got to stop working like this. Can’t you see that they’re not interested in what you’re trying to do for them?”

  Stephen removed his helmet. The cool wind rushed at his sweat-dampened hair. Each day he was increasingly frustrated at his attempts to work with Bronwyn’s men. His own men trained each day, learning to handle their heavy armor and weapons. But Bronwyn’s men stood on the outskirts and watched the Englishmen as if they were animals in King Henry’s menagerie.

  “There must be a way to reach them!” he said under his breath.

  Suddenly he heard a man running toward them.

  “My lord,” one of Stephen’s men said. “There’s been an attack on some of the MacArran cattle in the north. The men are already saddling.”

  Stephen nodded once. Now he’d have a chance to show these Scotsmen what fighters his English knights were. He was used to protecting lands from poachers and thieves.

  The heavy steel armor made quick movement impossible. His squire waited with his horse, it too wearing armor. The horse was a heavy one, bred through hundreds of years to be able to bear the weight of a man in full armor. The horse would never be called upon for speed but must stand steady through the thickest of battles, obeying its master’s knee commands.

  By the time Stephen and his armored men mounted, the Scotsmen were gone. Stephen grimaced and thought of the necessary discipline he’d have to enforce for punishment.

  It wasn’t until years later that Stephen could remember the events of that night on the Scots moors without once again experiencing a sense of shame and bewilderment.

  It was dark when he and his men reached the place where the MacGregors had stolen the cattle. The noise they made as they rode echoed through the countryside. Their armor clanked; their heavy horses’ hoofs thundered.

  Stephen thought he must have expected the MacGregors to meet him like Englishmen in hand-to-hand combat. It was with consternation that he and his men sat atop their horses and watched the ensuing battle. It was like nothing Stephen had ever seen or imagined.

  The Scots left their horses and melted into the woods. They discarded their plaids from their shoulders, leaving them free to run in their loose shirts. There were great shouts from the trees, then the sounds of the Scots’ Claymores striking steel.

  Stephen motioned for his men to dismount, and they followed the sound of the Scots into the trees. But the Scots had already moved elsewhere. The heavy armor made the Englishmen too slow, too unsteady.

  Stephen was looking about in a confused manner when one of Bronwyn’s men stepped from the shadows.

  “We routed them,” the Scotsman said, his mouth in a slight smirk.

  “How many were hurt?”

  “Three injured, none killed,” he said flatly, then smiled. “The MacArrans are too fast for any MacGregor.” The man was flushed from the excitement of the battle. “Shall I get some men together to lift you onto your horse?” he said as he smiled openly at Stephen in his armor.

  “Why you—!” Chris began. “I’ll take a sword to you here and now.”

  “Come on, English dog,” the Scotsman taunted. “I can have your throat cut before you can move the hinges on that steel coffin.”

  “Cease!” Stephen commanded. “Chris, put your sword away. And you, Douglas, see to the wounded.” Stephen’s voice was heavy.

  “You can’t let him get away with such insolence,” Chris said. “How do you plan to teach them to respect you?”

  “Teach them!” Stephen snapped. “A man cannot teach another to respect him. He must earn respect. Come, let’s go back to Larenston. I have some thinking to do.”

  Bronwyn tossed in the bed, slamming her fist into the pillow. She kept telling herself that she didn’t care that Stephen preferred to spend the night somewhere else. She didn’t care if he chose someone else to spend it with. She thought of her clan members. Margaret’s daughter was a pretty thing, and she’d heard a couple of the men laughing about what a good time they’d had with her. She must speak to Margaret in the morning! It wasn’t good to have a girl like that around.

  “Damn!” she said aloud, and Rab growled. She sat up in bed, the covers falling away from her lovely breasts. It was cold in the bed alone. Morag had told her of the cattle raid. She had a few choice words to say about the MacGregors. Morag hissed when Bronwyn said she hoped Stephen wasn’t killed because his death would bring the English king down on their heads.

  Now she kept looking at the door, frowning once in a while.

  When the door began to open, she held her breath. It could be Morag with news. Her breath escaped when she saw Stephen enter, his hair as well as his shirt-front wet from dousing himself at the well.

  Stephen barely looked at her. His blue eyes were dark, a crease between his brows. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and began to remove his clothes. He couldn’t seem to put his mind on the task but kept pausing for long periods of time.

  Bronwyn searched for something to say. “Are you hungry?” He didn’t answer, so she moved across the bed to sit closer to him. The sheet was wrapped about her lower body, the upper bare. “I asked if you were hungry,” she said loudly.

  “Oh?” Stephen mumbled as he removed a boot. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  Bronwyn had an urge to ask him what was wrong, but of course she’d never do anything like that. She didn’t care what was wrong with the Englishman. “Were any of my men hurt in the cattle raid?”

  When Stephen again didn’t answer, she pushed his shoulder. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question.”

  Stephen turned to her as if he’d just realized she was there. His eyes raked her nude body, but he showed no interest as he stood and unfastened his belt. “No one was seriously hurt. A few stitches in one man’s arm, but nothing else.”

  “Who? Whose arm needed stitches?”

  Stephen waved his hand and stepped nude into the bed. He put his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t attempt to touch her. “Francis, I think,” he said finally.

  Bronwyn was still sitting, frowning at him. What was wrong with him? “Did our Scots’ ways frighten you, Englishman? Were my men too strong for you or too fast?”

  To her amazement Stephen did not take the bait.

  “Too fast,” he said quite seriously, still watching the ceiling. “They moved quickly and freely. Of course, they’d never last in England, because a few armed knights could cut fifty of them apart. But here—”

  “Fifty!” Bronwyn breathed. The next instant she brought both her fists down against Stephen’s broad, bare chest. “You’ll never see the day when one Englishman can harm fifty Scots,” she fairly yelled as she beat her fists against his hard chest.

  “Here! Stop that!” Stephen said, grabbing her fists in his hands. “I have enough bruises without your adding to them.”

  “I’ll give you more than bruises,” she said as she struggled against his grip.

  Stephen’s eyes lightened. He pulled on her hands and drew her forward; her breasts pressed against him. “I’d like more than bruises,” he said huskily, his full attention at last on her. He released one of her hands and touched her hair. “Will you always bring me back to reality?” he asked as he touched her temple. “I think I could be worried about the greatest problem in the universe, and you would contrive to turn my thoughts to your lovely skin, your eyes,” he said, moving his fingers, “your lips.”

  Bronwyn felt her heart begin to pound. His breath was so soft and warm. His hair was still damp, and a curl stuck by his ear. She had an urge to touch that curl, but she was always careful to make no advances toward him. “And were you worried about some great problem?” she asked nonchalantly, as if it didn’t matter.

  He stilled his fingers and his eyes captured hers. “Do I hear concern in your voice?” he asked quietly.

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