Highland Velvet Read online

  She stepped inside the room and looked about her. There was a plaid thrown across a chair, the bottom of it worn and ragged. Weapons hung on the stone walls, axes, Claymores, bows. She touched the worn place on her father’s favorite bow. Slowly she walked to the chair near the one window in the room. The leather held the imprint of Jamie’s body.

  Bronwyn sat down in the chair, the dust whirling about her. Her father came often to this room to think and be alone. He allowed no one to enter it except himself and his two children. Bronwyn had teethed on an arrow from her father’s pack.

  She looked from one familiar, loved object to another and felt her head begin to ache. It was all gone now. Her father was dead, her brother had turned away from her with hatred in his heart, and the beautiful young men she would have chosen were rotting in a grave somewhere.

  Now there was no laughter or love at Larenston. The English king had married her to one of his killers, and all happiness was gone.

  The English! she thought. They thought they owned the world. She hated the way Stephen’s men stood off from him, the way they bowed and scraped and called him “my lord.” The English were a cold lot. She’d tried hundreds of times to tell him about the ways of the Scots, but he was too vain to listen.

  She smiled to herself. At least her men knew who was laird. They laughed at Stephen behind his back. All morning she’d heard stories of the aborted cattle raid the night before. How ridiculous Stephen must have looked standing there in his foolish armor.

  A noise in the courtyard below drew her attention. She went to the window to look down.

  At first she didn’t recognize Stephen. She thought only that he was a well-built man with an exceptional look of self-confidence. His belted plaid swung about his legs with a jaunty air. She gasped in indignation when she realized it was Stephen who walked so arrogantly and wore the Scots’ dress as if he had a right to wear it.

  Several of her men stood about the courtyard, and she was glad to see that they made no effort to greet him. They certainly knew an impostor when they saw one.

  The smile left her face as first one man then another walked toward Stephen. She saw him smile and say something, then flip the tail of his plaid up. She heard laughter echoing.

  Douglas—her Douglas!—stepped forward and put out an arm to Stephen. Stephen grabbed it, and the two of them hooked ankles and forearms and began a standing wrestle. It wasn’t a minute later that Douglas went sprawling in the dirt.

  She watched in disgust while Stephen challenged the men, one after another. She drew her breath in sharply when Margaret’s daughter stepped forward, her hips swaying provocatively. She lifted her skirt to expose trim ankles and proceeded to show Stephen a few Highlands dance steps.

  Bronwyn turned away from the window and left the room, locking the door behind her. There was anger in every step she took down the stairs.

  Stephen was standing there. His hair was tousled, his cheeks pink from his day’s exercise in the cold air. His eyes were flashing and bright. Behind him stood several of his men as well as Bronwyn’s, and several pretty young women.

  He looked at her like a boy trying to please. He held out his leg to her. “Will I pass?” he teased.

  She glared at him for a moment, ignoring his muscular leg. “You may fool some of them, but you’re an Englishman to me and will always be. Because you’ve changed your clothes doesn’t mean you’ve changed inside.” She turned and walked away from all of them.

  Stephen stood still for a moment, frowning. Perhaps he did want them to forget he was an Englishman. Perhaps…

  Tam slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so grieved.”

  Stephen turned to see that the Scotsmen behind him were smiling.

  “For all she’s a good laird, she’s still a woman,” Tam continued. “No doubt she was upset because ye were dancin’ with the women.”

  Stephen tried to smile. “I wish you were right.”

  “Why don’t ye go to her and soothe her?”

  Stephen started to reply, then stopped. There was no use telling Tam that Bronwyn wouldn’t welcome anything about him. He followed her up the stairs. She was standing over a weaver, directing the arrangement of the weft threads of a new plaid.

  “Stephen,” called one of the women, “but don’t you look good.” The pretty young woman almost leered at him in his short clothes.

  Stephen turned to smile at the woman, but he caught sight of Bronwyn as she fairly snarled at him before she left the room. He caught her at the head of the stairs. “What’s wrong with you? I thought you’d be pleased with my clothes. You said I must become a Scot.”

  “Dressing as one doesn’t make you a Scot.” She turned away from him.

  Stephen caught her arm. “What’s wrong? Are you angry because of something else?”

  “Why should I be angry?” she asked, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’m married to my enemy. I’m—”

  Stephen put his fingers to her lips. “Something is bothering you,” he said quietly. He watched her face, but she lowered her eyes so he couldn’t see the pain registering there. He took both her arms then ran his hands downward until they touched hers. Her left hand was clutched tightly over something. “What’s this?” he asked softly.

  She tried to pull away from him, but he forced her hand open. He stared at the buckle, read the inscription. “Did someone give this to you today?”

  She nodded silently.

  “Did it belong to your father?”

  She kept her eyes lowered, and again she could only nod.

  “Bronwyn,” he said, his voice rich and deep. “Look at me.” He put his hand gently under her chin and lifted her face. “I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

  “How can you know?” she snapped, jerking away from him. She silently cursed herself for almost believing in him, for letting his voice and his nearness affect her.

  “I know what it’s like to lose a father as well as a mother,” he said patiently. “I’m sure it hurt me as badly as you’ve been hurt.”

  “But I did not kill your father!”

  “Nor did I, personally, kill yours!” he said fiercely. “Listen to me, just once, listen to me as a man, not as a political pawn. We’re married. It’s done. There’s no more stopping it. We could be happy, I know we could, if only you’d be willing to give us a chance.”

  Her face hardened, her eyes turning cold. “And will you brag to your men that you have a Scotswoman eating from your hand? Will you try to win my men, as well as my women, to your side as you did today?”

  “Win!” Stephen began. “Damn you! I’ve spent all day running, literally, in this cold climate bare-legged and bare-assed too, if the truth be known, all to please you and those men you care about so much.” He pushed her away from him. “Go and wallow in your hatred. It will keep you cold company at night.” He turned away and left her.

  Bronwyn stood very still for a moment before slowly going down the stairs. She wanted to trust him. She needed a husband to trust. But how could she? What would happen if her lands were attacked by raiding Englishmen? Could Stephen be expected to fight against his own people?

  She knew how she reacted to him. It would be easy to forget their differences and succumb to his sweet touches, his rich voice. But when she needed to be wary and alert, her senses would be dulled. She couldn’t afford that. She wouldn’t risk her people’s lives merely because she enjoyed a lusty time in bed with a man who could be a spy.

  She sat in the little garden behind the tall stone house. She couldn’t trust him. For all she knew, his entreaties for her to believe in him were a means to use her. She knew he had brothers. Perhaps he’d call them to his side once he made an opening in Bronwyn’s defenses. Would he boast to his brothers that she would do what he wanted, that to make her pliable, he had only to kiss the back of her knees?

  She stood and began to walk quickly to the edge of the peninsula. The sea beat against the rocks, and she could see for miles. It was a great resp