Highland Velvet Read online

  “He—”

  Kirsty cut her off. “Bronwyn lives next to the border of MacArran land.”

  “Ah, you must have a lot of trouble with them,” Harben said with sympathy.

  “Actually, none at all,” Bronwyn smiled.

  “Ye must tell me how—” Harben began.

  Kirsty stood. “I think it’s time we all went to bed. We have to see to the milking in the morning.”

  “Aye,” Harben said. “Mornings come earlier with every year.”

  It was later, when Bronwyn and Stephen were snuggled together under their plaids on a straw pallet, that she spoke. “Don’t give me any lecture,” she whispered with resignation in her voice.

  He pulled her closer to him. “I wasn’t planning to. I like to see you and old Harben argue. I think that for once you’ve met your match. Neither of you can believe anything good about the other’s clan.”

  He kissed her when she started to reply, then they settled peacefully into sleep.

  A rider brought news the next morning that changed Stephen’s plans to leave Harben’s cottage. It was known that the MacArran was missing as well as her English husband. The MacGregor had offered a generous reward for their capture.

  Stephen grinned when Harben said he’d like to turn the ugly witch-woman over to the MacGregor. He stopped grinning when Harben referred to the Englishman as a worthless peacock who wasn’t worth the dirt to bury him in. Stephen scowled as Bronwyn began to agree heartily with Harben’s opinion of the English. She egged him on until Kirsty made her father stop his tirade.

  “I’ll repay you for that,” Stephen whispered as they went to the lean-to, where the milk cows waited.

  “By subjecting me to your greedy English ways?” she teased, then walked ahead of him, her hips swaying seductively.

  Stephen started to reply but he suddenly felt very greedy. He smiled at her and went to a cow.

  Bronwyn had spent her life around the MacArran crofters, and she was at least familiar with farm work. Stephen knew only how to direct fighting men. He sat on a stool beside the cow and stared in bewilderment.

  “Here,” Kirsty said quietly and showed him how to squeeze milk from the cow. She ignored his cursing when he managed to get more milk on himself than in the bucket.

  Later they pooled their milk so that Stephen’s pail was as full as theirs. Nesta looked puzzled at the unusually low milk production, but she smiled fondly at all of them and sent them to the fields.

  There were winter vegetables to be gathered and fences to be repaired. Donald and Bronwyn had a good laugh when they saw Stephen’s face at the sight of the stone fence. He was as pleased as a child that here at last was something he could do. He carried more rocks than the rest of them put together. He was putting his back to what was more a boulder when Kirsty nudged Bronwyn. Harben was looking at Stephen with adoration in his eyes. “I think you have a home as long as you want,” Kirsty said quietly.

  “Thank you,” Bronwyn said, and again she had the feeling that Kirsty knew a great deal about her.

  That night it was a very tired group who returned to the warm little cottage. But they were a happy group. Harben watched them as they teased each other and laughed, recounting the day’s events. He lit a pipe, put his elbow on his knee, and for the first time in years he didn’t think of the day he’d lost his arm.

  It was two days later when Kirsty and Bronwyn went to look for lichens on the other side of the rock ridge behind the cottage. Rory Stephen was snuggled warmly in a plaid, sleeping in a basket beside the stream. It had snowed lightly during the night, and the women were taking their time with their foraging. They were laughing, talking about the farm, their husbands. Bronwyn had never felt freer in her life. She had no responsibilities, no worries.

  Suddenly she froze where she was. She hadn’t really heard a sound, but something in the air made her know that danger was near. She’d had too many years of training to forget them for an instant.

  “Kirsty,” she said quietly—it was the voice of command.

  Kirsty’s head came up sharply.

  “Be very still. Do you understand me?” She was no longer a laughing woman but the MacArran.

  “Rory,” Kirsty whispered, her eyes wide.

  “Listen to me and obey me.” Bronwyn spoke clearly and deliberately. “I want you to go through those high weeds and hide.”

  “Rory,” Kirsty repeated.

  “You must trust me!” Bronwyn said firmly.

  Their eyes locked. “Yes,” Kirsty said. She knew she could trust this woman who’d become her friend. Bronwyn was stronger, faster than she, and Rory meant more to her than to risk him to a mother’s vanity. She turned and walked away through the weeds, then crouched where she could see Rory’s basket. She knew Bronwyn would have a better chance of escaping with the baby—the men could catch the weaker Kirsty in seconds.

  Bronwyn stood quietly, waiting for she knew not what.

  The rushing water was loud, and it covered the sound of the horses’ hoofs. Four riders came into sight around the rock ridge almost before Kirsty could hide. They were English, dressed in the heavy padded clothes. Their doublets were frayed, their hose patched, and their eyes had a hungry look.

  They saw Bronwyn immediately, and she recognized the light that came into their eyes. Rory began to cry, and Bronwyn ran to the baby, clasped it against her breast.

  “What do we have here?” said a blond-haired man as he led his horse directly in front of her.

  “A beauty on the Scots moor,” laughed a second man as he led his horse behind her.

  “Look at that hair!” said the first man.

  “The women of Scotland are all whores,” said a third man. He and the fourth one closed the circle around Bronwyn.

  The man in front urged his horse forward until she had to step backward. “She doesn’t look too frightened to me,” he said. “In fact, she looks like she’s just begging us to wipe that look off her face. Women should not have cleft chins,” he laughed. “It isn’t fitting.”

  “Black hair and blue eyes,” said the second man. “Where have I seen that before?”

  “I think I’d remember her if I’d seen her before,” said the third man. He drew his sword and held it out toward Bronwyn, put the tip of it under her chin.

  She looked up at him, her eyes glassy and hard, steady as she assessed the situation.

  “God in Heaven!” said the second man. “I just remembered who she is.”

  “Who cares who she is,” said the first man, dismounting. “She’s something I plan to taste, and that’s all I care about.”

  “Wait!” the second man Cried. “She’s the MacArran. I saw her at Sir Thomas Crichton’s. Remember that she was wed to one of the Montgomerys?”

  The man standing by Bronwyn stepped away. “Is that true?” he asked quietly in a voice of awe.

  She only stared at him, her hands trying to soothe the child she held.

  One of the men on horseback laughed. “Just look at her! She’s the MacArran all right. Did you ever see a woman with such a proud look? I heard she made Montgomery fight for her even after King Henry promised her to him.”

  “She did,” the second man confirmed. “But you can see why Montgomery was willing to draw his sword for her.”

  “Lady Bronwyn,” said the first man, for her name was known in the higher circles of England, “where is Lord Stephen?”

  Bronwyn didn’t answer him. Her eyes flickered once in the direction of the rocks that separated her from Harben’s cottage. The baby whimpered, and she put her cheek against its head.

  “What a prize!” said the fourth man, who’d been very quiet. He said the words under his breath, wistfully. “What should we do with her?”

  “Turn her over to the Montgomerys. I’m sure Stephen must be looking for her,” said the first man.

  “And no doubt will pay handsomely for her return,” laughed another.

  The fourth man moved his horse closer, forcing Br