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  Roger lifted a handsome eyebrow at her. Her hostility made her eyes sparkle like blue diamonds. “I’m sure there must be an excuse for his tardiness.”

  “Perhaps his excuse is that he means to assert his authority over all the Scots. He will show us who is master.”

  Roger was silent for a moment as if he were considering her words. “There are those who consider the Montgomerys arrogant.”

  “You say you know this Stephen Montgomery. What is he like? I don’t know if he’s short or tall, old or young.”

  Roger shrugged as if his mind were elsewhere. “He is an ordinary man.” He seemed reluctant to continue. “Lady Bronwyn, tomorrow would you do me the honor of riding into the park with me? There’s a stream running across Sir Thomas’s land, and perhaps we could carry a meal there.”

  “Aren’t you afraid that I’ll make an attempt on your life? I have not been allowed off these grounds for over a month.”

  He smiled at her. “I would like you to know there are Englishmen with more manners than to, as you say, discard a woman on her wedding day.”

  Bronwyn stiffened as she was reminded of the humiliation Stephen Montgomery had caused her. “I would very much like to ride out with you.”

  Roger Chatworth smiled and nodded to a man passing them on the narrow garden path. His mind was working quickly.

  Three hours later Roger returned to his apartments in the east wing of Sir Thomas Crichton’s house. He’d come there two weeks ago to talk to Sir Thomas about recruiting young men from the area. Sir Thomas had been too busy with the problems of the Scots heiress to talk of anything else. Now Roger was beginning to think fate had brought him here.

  He kicked the stool out from under his sleeping squire’s feet. “I have something for you to do,” he commanded as he removed his velvet jacket and slung it across the bed. “There’s an old Scotsman named Angus lying about somewhere. Look for him and bring him to me. You’ll probably find him wherever the drink is flowing freely. And then bring me half a hogshead of ale. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the boy said, backing out of the doorway, rubbing his drowsy eyes.

  When Angus appeared in the doorway, he was already half drunk. He worked for Sir Thomas in some sort of capacity, but generally he did little except drink. His hair was dirty and tangled, hanging well past his shoulders in the Scots manner. He wore a long linen shirt, belted at the waist, his knees and legs bare.

  Roger glanced at the man and his heathen attire with a brief look of disgust.

  “You wanted me, my lord?” Angus said, his voice a soft burr. His eyes followed the small cask of ale that Roger’s squire was carrying into the room.

  Chatworth dismissed the boy, poured himself an ale, sat down, and motioned Angus to do likewise. When the filthy man was seated, Roger began. “I’d like to know about Scotland.”

  Angus raised his shaggy brows. “You mean where the gold is hidden? We’re a poor country, my lord, and—”

  “I want none of your sermons! Save your lies for someone else. I want to know what a man who is to marry the chief of a clan should know.”

  Angus stared hard for a moment, then he closed his mouth with his mug of ale. “An eponymus, eh?” he mumbled in Gaelic. “ ’Tisn’t easy to be accepted by the clan members.”

  Roger took one long step across the room and grabbed the mug of ale from the man. “I didn’t ask for your judgments. Will you answer my questions, or do I kick you down the stairs?”

  Angus looked at the cold mug with desperate eyes. “Ye must become a MacArran.” He looked up at Roger. “Takin’ that you mean that particular clan.”

  Roger gave a brief, curt nod.

  “Ye must take the name of the laird of the clan, or the men can’t accept ye. Ye must dress as the Scots or they’ll laugh at ye. Ye must love the land and the Scots.”

  Roger lowered the ale. “What about the woman? What must I do to own her?”

  “Bronwyn cares about little else except her people. She would have killed herself before she married an Englishman, but she knew her death would cause war within her clan. If ye make the woman know ye mean well for her people, ye’ll have her.”

  Roger gave the man the ale. “I want to know more. What is a clan? Why was a woman made chief? Who are the enemies of Clan MacArran?”

  “Talking is thirsty work.”

  “You’ll have all you can hold, just as long as you tell me what I want to know.”

  Bronwyn met Roger Chatworth early the next morning. In spite of her good intentions, she’d been so excited about the prospect of a ride in the woods that she’d hardly been able to sleep. Morag had helped her dress in a soft brown velvet gown, all the while issuing dire warnings about Englishmen bearing gifts.

  “I merely want the ride,” Bronwyn said stubbornly.

  “Aye, and what mere trifle does this Chatworth want? He knows ye’re to marry another.”

  “Am I?” Bronwyn snapped. “Then where is my bridegroom? Should I sit in my wedding gown for another full day and wait for him?”

  “It might be better than chasing after some hot-blooded young earl.”

  “An earl? Roger Chatworth is an English earl?”

  Morag refused to answer, but gave the gown a final straightening before pushing her from the room.

  Now, as Bronwyn sat atop the horse, Rab running beside her, she felt alive for the first time in many weeks.

  “The roses have returned to your cheeks,” Roger said, laughing.

  She smiled in return, and the smile softened her chin and lit her eyes. She spurred the horse to a faster pace. Rab with his long, loping strides kept pace with the horse.

  Roger turned for a moment to glance at the men following them. There were three of his personal guards, two squires, and a packhorse loaded with food and plate. He turned and looked ahead at Bronwyn. He frowned when she glanced over her shoulder and spurred her mount even faster. She was an excellent horsewoman, and no doubt the woods were full of men from her clan, all eager and willing to help her escape.

  He threw up his hand and motioned his men forward as he set spurs to his own mount.

  Bronwyn made her horse come close to flying. The wind in her hair, the sense of freedom, were exhilarating. When she came to the stream, she was going full speed. She had no idea if the horse had ever taken a jump before, but she urged it on regardless of the risk. It sailed over the water as if it had wings. On the far side she pulled the animal to a halt and turned to look back.

  Roger and his men were just approaching the stream.

  “Lady Bronwyn!” Roger shouted. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she laughed, then led her horse through the water to where Roger waited for her. She bent forward and patted the horse’s neck. “He’s a good animal. He took the jump well.”

  Roger dismounted and walked to her side. “You gave me a terrible fright. You could have been injured.”

  She laughed happily. “A Scotswoman is not likely to be injured while atop a horse.”

  Roger put his arms up to help her dismount.

  Suddenly Rab jumped between them, his lips drawn back showing long, sharp teeth. He growled deeply, menacingly. Roger instinctively retreated.

  “Rab!” The dog obeyed Bronwyn immediately. He moved away but his eyes, with a warning gleam, never left Roger. “He means to protect me,” she said. “He doesn’t like anyone touching me.”

  “I’ll remember that in future,” Roger said warily as he aided Bronwyn off her horse. “Perhaps you’d like to rest after your ride,” he suggested. He snapped his fingers, and his squires brought two chairs upholstered in red velvet. “My lady,” Roger offered.

  She smiled in wonder at the chairs set in the woods. The grass under their feet was like a velvet carpet. The stream played its music, and even as she thought that, one of Roger’s men began to strum a lute. She closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Are you homesick, my lady?” Roger asked.

  She