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  Brian was probably twenty years old, but his slight build made him appear to be little more than a boy. He walked with a hesitant step, as if one leg were stiff but he’d learned to walk with only a slight limp. He was obviously Roger’s brother, a younger, weaker, more delicate version of his strong, healthy older brother.

  “You should be in bed,” Roger said in a kind voice, a voice Bronwyn had never heard from him before. Roger’s love for this boy was apparent in every word he spoke.

  Brian eased himself into a chair. “I was waiting for you to return. I couldn’t even find out where you went. Alice said…” He stopped.

  “Did she upset you?” Roger asked earnestly. “If she did—”

  “No, of course not,” Brian said. “Alice is an unhappy woman. She is miserable over Edmund’s death.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she is,” Roger said sarcastically. He changed the subject. “I visited my other estates to see that the serfs were not robbing us blind.”

  “Roger, who is the woman who keeps crying?”

  Roger’s head shot up. “I…I don’t know what you mean. There isn’t any woman crying.”

  “For three nights now I’ve heard someone crying. Even during the day I catch just a bit of the sound.”

  Roger smiled. “Perhaps the house has a ghost. Or maybe Edmund—” He stopped abruptly.

  “I know what you mean,” Brian said flatly. “I know more about our elder brother than you think. You were going to say that perhaps the crying is the ghost of one of Edmund’s women. Maybe it was the one who killed herself on the night Edmund was murdered.”

  “Brian! How do you hear of these things? It’s late and you ought to be in bed.”

  Brian sighed, then allowed Roger to help him out of the chair. “I think I will go to bed. Will I see you in the morning? Alice is so much better when you’re here, and I miss Elizabeth already. Christmas is much too short.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll be here. Good night, little brother. Sleep well.” He stood for a moment after the door closed.

  Bronwyn didn’t move as she watched Roger. Roger may be a liar, he might attack a man’s back, but he loved his younger brother.

  Roger turned and threw the bed curtains aside. “Did you hope I’d forgotten you?” His voice was cold again.

  She held the bedclothes to her neck and backed toward the far edge of the bed. “Who is Elizabeth?”

  Roger gave her a smirking look. “Elizabeth is my sister. Now come here.”

  “Is she older or younger than Brian?” She was talking rapidly.

  “Would you like to see my family tree?” He grabbed her arm, pulled her to him. “Elizabeth is three years younger than Brian.”

  “Is she—” Her words stopped as Roger pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her hungrily.

  She was quite still as he kissed her. His lips were firm and pleasant, his breath sweet even, but there was no fire. He ran his mouth down her neck as his hands caressed her back. His fingers played down her spine, then gripped her buttocks and pressed her to him. He was fully dressed, and the padded velvet of his clothes felt good against her cool, bare skin.

  But aside from a pleasant sensation, there was no fire. She felt like an outsider, as if she observed what was happening rather than experienced it.

  “You do not fight me?” Roger asked in a throaty whisper, a hint of humor in his voice.

  “No,” she said honestly. “I—”

  Again he stopped her words with a kiss. Gently he lay her down in the bed and began to kiss her neck as his hands freely caressed her breasts. His lips followed his hands.

  “No, Roger, I don’t fight you,” she said, her voice full of honesty. “Truthfully, I find there is nothing to fight. I must admit I was curious about how I’d react to another man touching me. Stephen says I am after him so often he hasn’t enough time to recover.”

  She gave a little laugh, stared at the canopy, and put her hands behind her head. “Not that Stephen always told the truth,” she chuckled. “But I find it’s just not the same. You touch me in the same places Stephen touches me, but with you I feel nothing. Isn’t that odd?”

  She looked with innocent eyes at Roger, who was bending over her, his hands still, his eyes wide. “I’m really sorry. I don’t mean to offend you. I’m sure some women like you. I guess I just happen to belong to one man alone.”

  Roger raised his hand to strike her, and Bronwyn’s eyes turned cold. “I’ll not fight you nor will I react to your lovemaking. Does it anger you that you aren’t half the man Stephen Montgomery is? Either in bed or out of it?”

  “I’ll kill you for that!” Roger growled as he lunged for her.

  Bronwyn rolled away from him, and he landed on his face in the soft mattress. She jumped from the bed and looked about for a weapon but could find none.

  Roger stopped as he started after her. Damn, but she made a startling sight. Her black hair swirled about her like a demon cloud. Her proud, strong body taunted him. She was breathtaking, like an ancient primitive queen, arrogant, defiant, threatening him with her small strength.

  Every word she’d said about her husband screamed at him. She knew men well, didn’t she? With each word he’d felt his passion shrink. What man could take her when he knew she laughed at him? If she feared him he would rape her, but this laughter of hers was too much.

  “Guards!” he bellowed.

  Bronwyn knew he planned to release her from the duty of his bed. She grabbed her clothes and by the time the door opened, she was wrapped in her plaid, the rest of her clothes under her arm.

  “Take her to the east room,” Roger said tiredly. “And I will have the man’s head who lets her escape.”

  Bronwyn did not breathe easily until she heard the bolt shoot home and she was alone in the room. The guards had released the man she’d locked in the room hours before.

  She sank down on the bed and instantly began to tremble. Her body ached from having been tied in a wagon for three days. Her fear for Mary tormented her, and now the episode with Roger further weakened her.

  Once when she was just a girl she’d gone riding with one of her father’s men. They’d stopped to rest the horses, and the man had tossed her to the ground and began to undress her. Bronwyn had been extremely innocent and very frightened. The man undressed himself, and when he stood over her he thrust his manhood out at her as if he were massively proud of the thing. Bronwyn, who’d only seen horses and bulls, began to laugh at the man, and before her very eyes he’d deflated. She’d learned several lessons that day. One, to never ride alone with just one man, and two, whereas fear seemed to excite the man, her laughter only crushed him.

  She never told her father about the encounter, and three months later the man was killed in a cattle raid.

  It should have been good to see Roger hurt as she’d hurt him, but it wasn’t. She fell down onto the covers of the bed, hiding her face, burying her head. She wanted Stephen so badly, needed him so much. He was the foundation of her being. He kept her from doing stupid, impulsive things. If he’d been with her, she would never have left Larenston. Rab would be alive and she wouldn’t be held prisoner by Roger Chatworth.

  Stephen was with his king, pleading with the man to stop the raids on her country. Her country! Hadn’t Stephen proved he was a Scot? He deserved the title more than anyone else.

  Bronwyn had no idea when she began to cry. The tears just began to flow silently at first, then with deep, wrenching sobs. She swore that if she ever managed to get herself out of this mess, she’d be honest with Stephen. She’d tell him how much she loved him and needed him. Oh, yes! How very, very much she needed him.

  She cried for Mary, for Rab, for Stephen, and most of all for herself. She’d had something so beautiful and she’d thrown it away. “Stephen,” she whispered and cried some more.

  When her body was dry and she could cry no more, she slept.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BRIAN CHATWORTH WAS VERY QUIET AS HE MADE HIS WAY