“You don’t need them for protection? What about my Scots? Didn’t you know they wait in the forest, ready to rescue me?”
Stephen took her hand and pulled her toward some rocks. She tried to free herself but he wouldn’t allow it. He pulled her down to sit beside him, then stretched out beside her, his head cradled in his hands. Apparently he didn’t seem to think her questions deserved an answer. Instead, he stared up through the trees at the brilliant blue sky. “Why did your father name you chief of his clan?”
Bronwyn stared at him for a moment, then smiled. This was what she wanted, to talk to him about what was most important in the world—her people. “I was to marry one of three men, any one of whom would have made an excellent laird. But none of the young men was within the nine degrees of kinship from which a chief can be chosen. My father named me the next MacArran, understanding that I’d marry one of those men.”
“And the men?”
Bronwyn’s mouth twisted angrily. “They were killed with my father. By the English!”
Stephen didn’t seem to respond except for a slight knitting of his brows. “So now whoever marries you must become the laird?”
“I am the laird of MacArran,” she stated firmly and started to rise.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the ground. “I wish you’d stop being angry with me for longer than a breath. How am I supposed to understand you if you run away?”
“I don’t run away from you!” She snatched her hand away because he’d begun to kiss her fingertips. Bronwyn made herself ignore the sensations running along her arm all the way to her earlobe.
Stephen sighed and lay back down. “I’m afraid I can’t look at you and talk at the same time.” He paused. “Surely your father must have had another relative who could inherit.”
Bronwyn calmed herself. She knew exactly what this stupid Englishman was saying. He meant that surely any man would have been better than a female. She did not mention her older brother, Davey. “The Scots believe women have intelligence and strength of character. They do not expect us to be only bearers of children and nothing else.”
Stephen grunted in reply, and Bronwyn had a delicious vision of smashing his head with a large rock. She smiled at the thought. As if understanding her, Rab lifted his big head and looked at her in question.
Stephen seemed unaware of the exchange near him. “What would be my duties as laird?”
She gritted her teeth and tried to be patient. “I am the MacArran, and my men answer to me. They would have to accept you before they obeyed you.”
“Accept me?” he asked and turned toward her, but her breasts above the pearl-bordered neckline distracted him so badly that he had to look away in order to keep his composure. “I would think it would be more whether I accepted them.”
“Spoken like a true Englishman!” she sneered. “You think that the circumstances of your birth place you above everyone else. You think your ways and ideas make you better than the poor Scots. No doubt you think us cruel and savage compared to you. But we do not capture your women and force them to marry our Scotsmen, though they’d make better husbands than any Englishman.”
Stephen didn’t take offense at her outburst. He merely shrugged. “I’m sure every man thinks his homeland is the best. Truthfully, I know very little about Scotland or the people there. I spent some time in the Lowlands, but I don’t believe that’s like the Highlands.”
“The Lowlanders are more English than Scots!”
He was quiet for a moment. “It seems that being the chief of a clan—pardon me,” he said with an amused little chuckle, “being the husband of a chief entails some responsibility. What must I do to be accepted?”
Bronwyn relaxed her shoulders. Since he looked away from her, she had leisure to look at him. He was so tall, taller than most of the men she’d met. His long body stretched out before her, and she was well aware of his nearness. In spite of his words she wanted to sit beside him, enjoyed gazing at him, at his strong legs, at the thickness of his chest, at the dark blond curls along his collar. She liked that his dress was subdued, not gaudy like so many of the Englishmen’s. She wondered how he’d look in a Scots tartan, his legs bare from mid-thigh to just below his knees.
“You must dress as a Scot,” she said quietly. “The men will always be aware that you’re one of the enemy if you do not wear a plaid.”
Stephen frowned. “You mean run around bare-legged? I heard the Highlands get quite cold.”
“Of course, if you aren’t man enough—” His arrogant look stopped her.
“What else?”
“You must become a MacArran, be a MacArran. The MacGregors will be your enemies, your name will become MacArran. You will—”
“What!” Stephen said as he jumped to his feet and towered over her. “Change my name! You mean to say I, a man, am to take my wife’s name?” He turned away from her. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Do you know who I am? I am a Montgomery! The Montgomerys have lasted through hundreds of wars, through many kings. Other families have risen and fallen, but the Montgomerys have survived. My family has owned the same land for over four hundred years.”
He turned back to her and ran his hand through his hair. “And now you expect me to give up the Montgomery name for that of my wife?” He paused, then chuckled. “My brothers would laugh me to hell and back if I were to consider such a thing.”
Bronwyn rose slowly, letting his words sink in. “You have brothers to carry on your family name. Do you know what would happen if I were to take an Englishman home who does not even attempt to understand our ways? First my men would kill him, then I would need to choose a new husband. Do you know what conflict that would cause? There are several young men who’d like to become my husband. They would fight.”
“So! I’m to give up my name so you can control your men? And what if they still didn’t accept me? Perhaps I should dye my hair or cut off an arm to please them. No! They’ll obey me or they’ll feel this!” He quickly drew his long sword from the sheath at his side.
Bronwyn stared at him. He was speaking of murdering her people, her friend