Roger glared up at the victor. “Kill me and be done with it! I would’ve killed you.”
Stephen stared down at him. “I’ve won. It’s enough for me.” He stepped to one side of Roger’s inert form and removed his gauntlet. He held out his bare hand, palm up to his prostrate opponent.
“You insult me!” Roger hissed, lifting his head and spitting on Stephen’s offered hand. “I’ll remember this.”
Stephen raked his hand across his armor. “I’m not likely to forget it.” He resheathed his sword and turned away.
He walked straight to Bronwyn, who was standing beside Morag. Bronwyn was rigid as Stephen approached. He stopped before her and slowly removed his helmet, tossing it to Morag, who caught it with a grin.
Bronwyn retreated a step.
“You cannot escape me again,” Stephen said as he grasped her upper arm with his uncovered hand. He pulled her to him, his one arm stronger than her whole body.
He pulled her soft body against the steel of his armor. The coldness of it, the hardness of it, made Bronwyn gasp. More steel struck her back as his arms encircled her.
“You’re mine now,” Stephen murmured as his lips touched hers.
It was not the first time Bronwyn had kissed a man. There had been several stolen moments during fast cattle raids across the heather.
But it was the first time she’d experienced anything like this kiss. It was soft and sweet, but at the same time it was taking from her things she’d never given before. His mouth played with hers, touching it, caressing it, yet plundering it. She stood on tiptoe to reach him better, turned her head to more of a slant. He seemed to want her to part her lips, and she did so. The cold-hot touch of the tip of his tongue on hers sent little shivers down her spine. Her body seemed to go limp, and when her head moved back, his followed hers, holding her captive more than any chains could.
Abruptly Stephen pulled away, and when Bronwyn opened her eyes, he was grinning insolently at her. She realized that she was held entirely by his grip, that his kiss had made her surrender her entire body weight to him. She straightened, letting her own feet support her again.
Stephen chuckled. “You are mine more than you know.” He released her and pushed her toward Morag. “Go and ready yourself for our wedding…if you can wait that long.”
Bronwyn turned away quickly. She did not want him or anyone else to see her brilliantly red face or the tears that were forming. What none of his insults could do, his kiss was accomplishing in making her cry.
“What are ye greeting about?” Morag snapped as soon as they were alone in the room. “He’s a fine, handsome man ye’re to marry. Ye got your way, and he had to fight for ye. He proved himself to be a strong, aggressive fighter. What more do ye want?”
“He treats me like a tavern wench!”
“He treats ye like a woman. That other one, that Roger, can’t see ye for yer lands. I doubt he even knows ye’re a woman.”
“That’s not true! He’s like…Ian!”
Morag frowned as she thought of the young man, killed when he was only twenty-five. “Ian was like a brother to ye. Ye grew up with him. Had he lived to marry ye he’d probably have felt guilty about bedding ye, felt like he was taking his sister to bed.”
Bronwyn grimaced. “There’s certainly no guilt in this Stephen Montgomery. He wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“What’s upsetting ye?” Morag demanded so loudly that Rab gave a little bark of concern. She stopped, and the wrinkles in her face rearranged themselves. Her voice became quieter. “Is it tonight?”
Bronwyn looked at Morag with such a bleak expression that Morag gave a snort of laughter.
“So ye are a virgin! I was never sure what with the way the laird let ye run wild with the young men.”
“I was always protected. You know that.”
“Sometimes a young man isn’t the best protector of a young woman’s virtue.” She smiled. “Now stop yer frettin’. ’Tis an enjoyable experience ahead of ye; and unless I miss my guess, this Stephen knows how to make a woman’s first time easier.”
Bronwyn walked to the window. “I imagine he does. If I believed the way he acts, I’d think he’s bedded half of England.”
Morag looked at Bronwyn’s back. “Are ye afraid yer inexperience will displease him?”
Bronwyn whirled about. “No pale Englishwoman can compete with a Scotswoman!”
Morag chuckled. “Yer color’s comin’ back. Now out of that dress, and let’s get ye in yer weddin’ dress. It’s only a few more hours before ye go to the kirk.”
Bronwyn’s face lost its color again, and with resignation she set about the long process of changing.