Tam didn’t comment on that statement, but he smiled to himself. Morag kept a close watch on the couple and reported to Tam. Tam wanted to make sure Bronwyn was in no danger of being harmed by the Englishman. From what Morag said, Stephen was the one in danger—of exhaustion.
Tam looked up. “The first thing ye must do is rid yerself of those English clothes.”
Stephen nodded; he’d expected this.
“And then ye must learn to run, both for distance and speed.”
“Run! But a soldier must stand and fight.”
Tam snorted. “Our ways are different. I thought ye knew that already. Unless ye’re willin’ to learn, I’ll be no use to ye.”
With an air of resignation Stephen agreed.
An hour later he began to wish he hadn’t agreed. He and Tam stood outside in the cold autumn wind, and Stephen had never felt so bare in his life. Instead of the heavy, padded, warm English clothes, he wore only a thin shirt, a belted plaid over it. He wore wool socks and high boots, but he still felt as if he were bare from the waist down.
Tam slapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, boy, ye’ll get used to it. A little more hair and ye’ll be nearer a Scot than ever.”
“This is a damned cold country to be running about bareassed,” Stephen muttered as he flipped up the plaid and shirt to show one bare cheek.
Tam laughed. “Now you know what a Scotsman wears under his plaid.” His face turned serious. “There’s a reason for our dress. The plaid makes a man disappear in the heather. The dress is easy to remove, easy and fast to put on. Scotland’s a wet country, and a man can’t afford to have wet, clinging garments on his skin; he’d die of lung sickness if he did. The plaid is cool in summer, and the constant chafing of yer knees’ll make ye warm in winter.” His eyes twinkled. “And it allows free air circulation to all yer most vital parts.”
“That it does,” Stephen said.
“Ah! now ye look to be a man!” Morag said from behind him. She openly stared at his legs. “Wearin’ all that armor has put some muscle on ye.”
Stephen grinned at her. “If I weren’t already married, I think I might consider asking you.”
“And I might consider acceptin’. Though I wouldn’t like to fight Bronwyn for ye.”
Stephen gave her a bleak look. “She’d give me away to anyone if she could.”
“As long as she could have ye in bed, is that it?” Morag cackled before turning away.
Stephen blinked once. The familiarity within a clan always startled him. Everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business.
“We’re wastin’ time,” Tam said. “Try runnin’ to that pole down there,” he pointed.
Stephen thought that running would be easy. After all, even children ran, and he was in good condition. But he felt his lungs were about to burst after his first short sprint. It took several minutes to calm his racing heart and regain his breath. His heart sounded as if it were about to break his eardrums.
“Here, drink some water,” Tam said as he held out a dipper. “Now that ye have yer breath, run it again.”
Stephen raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
“Come on, boy,” Tam said. “I’ll run it with ye. You wouldn’t let an old man beat ye, would ye?”
Stephen gasped for air. “The last thing I’d call you is old.” He tossed t
he dipper aside. “Come on, let’s go.”
Chapter Seven
BRONWYN WAS STANDING ALONE AT THE FOOT OF THE stairs leading to the top of the old tower. Her eyes were dry and burning, almost swollen from the tears she hadn’t shed. Clutched tightly in her hand was a heavy silver belt buckle. On the back was engraved: “To Ennis from James MacArran.”
An hour ago one of the crofters had brought the buckle to her. Bronwyn remembered when her father had given the buckles to the three young men he’d chosen to succeed him. It had almost been a ceremony. There’d been food and wine, dancing, and much, much laughter. Everyone was teasing Bronwyn about which man she’d choose for her husband. Bronwyn had flirted and laughed and pretended that all of them were worthless compared to her father.
There’d been Ian, Tam’s son. Ian was only as tall as she was but thick like his father. Ramsey was blond, broad-shouldered, with a mouth that sometimes made Bronwyn nervous. Ennis had freckles and green eyes, and he could sing so sweetly he could make you cry.
She squeezed the belt buckle until it cut into her palm. Now they were all dead. Strong Ian, handsome Ramsey, sweet Ennis—all dead and buried. Killed by the English!