They rode at a steady pace for several hours. They did not want to attract attention to themselves by proceeding at a quick run. Stephen stopped once and removed some of the more English trappings on the horses and threw them into the gorse. Bronwyn persuaded a crofter’s wife to give her a pot of dark dye, and she dyed the white markings of the horses. If one looked closely, it could be seen that the forelegs were slightly purple instead of the deep chestnut of the rest of the horse.
Stephen was worried about food and wanted to spend the few coins they found in the saddlebags. But Bronwyn only laughed at him and reminded him that they were still in Scotland. Everywhere they went, they were received with hospitality and generosity. Sometimes a crofter had little enough for his own family, but he was always willing to share what he had with another Scot—or anyone who wasn’t English. Bronwyn laughed at the way Stephen quite often joined the abuse against the English. One Scot after another showed Stephen fields burned by the English. One man introduced his grandchild, the product of an English rape on his young daughter. Stephen listened and replied in his soft, rolling burr that was now as natural to him as breathing.
At night they rolled together in their plaids and made love. Sometimes, during the day, they’d look at each other from atop their horses, and the next moment they’d be on the ground, their clothes scattered and abandoned.
Stephen had merely to look at Bronwyn and she knew what he was thinking. Her eyes would catch fire and her body would grow warm. She smiled at him as his arm slid around her waist and pulled her into the saddle in front of him.
“I don’t think I can get enough of you,” Stephen whispered as he nibbled on her earlobe.
“It’s not for lack of trying,” she said impudently, but she closed her eyes and moved her head so he had access to her neck. “Stephen!” she said suddenly and sat upright because several people were staring at them from the roadside.
“Mornin’,” Stephen said, then returned to Bronwyn’s neck.
She pulled away from him. “Have you no modesty? We should at least—” She stopped as she saw the light in his eyes. “There’re a few trees over there,” she whispered.
Rab kept guard as Stephen and Bronwyn lay side by side in the little copse of trees. It seemed to Bronwyn that the more often they made love, the more Stephen’s body fascinated her. The dappled light through the trees played on the dark skin over his muscles. She was fascinated by the strength and power of him, his ability to move her body with one hand. She teased him, rolled away from him, yet he had only to put one hand to her waist and pull her back to him.
They made love in every position imaginable. They had been away from her clan long enough to remove her sense of heavy responsibility, and she felt free and happy. She sought Stephen as eagerly as he sought her. She experimented, her body taking over her mind. She lay on her back, her legs thrown over Stephen as he lay on his side. She clutched at him, pulled him closer, groaned as his hands caressed her legs. Her whole body shuddered when they exploded together.
They lay still for a long while, wrapped about each other, neither of them noticing the cold winter air or the damp, nearly frozen ground.
“What’s your family like?” Bronwyn asked huskily.
Stephen smiled and looked at her body, perpendicular to his. He was pleased that she looked weak and exhausted, exactly how he felt. He gave a little shiver as a gust of wind sent little needles through his body. “Get dressed and we’ll make some oatcakes.”
After they were dressed, Stephen went to his horse, took a broad metal plate from under the saddle flap, and got a bag of oatmeal. The disk had been their only purchase. Bronwyn had a fire going by the time he returned. They mixed the meal with water while the plate heated, then spread the paste thinly over the hot griddle. Stephen turned the cake with his fingers.
“You haven’t answered me,” Bronwyn said as she ate the first oatcake.
Stephen knew what she meant, but he didn’t want her to see how pleased he was that she asked him about his family. He had a sudden feeling that he didn’t ever want to reach the Montgomery estates, that he always wanted her to himself. The firelight flickered on her hair and flashed off the brooch at her shoulder. He didn’t want to share her with anyone.
“Stephen? You’re looking at me strangely.”
He smiled and looked back at the oatcake on the griddle. “Just thinking. Let’s see. You wanted to know about my family.” He rolled a hotcake and began to eat it. “Gavin is the oldest, then me, then Raine and Miles.”
“What are they like? Are they like you?”
“It’s difficult to judge one’s self. Gavin is tall and extremely stubborn. He’s dedicated to the Montgomery lands and spends most of his time there.”
“And he’s the only one who’s married.”
“Are you forgetting me?” he laughed. “Gavin and Judith were married nearly a year ago.”
“What’s she like?”
“Beautiful! Kind, sweet, forgiving.” He chuckled. “She’d have to be to live with Gavin. He doesn’t know much about women, and as a result he gets in a lot of trouble with them.”
“I’m glad he’s the only one of you four who knows little about women.”
Stephen missed the sarcasm in her words. He was beginning to remember his family with longing. “Then there’s Raine. He’s the one who’s like Tam, heavy and thick, like our father. Raine is the…I don’t know how to explain him. He is good, deep-down good inside. He can’t stand any injustice. He’ll put his own life in danger before he’d ever harm a serf or let anyone else harm one.”
“And Miles?”
“Miles,” Stephen said and smiled. “Miles is quiet and no one knows much about him. He keeps to himself, but every once in a while he explodes with the most horrible temper imaginable. Once when we were children he got angry at one of my father’s squires, and it took all three of us to hold him back.”
“What was the squire doing?” she asked curiously, accepting another oatcake.
Stephen’s eyes danced with memory. “The boy was teasing a little girl. Miles loves women.”