Before Morag could act, the door was suddenly thrust open again, revealing a pair of guards.
“How dare you!” Bronwyn yelled as she sank lower into the water.
Instantly Rab rose from his place at the foot of the tub, ready to attack.
The men had barely a glimpse of Bronwyn before they were knocked off balance by a hundred and twenty pounds of snarling, sharp-toothed dog.
Morag grabbed Bronwyn’s thin linen chemise and tossed it to her. She stood in the tub and hastily pulled it over her wet body, the hem of it falling into the water. She grabbed a woolen tartan from Morag as she stepped out of the tub.
“Quiet, Rab!” Bronwyn ordered. The hound obeyed immediately, coming to her side.
The guards stood up slowly, rubbing their wrists and shoulders where Rab had toyed with them. They did not know that the dog killed only on direct command from Bronwyn; otherwise he protected her without doing permanent damage. The men had seen the tub taken to Bronwyn’s room, had heard her splashing. They used Sir Thomas’s orders as an invitation to see her in her bath. Now she was wrapped from head to toe in a Scots plaid. There was no outline of her body showing, only her face, her eyes shining with humor.
“What do you want?” Bronwyn asked, laughter in her voice.
“You are to come to Sir Thomas’s study,” one of the guards said sullenly. “And if that dog ever again—”
She cut him off. “If you ever again enter my room without my permission, I will allow Rab to have your throat. Now lead the way.”
They looked from Bronwyn to the big wolfhound, then turned away. Bronwyn held her head high as she followed them down the stairs. She would let no one see her anger at the way she was being treated by this Stephen Montgomery. Four days late for his wedding, then, the moment he arrives, she is dragged before him like an errant serving wench.
When Bronwyn was inside the study, she looked from Sir Thomas to the man standing by the fireplace. He was tall, but he was filthy beyond belief. Of his face she could tell nothing. It seemed to be swollen on one side, and she wondered if it was a permanent affliction.
Suddenly one of the guards saw a way to repay her for her sport of him. Grabbing the trailing end of the long tartan, he gave Bronwyn a sharp shove. She fell forward, and the guard yanked back on the plaid.
“You!” Sir Thomas bellowed. “Out of my sight! How dare you treat a lady like that! If you’re within fifty miles of here in the morning, I’ll have you hanged!”
Both guards turned and quickly left the room as Sir Thomas bent to retrieve the garment.
Only momentarily stunned, Bronwyn quickly got off her knees and stood. The thin chemise clung to her still-wet body as if she were nude. She started to cover herself with her hands until she glanced up at Stephen. He was no longer nonchalantly leaning against the fireplace but had come to attention, staring at her in open-mouthed disbelief. His eyes were wide, showing white all around them, his mouth so agape that his tongue fairly fell out.
She curled her lip at him, but he didn’t even notice. All he could see was what was below her neck. She put her arms straight to her sides and glared at him.
It seemed an extraordinarily long time before Sir Thomas placed Bronwyn’s plaid gently about her shoulders. She wrapped it tightly about her body.
“Well, Stephen, shouldn’t you greet your bride?”
Stephen blinked several times before he could recover himself. Slowly he walked to her.
Bronwyn was a tall woman, but she had to look up to meet his eyes. He looked worse in the dim light. The candlelight seemed to make eerie shadows of the mud and dried blood on his face.
Lifting a
curl from her breast, he felt it between his fingers. “You’ve made no mistake, Sir Thomas?” he asked quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. “This is the laird of Clan MacArran?”
Bronwyn stepped back. “I have a tongue and a brain of my own. You need not speak as if I weren’t here. I am the MacArran of MacArran, and I am sworn to hate all Englishmen, especially ones who insult my clan and me by appearing late and unwashed before me.” She turned to Sir Thomas. “I find I am greatly fatigued. I would like to be excused, if you can grant this poor prisoner so great a request.”
Sir Thomas frowned. “Stephen is your master now.”
She whirled to face him, gave him one scathing look, then left the room without his permission.
Sir Thomas turned to Stephen. “I’m afraid she lacks some in manners. These Scotsmen should take a firm hand to their womenfolk more often. But in spite of her sharp tongue, do you still think she is hideous?”
Stephen could only stare at the doorway where Bronwyn had just left. Visions of her danced before him—a body he thought existed only in dreams, black hair and sapphire eyes. Her chin had jutted out at him so that he ached to kiss it. Her breasts were full, hard against the wet, clinging fabric; her waist small and firm; her hips and thighs round, impudent, tantalizing.
“Stephen?”
Stephen nearly fell into the chair. “Had I known,” he whispered, “had I any idea, I would have come weeks ago when King Henry promised her to me.”