“Then she meets with your approval?”
He ran his hand across his eyes. “I think I’m dreaming. Surely no woman could look like that and be alive. You must be playing a trick on me. You don’t plan to substitute the real Bronwyn MacArran on my wedding day, do you?”
“I assure you she is real. Why do you think I keep her guarded so heavily? My men are like dogs ready to fight over her at any moment. They stand around and repeat stories of the treacherous Scots to each other, but the truth is, individually each of them has generously offered to take your place in the girl’s bed.”
Stephen curled his lip at this. “But you have kept them from her.”
“It hasn’t been easy.”
“And what of Chatworth? Has he taken my place with my wife?”
Sir Thomas chuckled. “You sound as if you’re jealous, and a moment ago you were willing to give her to Roger. No, Roger has never spent an unchaperoned moment with her. She is an excellent horsewoman, and he would not ride out alone with her for fear she’d run to her Scots.”
Stephen snorted in derision. “It’s more like the Chatworth name has too many enemies to ride out alone.” He stood up. “You should have locked her in her room and not let her ride with any man.”
“I’m not so old that I can resist a face like Lady Bronwyn’s. She has merely to ask me for something, and I’ll give it to her.”
“She is my responsibility now. Do I have the southeast room again? Could you send a bath and some food? Tomorrow she won’t be insulted by my appearance.”
Sir Thomas smiled at Stephen’s calm self-assurance. Tomorrow should prove to be an exciting day.
As the early-morning sunlight fell across the room, Bronwyn stood by the table, a note in her hand, a frown creasing her brow. She wore a velvet gown of peacock blue. The puffed sleeves were slashed, and tiffany silk of pale green was drawn through the openings. The front of the skirt was cut to show more of the green tiffany.
She turned to Morag. “He asks me to meet with him in the garden.”
“Ye look presentable enough.”
Bronwyn crumbled the note in her hand. She was still angry over the way he’d commanded her presence last night. This morning he offered no apology nor explanation for his behavior or his lateness. He merely requested that she do exactly what he wanted when he wanted.
She looked at the serving girl who waited for the answer. “Tell Lord Stephen I will not meet with him.”
“Will not, my lady? You are unwell?”
“I am quite well. Give my message as I said, then go to Roger Chatworth and tell him I will meet him in the garden in ten minutes.”
The girl’s eyes widened, then she left the room.
“Ye’d do well to make peace with yer husband,” Morag said. “Ye’ll gain nothing by making him angry.”
“My husband! My husband! That’s all I hear. He is not my husband yet. Am I to jump at his call after he has ignored me these past days? I’m laughed at by everyone in the manor because of him, yet I am to fall at his feet like an obedient wife the moment he bothers to appear. I don’t want him to get the idea I’m a pliable, cowardly woman. I want him to know I hate him and all his kind.”
“And what of young Chatworth? He’s an Englishman.”
Bronwyn smiled. “At least he is part Scot. Perhaps I can take him to the Highlands and we can make a whole Scot of him. Come, Rab, we have an appointment.”
“Good morning, Stephen,” Sir Thomas called. It was a lovely morning, the sunlight bright, the air fresh from a quick shower the previous night. The scent of roses was in the air. “You certainly look better than you did yesterday.”
Stephen wore a short jacket of deep brown worsted. It emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his chest. His legs were encased in hose that hugged every muscular curve of his powerful thighs. His dark blond hair curled along his collar, his eyes sparkled above his strong jaw. He was extraordinarily handsome.
“She refused to see me,” he said without small talk.
“I told you her ways were sharp.”
Stephen suddenly jerked his head up. Bronwyn was coming toward them. At first he did not see Roger beside her. His eyes were for her alone. Her heavy, thick hair flowed down her back, unhampered, uncovered. The sunlight flashed off it, making it glitter like specks of gold dust. The blue of her dress repeated the blue of her eyes. Her chin was as stubborn in the daylight as it had been at night.
“Good morning,” Roger said quietly as they paused for a moment.
Bronwyn nodded to Sir Thomas, then her eyes lingered on Stephen. She did not recognize him. She only thought that she’d never seen a man with such eyes. They seemed to see through her. It was with difficulty that she looked away and continued down the path.