Highland Velvet

by Jude Deveraux

  “He—”

  Kirsty cut her off. “Bronwyn lives next to the border of MacArran land.”

  “Ah, you must have a lot of trouble with them,” Harben said with sympathy.

  “Actually, none at all,” Bronwyn smiled.

  “Ye must tell me how—” Harben began.

  Kirsty stood. “I think it’s time we all went to bed. We have to see to the milking in the morning.”

  “Aye,” Harben said. “Mornings come earlier with every year.”

  It was later, when Bronwyn and Stephen were snuggled together under their plaids on a straw pallet, that she spoke. “Don’t give me any lecture,” she whispered with resignation in her voice.

  He pulled her closer to him. “I wasn’t planning to. I like to see you and old Harben argue. I think that for once you’ve met your match. Neither of you can believe anything good about the other’s clan.”

  He kissed her when she started to reply, then they settled peacefully into sleep.

  A rider brought news the next morning that changed Stephen’s plans to leave Harben’s cottage. It was known that the MacArran was missing as well as her English husband. The MacGregor had offered a generous reward for their capture.

  Stephen grinned when Harben said he’d like to turn the ugly witch-woman over to the MacGregor. He stopped grinning when Harben referred to the Englishman as a worthless peacock who wasn’t worth the dirt to bury him in. Stephen scowled as Bronwyn began to agree heartily with Harben’s opinion of the English. She egged him on until Kirsty made her father stop his tirade.

  “I’ll repay you for that,” Stephen whispered as they went to the lean-to, where the milk cows waited.

  “By subjecting me to your greedy English ways?” she teased, then walked ahead of him, her hips swaying seductively.

  Stephen started to reply but he suddenly felt very greedy. He smiled at her and went to a cow.

  Bronwyn had spent her life around the MacArran crofters, and she was at least familiar with farm work. Stephen knew only how to direct fighting men. He sat on a stool beside the cow and stared in bewilderment.

  “Here,” Kirsty said quietly and showed him how to squeeze milk from the cow. She ignored his cursing when he managed to get more milk on himself than in the bucket.

  Later they pooled their milk so that Stephen’s pail was as full as theirs. Nesta looked puzzled at the unusually low milk production, but she smiled fondly at all of them and sent them to the fields.

  There were winter vegetables to be gathered and fences to be repaired. Donald and Bronwyn had a good laugh when they saw Stephen’s face at the sight of the stone fence. He was as pleased as a child that here at last was something he could do. He carried more rocks than the rest of them put together. He was putting his back to what was more a boulder when Kirsty nudged Bronwyn. Harben was looking at Stephen with adoration in his eyes. “I think you have a home as long as you want,” Kirsty said quietly.

  “Thank you,” Bronwyn said, and again she had the feeling that Kirsty knew a great deal about her.

  That night it was a very tired group who returned to the warm little cottage. But they were a happy group. Harben watched them as they teased each other and laughed, recounting the day’s events. He lit a pipe, put his elbow on his knee, and for the first time in years he didn’t think of the day he’d lost his arm.

  It was two days later when Kirsty and Bronwyn went to look for lichens on the other side of the rock ridge behind the cottage. Rory Stephen was snuggled warmly in a plaid, sleeping in a basket beside the stream. It had snowed lightly during the night, and the women were taking their time with their foraging. They were laughing, talking about the farm, their husbands. Bronwyn had never felt freer in her life. She had no responsibilities, no worries.

  Suddenly she froze where she was. She hadn’t really heard a sound, but something in the air made her know that danger was near. She’d had too many years of training to forget them for an instant.

  “Kirsty,” she said quietly—it was the voice of command.

  Kirsty’s head came up sharply.

  “Be very still. Do you understand me?” She was no longer a laughing woman but the MacArran.

  “Rory,” Kirsty whispered, her eyes wide.

  “Listen to me and obey me.” Bronwyn spoke clearly and deliberately. “I want you to go through those high weeds and hide.”

  “Rory,” Kirsty repeated.

  “You must trust me!” Bronwyn said firmly.

  Their eyes locked. “Yes,” Kirsty said. She knew she could trust this woman who’d become her friend. Bronwyn was stronger, faster than she, and Rory meant more to her than to risk him to a mother’s vanity. She turned and walked away through the weeds, then crouched where she could see Rory’s basket. She knew Bronwyn would have a better chance of escaping with the baby—the men could catch the weaker Kirsty in seconds.

  Bronwyn stood quietly, waiting for she knew not what.

  The rushing water was loud, and it covered the sound of the horses’ hoofs. Four riders came into sight around the rock ridge almost before Kirsty could hide. They were English, dressed in the heavy padded clothes. Their doublets were frayed, their hose patched, and their eyes had a hungry look.

  They saw Bronwyn immediately, and she recognized the light that came into their eyes. Rory began to cry, and Bronwyn ran to the baby, clasped it against her breast.

  “What do we have here?” said a blond-haired man as he led his horse directly in front of her.

  “A beauty on the Scots moor,” laughed a second man as he led his horse behind her.

  “Look at that hair!” said the first man.

  “The women of Scotland are all whores,” said a third man. He and the fourth one closed the circle around Bronwyn.

  The man in front urged his horse forward until she had to step backward. “She doesn’t look too frightened to me,” he said. “In fact, she looks like she’s just begging us to wipe that look off her face. Women should not have cleft chins,” he laughed. “It isn’t fitting.”

  “Black hair and blue eyes,” said the second man. “Where have I seen that before?”

  “I think I’d remember her if I’d seen her before,” said the third man. He drew his sword and held it out toward Bronwyn, put the tip of it under her chin.

  She looked up at him, her eyes glassy and hard, steady as she assessed the situation.

  “God in Heaven!” said the second man. “I just remembered who she is.”

  “Who cares who she is,” said the first man, dismounting. “She’s something I plan to taste, and that’s all I care about.”

  “Wait!” the second man Cried. “She’s the MacArran. I saw her at Sir Thomas Crichton’s. Remember that she was wed to one of the Montgomerys?”

  The man standing by Bronwyn stepped away. “Is that true?” he asked quietly in a voice of awe.

  She only stared at him, her hands trying to soothe the child she held.

  One of the men on horseback laughed. “Just look at her! She’s the MacArran all right. Did you ever see a woman with such a proud look? I heard she made Montgomery fight for her even after King Henry promised her to him.”

  “She did,” the second man confirmed. “But you can see why Montgomery was willing to draw his sword for her.”

  “Lady Bronwyn,” said the first man, for her name was known in the higher circles of England, “where is Lord Stephen?”

  Bronwyn didn’t answer him. Her eyes flickered once in the direction of the rocks that separated her from Harben’s cottage. The baby whimpered, and she put her cheek against its head.

  “What a prize!” said the fourth man, who’d been very quiet. He said the words under his breath, wistfully. “What should we do with her?”

  “Turn her over to the Montgomerys. I’m sure Stephen must be looking for her,” said the first man.

  “And no doubt will pay handsomely for her return,” laughed another.

  The fourth man moved his horse closer, forcing Br
onwyn to step backward. “What of her clan?” he asked seriously. “Did you know the MacArrans are at war with the MacGregors? This is MacGregor land, you know.”

  “Charles,” said the first man slowly, “I think you’re beginning to have some good ideas. She’s obviously hiding. Whose child is that?” he asked, directing the question at Bronwyn.

  “It’s too old to be Montgomery’s. Maybe she ran away from him to have another man’s child.”

  The second man laughed. “He’d probably pay a lot to have her back then, maybe just so he can boil her in oil.”

  “What about asking ransom from all three: her clan, the MacGregor, and Montgomery?”

  “And enjoying her ourselves while we wait,” laughed the third man.

  Kirsty watched from the weeds beside the stream. There were tears in her eyes and blood on her lower lip where she’d bitten it. She knew that Bronwyn could have gotten away. The rocks behind her were too steep for the men’s horses, and Bronwyn could possibly have escaped from them. But not with the child. It would take the use of both hands to climb those rocks. Bronwyn couldn’t get away as long as she held the child.

  “I like the idea,” said the first man. He stepped closer to Bronwyn. “You won’t be harmed if you cooperate. Now give me that child.” He talked to her as if she were dull-witted. When Bronwyn stepped backward, he frowned. “We know the babe isn’t Montgomery’s, so wouldn’t it be better if we got rid of it now?”

  Bronwyn stood firmly. “You harm me or my child, and all my clan, as well as the Montgomerys, will be down on your head,” she said quietly.

  The man looked at her in surprise for a moment, then he recovered himself. “Are you trying to frighten us?” He took a step nearer. “Give me the child!”

  “Do not come any nearer,” Bronwyn said flatly.

  One of the men laughed. “I think you should watch out for her. She looks dangerous to me.”

  The man behind her slid to the ground. “Need some help?” he asked quietly.

  The other two men stayed on their horses and moved closer.

  Bronwyn did not panic. She could not put the child down and could not get to her knife. Her only chance was to be able to outrun the Englishmen, who were used to life on a horse. She easily sidestepped the man in front of her, nestled Rory against her, and began to run.

  But even a Scotswoman was no match for a horse.

  One of the men on horseback cut her off. His insidious laughter rang through the air. Rory began to cry as Bronwyn held him closer to her. She knew the men would kill the child if she put him down.

  The men circled her once again. One of them grabbed her shoulder, then pushed her back toward the other man.

  Suddenly an arrow appeared out of nohere and sank into the breast of the first man just as he reached out to touch Bronwyn again.

  The other three men were stunned. They stood and stared at their companion, silent, lifeless, at their feet.

  Bronwyn lost no time wondering who shot the arrow. She used the few seconds of time to run for the rocks.

  The men looked around them to find the source of the arrow. Before they could think, a lone Scotsman stood from the rocks and fired another arrow. The third man, also on foot, fell.

  The two men on horses turned sharply and started back the way they came.

  Stephen came over the rocks agilely and quickly, Rab behind him. The dog had given him the alarm. He ran after the men on horseback, loading his bow as he ran. One of the men went down as his horse kept running, his dead master’s foot caught in the stirrup, the body dragging across the rough ground. Stephen kept running after the fourth man.

  Slowly Kirsty came out of her hiding place. She was too frightened to move quickly. Bronwyn met her more than halfway. Kirsty took her child, held him tenderly, then looked up to see Donald coming toward her. She handed the baby to his father, then she clasped Bronwyn. Her body was trembling. “You saved him,” she whispered shakily. “You could have gotten away but you didn’t. You risked your life to save my baby.”

  But Bronwyn was hardly listening. She was looking at the space where Stephen had been. “He killed Englishmen!” she whispered again and again, feeling both happy and astonished. Stephen killed Englishmen to protect her and a Scots baby.

  Donald put his hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder. “You and Stephen will have to leave,” he said sadly.

  “Oh, Donald, please—” Kirsty began.

  “No, it must be. The men—” He stopped when he saw Stephen appear.

  Bronwyn walked toward him as if she were in a daze. She looked at him carefully, but she saw no sign of blood. He was sweaty from his run, and she wanted to wipe his brow. “Did they harm you?” she asked quietly.

  He stared at her, then grabbed her to him. “That was a brave thing you did, the way you protected the baby.”

  Before she could speak, Donald was there. “Stephen? What of the other man?”

  “He got away,” Stephen said as he held Bronwyn close to him, running his hands over her back as if to assure himself she was safe.

  Kirsty and Donald exchanged looks. “He’ll go to the MacGregor, I’m sure,” Donald said.

  Bronwyn pushed away from Stephen’s embrace. “How long have you known that I’m the MacArran?” she asked.

  “Since I first saw you,” Kirsty answered. “I saw you a year ago, one day when you were riding with your father. My mother and I were picking berries.”

  “So your mother knows too,” Bronwyn said. She still held Stephen’s hand and was glad for his reassurance. “And your father?”

  Kirsty frowned. “He’s too angry to be forgiving. I wanted more time. I wanted him to get to know both of you, then after you’d gone we would tell him. We knew he’d have trouble hating you.”

  “But there’s been too little time,” Donald added. “That Englishman will tell people.”

  “Stephen,” Bronwyn said. “We must go. We can’t endanger Kirsty and her family.”

  He nodded. “Donald, Kirsty—” he began.

  “No,” Kirsty said, interrupting him. “You don’t need to say a word. You’re my son’s godparents, and I plan to hold you to it.”

  Stephen smiled at her. “He can foster with one of my brothers.”

  “An Englishman!” Bronwyn snapped. “No, Kirsty, he can come to the MacArrans.”

  Donald grinned. “Stop it, both of you. We’ll make more boys for you. Now take the English horses and go home. There’s time before Christmas for you to get to Stephen’s brother’s.”

  “Kirsty,” Bronwyn began, and Kirsty hugged her fiercely. “What will people say when I tell them my best friend is a MacGregor?” Bronwyn laughed.

  Kirsty was serious. “You must return to us and talk to the MacGregor. He’s a good man, and he has an eye for a pretty woman. You must try to settle this feud. I wouldn’t want our sons to have to fight each other.”

  “Nor would I,” Bronwyn said, breaking away. “I give you my word that I’ll return to you.”

  Stephen put his arm around her. “We have to come back so I can get more of Harben’s home brew.”

  Donald laughed. “And Bronwyn, I believe I owe you something for laughing at me when we first met. When I think of all the things I said about the MacArran!”

  “They’re all true,” Stephen laughed. “She is the most headstrong, disobedient—”

  “Magnificent woman ever,” Donald finished, then grabbed Bronwyn and hugged her. “I can never repay you for my son’s life. Thank you.” He set her aside, then hugged Stephen. “Go now, both of you. Take the Englishmen’s horses and go.” He pulled away from Stephen. “When Kirsty told me you were an Englishman, I didn’t believe her. I still don’t.”

  Stephen laughed. “I’m sure that was meant as a compliment. Kirsty, it’s been an honor to meet you. I wish we could have stayed longer so my wife could learn more of your gentle ways.”

  Before Bronwyn could make a retort, Donald burst out laughing.

  “That’s just the
way she appears, friend. She gets her way just as much as Bronwyn does, she just goes about it differently.”

  Bronwyn narrowed her eyes at Stephen. “Think before you reply,” she warned.

  Stephen pulled her to him. “I’m thinking we must go.” He touched Rory’s hand, felt the little fingers wrap around his for a moment, then grabbed Bronwyn’s hand and walked toward the horses.

  Neither of them could look back as they rode away. The short time in the crofter’s cottage had been a time of peace, and it was too painful to think of leaving it.

  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.