Highland Velvet - Jude Deveraux

Prologue

STEPHEN MONTGOMERY STILL SAT VERY STRAIGHT ON HIS

horse even after the long night's ride. He didn't like to think of the bride who waited for him at the end of his journey-who had been waiting for him for three days. His sister-in-law, Judith, had had a few choice things to say about a man not bothering to show up for his own wedding, nor making the effort to send a message of regret at his lateness.

But despite Judith's words and the realization of the insult he'd paid his future wife, he'd been reluctant to depart King Henry's estate. Stephen had been hesitant to leave his sister-in-law's side. Judith, his brother Gavin's beautiful golden-eyed wife, had fallen down a flight of stairs and lost the badly wanted child she carried. For days Judith hovered between life and death. When she woke and learned her baby was gone, one of her first thoughts was typically about someone other than herself. Stephen had not remembered his own wedding date nor given a thought to his bride.

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Judith, even in her grief and pain, had reminded Stephen of his duties and the Scotswoman he was to marry.

Now, three days later, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, dark blond hair. He wanted to stay with his brother, Gavin. Judith was more than angry with him. Her fall had not been an accident but had been caused by Gavin's mistress, Alice Chatworth.

"My lord."

Stephen slowed his pace and turned to his squire. "The wagons are far behind us. They cannot keep pace "

He nodded without speaking and reined his horse toward the narrow stream that ran by the rough road. He dismounted, knelt on one knee, and splashed his face with cold water.

There was another reason Stephen didn't want to travel to meet this bride he'd never seen. King Henry meant to reward the Montgomerys for their faithful service over the years, so he gave the second brother a rich Scots bride. Stephen knew he should be grateful, but not after the things he'd heard of her.

She was, in her own right, the laird of a powerful Scots clan.

He looked across the green meadow on the far side of the stream. Damn the Scots anyway for their absurd belief that a mere woman was intelligent and strong enough to lead men. Her father should have chosen a young man for his heir instead of a woman.

. He grimaced as he imagined what kind of woman could inspire her father to name her chief. She had to be at least forty years old, hair the color of steel, a body thicker than his own. On their wedding night no doubt they'd arm wrestle to see who would get on top ... and he'd lose.

"My lord," the boy said. "You do not look well. Perhaps the long ride has made you ill."

"It's not the ride that's turned my stomach." Stephen

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stood up slowly, easily, his powerful muscles moving under his clothes. He was tall, towering over his squire, and his body was lean and hard from many years of strenuous training. His hair was thick with sweaty curls along his neck, his jaw strong, his lips finely chiseled. Yet now there were sunken shadows under the eyes of brilliant blue. "Let's return to our horses. The wagons can follow us later. I don't want to put off my execution any longer."

"Execution, my lord?"

Stephen did not answer. There were still many hours before he'd reach the horror that awaited him in the solid, bulky shape of Bronwyn MacArran.

Chapter One

1501

BRONWYN MACARRAN STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF THE

English manor house, looking down at the courtyard below. The mullioned window was open against the warm summer sun. She leaned forward slightly to catch a whiff of fresh air. As she did so, one of the soldiers below grinned up at her suggestively.

She stepped back quickly, grabbed the window, and slammed it shut. She turned away angrily.

"The English pigs!" Bronwyn cursed under her breath. Her voice was soft, full of the heather and mist of the Highlands.

Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, and she caught her breath, then released it when they went past. She was a prisoner, held captive on England's northernmost border by men she'd always hated, men who now smiled and winked at her as if they were intimate with her most private thoughts.

She walked to •a small table in the center of the oak-paneled room. She clutched the edge of it, letting

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the wood cut into her palms. She'd do anything to keep those men from seeing how she felt inside. The English were her enemies. She'd seen them kill her father, his three chieftains. She'd seen her brother driven nearly insane with his futile attempts to repay the English in their own kind. And all her life she'd helped feed and clothe the members of her clan after the English had destroyed their crops and burned their houses.