A Runaway Bride For The Highlander

Before she could assure him she was unharmed, Duncan had pushed through the crowd that had gathered around them and the peace was shattered.

‘Take your hands off my woman!’

He stepped between them, his elbow coming up to jab Lord Glenarris in the ribs, and he pulled Marguerite away by the arm with considerably more roughness than the Earl had inflicted on her. Both men staggered and came up with fists swinging and angry roars as they threw themselves at each other. They collided roughly. Onlookers reacted quickly and the two men were seized by others and dragged apart.

‘Watch where you’re hurling yourself, Lochmore!’ Duncan growled, shaking himself free of Donald’s hold. His cheeks were a red almost as deep as his hair. ‘I’ll gladly break your arms if you can’t keep them under control. If you’ve hurt my bride, I might do it anyway.’

Lord Glenarris’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with anger. ‘Now’s not the time or place, but I’ll gladly meet you at any other.’

‘I’m not hurt,’ Marguerite said hastily. The idea that they might inflict violence on each other because of her was intolerable. ‘I was not paying attention where I was walking.’

The Earl tore his eyes from Duncan to look at Marguerite. The fury that had filled his face disappeared, replaced with concern. He held his hands up and stepped back from Duncan and was released from the three men holding him back.

‘I harmed you and I am sorry,’ he said to Marguerite. In French.

Marguerite blinked in surprise. His accent was appalling, but he spoke her language. It did not occur to her until much later to wonder how he knew which tongue to address her in. She managed a small smile and replied in rapid French, reiterating that she was unharmed.

Duncan slipped his arm about her shoulder, drawing her close. It was a gross indiscretion to touch her so intimately before they were wed. He glowered at the Earl before guiding Marguerite back to the fireplace. He pressed her gently on to a stool.

‘I told you that staying beside me was the safest course of action.’

‘I’m not hurt,’ she protested. ‘I fell from a tree once and landed much harder than that, without injury. I am quite hardy.’

‘Nevertheless, you had best sit here where I can guard you.’

He called for more wine and bustled round, gathering ladies of the court to sit with her. His anger had subsided and the charming, solicitous man had returned. Despite his vows of guarding her, to Marguerite’s relief he only lingered at her side until she was supplied with wine and a dish of sugared fruits before he excused himself and left the hall in the company of his cousin.

Marguerite allowed herself to be cosseted, and listened to the praise heaped upon him. She nodded as she was told how lucky she was to be betrothed to such a gallant and well-looking man, but said nothing. She had never seen Duncan so incensed as when he had faced the Earl. His anger at seeing her predicament and his protectiveness over another man touching her should be reassuring, but instead made her stomach curdle. She would have to try very hard once they were married not to invoke that anger.

She sat meekly as she had been bidden and stared towards the seething mass of men, flailing and leaping around in the centre of the room, but could not see Lord Glenarris. The dancing showed no sign of coming to an end when Marguerite eventually excused herself and made her way—with more care than previously to avoid the dancers—out of the hall.

The night was very cold. She breathed deeply, relishing the freshness after the stifling atmosphere in the Great Hall. She had intended to return to her bedchamber, but instead strolled the short walk to the gate in the wall. It was locked now, but even if it had swung open, to venture through at that time of night would be foolhardy. Instead she leaned her forehead against it, took hold of the iron bars and looked up into the night. The sky was black as pitch, but clear, and the sky was awash with stars. Marguerite sighed in contentment at the sight of the unending vastness of the sky. For the first time in the night her heart was at peace.

It did not last long. The serenity was spoiled by a needle-sharp pain in her neck. One of the never-ending swarm of midges had slipped beneath her veil and bitten her. She slapped at it angrily and hissed, tossing her head to try rid herself of the plague of buzzing, biting monstrosities.

‘Ugh! Will you horrid creatures never cease to torment me?’

‘They’ll die when the frost comes,’ said a voice in French.

Marguerite jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. Lord Glenarris was standing almost where he had been when he had seen her earlier in the evening. He leaned against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded. He had been obscured by the shadows that fell between the circles of light from the flickering brands set in sconces at intervals along the wall. He had obviously chosen his position with care not to be seen.

‘Twice in one day we meet here,’ he remarked.

‘Were you following me?’ Marguerite asked suspiciously.

‘No.’

He replied in his own language this time. Perhaps the limits of his French had been reached. Marguerite was vaguely impressed that he knew enough of her language to understand what she had said at all.

‘I was too hot inside and growing weary of dancing. I’ve been out here for a while now. You walked straight past me.’

He pushed himself from the wall in one fluid movement and walked towards Marguerite with the same vigour that he had displayed on the dance floor, arms swinging as he took long strides towards her. Conversing unchaperoned with a man to whom she had not been introduced, never mind one who had assaulted her—albeit unintentionally—would be breaking all the rules of etiquette Marguerite had been taught. She should have walked away, but something compelled her to remain exactly where she was: the way he moved, the way he held her eye and grinned, a slight swagger to his walk. She wasn’t sure exactly.

Marguerite stood, hands clasped together inside her wide sleeves, face upturned until Lord Glenarris was by her side, both unable and unwilling to break eye contact with him. He had spread his coloured cloth wider across his shoulders so it acted as a cloak and partly obscured the brocade doublet. His hair fell about his eyes and he appeared a confusing blend of untamed wildness and civilised manners. It was intriguing, to say the least.

He stood beside her and looked out through the iron bars. ‘Were you intending to slip out of the grounds again? I wouldn’t recommend it at this time of night. The curfew in the city is long past and anyone out now will not be your friend.’

She almost told him of nights when she and her brother had sneaked out of their father’s chateau and watched revellers in the roadside inn, of afternoons creeping through the woodlands or walking for hours along the riverbank. She resisted. She had not even shared that private side of herself with Duncan so this coarse stranger had no right to learn it.

‘Did you understand what I said to the moucheron?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘How well do you speak French?’

‘Not very well.’ His face broke into a wide grin. He laughed, showing even teeth. ‘I think accompanied by the flapping hands and tone, the meaning was clear enough.’

‘They are horrible,’ Marguerite said as another swarm of the small, black creatures surrounded them. ‘I hate them.’

He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her with a grave look on his face. ‘You seem to hate a lot of things. I watched you from across the hall when you arrived and during the meal. You did not look as though you were enjoying yourself at all. Was it the company you were keeping or something else?’

A shiver caused by some sensation she could not quite identify ran down the length of Marguerite’s back. Uneasiness at the thought of being watched unawares, but also a budding excitement that she had caught his attention. She was halfway to answering before it occurred that he was deliberately goading her to speak indiscreetly. There was some animosity between the Earl and the McCrieffs beyond the granting of land. Marguerite did not particularly care to learn the reason, but she bridled at the idea a stranger to her might try to entice her into disloyalty to the man she was betrothed to.

‘This sort of evening is not what I was expecting when I came to Scotland,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘How were your expectations of my country different?’

Marguerite frowned, biting her lip as she thought of the most tactful way to respond. His eyes flickered from her eyes down to her mouth and a keen expression crossed his face. Her pulse speeded up and she stopped biting her lips, not wanting to draw his attention to them any further in case he decided to steal a kiss.

‘I had been led to believe that although Scottish men are rough and plain spoken, the court of King James was a centre of culture and learning, of science and arts. That he filled it with poets and musicians from all parts of Europe. I was told I would find it not very different to home.’

The Earl’s expression darkened. ‘Aye, it was until recently. It will be again, no doubt, given time, but James has been dead only ten days. The country is in mourning for our King. You can’t expect life to continue as if nothing has happened.’

‘I did not mean to criticise. But this, this...’ She waved her hand in the direction of the Great Hall where the dancing was still taking place. ‘That roughness appeared more like a battle than a dance.’

‘You can’t have spent much time in the company of men, I expect. You need to understand that most of these men have been in battle all too recently. Many have lost fathers or sons, brothers or kinsmen, some have lost all.’ The Earl looked away, jaw jutting out and lips downward. ‘I think you could find it in your heart to excuse their wildness.’

When he looked back at her again, misery was etched on his face. Marguerite’s heart pitched in her breast. Didn’t she long to scream until her voice was hoarse and the grief that consumed her burned away? Her beloved mother was only two months dead and Marguerite woke every morning with wet eyes.

‘Forgive me, my lord. I did not think.’

She wondered for whom the Earl was mourning to speak with such raw pain and who would comfort him. She reached a hand to his forearm. His head jerked down to look and she pulled it away hastily, acutely aware she had transgressed.

‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’

Lord Glenarris swept into a low bow. He strode away, head down and arms rigid by his side until the shadows swallowed him once more.

Chapter Four

With a throbbing head and churning stomach, Ewan watched a babe of seventeen months crowned King of Scotland. James V seemed unaware of the significance of the ceremony he was the centre of, biting his fingers and wriggling about in clothes that looked far too formal and uncomfortable for a small child to endure. Ewan wondered if he even understood that his father was dead. He envied the boy if he did not. He felt as equally uncomfortable in the close-fitting doublet as the boy looked. He pulled on his high collar to loosen it and shifted on his seat, feeling queasy. The Chapel Royal was far too hot and crowded and the ceremony was unendurably unending.

Perhaps that was the intention. The nobility of Scotland would remain seated here long enough for the King to grow to adulthood and for the question of who would act as Regent to no longer be an issue.

As the bishop intoned his sermon, Ewan let his attention wander around the faces of the assembled multitude. Most of them displayed eyes that were dark ringed and complexions that were slightly waxen. The heavy drinking had gone on well into the night and Ewan had not been the only man who had indulged far too copiously the night before. Everyone had fasted before attending the coronation and he craved a cup of milk to soothe his stomach and something plain to stop it churning.

Queen Margaret knelt beside her son, stiff backed and iron faced. Now there was a woman who would not easily relinquish control over her son or the throne. The next few months would be interesting indeed. Ewan let his eyes rove further back into the congregation. Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting sat to one side of the aisle behind their mistress. They were dressed sombrely in blacks and deep, wintery colours, but among them on the final row of seats was one white headdress and veil that stood out in contrast to the darkness that surrounded it.

Ewan’s stomach tightened as he saw the French girl, head bent over in devotion. She was in profile to him. Her stiff hood and veil drew her hair back and obscured it completely, while emphasising her high cheekbones and giving Ewan a perfect view of a delicately formed jaw and slender neck. He felt an alarming lurch below his ribcage and feared his heart had suddenly forgotten how to beat. A heart as burdened with grief as his was could surely be forgiven for succumbing to the load it had been forced to bear. He pressed his fist into the spot as his eyes began to blur.

Had they not, he might have been more aware that he was being watched and looked away quicker. As it was, it took him a moment to realise that the girl no longer had her head bowed reverently, but was looking straight at him. He blinked to clear his vision and stared back, slightly unnerved by her boldness. She had called into question the manners and behaviour of the Scottish court and yet here she was, openly staring at him. He’d thought French women were modest and demure. Some devilry inside Ewan made him wink at her. Her eyes widened and she smiled nervously in a manner that Ewan thought rather sweet. He recalled how she had gently touched his arm when he spoke of his grief the night before, breaking all social codes. He’d drawn away, unable to cope with her kind attempt at consolation, and now wished he hadn’t wasted that opportunity to touch her.

Her eyelashes fluttered before she gave her attention to the ceremony and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the bishop with an expression of raptness Ewan envied. Ewan wondered whether his sermon would falter if he noticed her looking so intently, and after those blasphemous thoughts he was unable to concentrate at all. He forced himself to listen, but more than once his eye was drawn back to the girl, hoping to see that she was as distracted as he was. She never looked toward him again and Ewan had to content himself with the pleasant view of her profile.

* * *

When the ceremony ended, the nobles moved once more into the Great Hall. It appeared the dancing and drinking was to recommence early in the day. Before Ewan could make his way to the table laden with pitchers of wine a soft hand touched his sleeve and a quiet voice spoke.

‘I crave a word with you, son of Hamish Lochmore.’

A small man had appeared at his side so silently Ewan had barely noticed him. He recognised the speaker, however, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Robert Morayshill had worked for James IV and now presumably served the new monarch, liaising with operatives tasked with gathering information and relaying it to the government. The two men strolled towards the furthest of the great fireplaces, seemingly engaged in no more than idle talk.

‘Your father might have spoken to you before he died about certain ways in which he assisted his country.’

Morayshill let his words tail off. The word that had not been mentioned hung in the air between the two men.

Spy.

Ewan glanced at the fireplace and moved slightly into the centre of the room. A grille might be used for ventilation, or might be a Laird’s lug, a shaft leading to a chamber where unseen ears might be listening. He noted Morayshill’s eyes tighten with approval.

‘My father was very discreet,’ Ewan said cautiously. ‘He kept his own counsel.’

‘Hamish Lochmore, discreet! Your loyalty to your father is admirable, but we both know that isn’t the case.’ Morayshill laughed.

‘Wasn’t. Not isn’t. And I would thank you not to defame his memory.’

‘As you say. And I say to you that your father was brash and sometimes lacking in subtlety, which worked to everyone’s advantage at times.’

Ewan dipped his head in acknowledgement. Spying was too sophisticated a word for what Hamish had done. There had been no covert meetings between velvet-clad and silk-tongued ambassadors, no ciphers slipped from sleeve to sleeve. Instead, Hamish would receive word that a particular group of merchants or travellers who had spent time recently in courts in England or on the continent would be arriving in one of Scotland’s ports. They would be greeted by Hamish, playing the role of loud, crass, overly friendly Highland laird—a part which he performed with ease—who would take them drinking and whoring as the mood took him. The visitors would wake the following morning with a headache fit to blind them, unsure of how loose their tongues had grown.

Though Hamish never revealed the details of what he learned or how it was used, his descriptions and impersonations of befuddled Flemish wool merchants or vomiting Italian minstrels had kept Ewan and John entertained long into the night. Ewan’s throat tightened with grief at the loss of the warm-hearted figure with the bellowing laugh. There would be no more drinking and laughing. No more days hunting or riding.

‘One of the men here today has been communicating with the English court for years,’ Morayshill said. ‘This is expected. We have agents in England and abroad, naturally. However, recent matters have had far-reaching consequences.’

Ewan listened, anger rising. Someone had passed crucial information regarding the Scottish troops to the English, to be sent to Queen Catherine in King Henry’s absence. Instead of hampering trade negotiations or causing dissent in the borderlands, the spy had directly contributed to the massacre of the men at Flodden.

‘Hamish believed he knew the identity of at least one agent. Did he tell you anything?’

Hamish had hinted to John and Ewan—if drunken growls of ‘I’ll skin that redheaded traitor alive, nae mind the consequences’ could be counted as a hint—but had never shared the identity of the man.

‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘Would you be prepared to assist in discovering the culprit?’

‘I don’t think...that is... I don’t have my father’s manner.’ Ewan’s jaw tightened at the thought of another role he doubted he could fill.

To his surprise Morayshill shook his head. ‘There might be matters that a young man with more discretion and an understanding of the complexities of politics could undertake. If you can point me down the right path to follow, there are others who can verify the truth.’

‘Aye, perhaps,’ Ewan answered uncertainly, feeling a little better. His education would be a benefit there, not a hindrance, and being described as discreet warmed him. By the time they parted, he had promised he would do everything in his power to discover the identity of the spy who had done so much damage at Flodden.

Ewan made his way to the table once again, but before he could reach it the crowds parted to either side of the hall. Margaret Tudor, widow of the deceased King, was making her way into the Great Hall. Her eyes were heavy and her face drawn. Her marriage had been political—designed to create a greater bond between the English and Scots—but it was said she and James had been happy. Her grief must have been greater because James’s body had not been returned to her from the battlefield, but had instead been taken to Berwick by the English.

Ewan had been denied the chance to lay Hamish and John to rest in the crypt at Castle Lochmore and felt a sudden stab of pity for the Englishwoman. He bowed as she passed and as he raised his head he found himself face to face with the French girl who had been walking in attendance with the other women of court. She paused and looked directly at him, tilting her head to one side and regarding him with wide brown eyes as curiously as if she was examining the apes or civets in the menagerie at Holyroodhouse.

Blasted woman! Those fine brown eyes reached everywhere. The sooner Duncan McCrieff took her away to be his bride, the better. Ewan drew a sharp breath, realising that was the last thing he wanted.

She took her place in the ranks of women at either side of Margaret where the other women started fussing over her as if she were a pet mouse. Ewan paid no attention to what Margaret was saying, but instead stared at the French girl, wondering how he could be so intrigued by her when they had barely spoken and everything she did irritated him.

It must be the strange manner of her clothes that commanded his attention. He examined her now. Her dress was cut from one length of cloth and laced tightly beneath each arm; not a separate skirt and bodice tied at the waist in the Scottish fashion. The design caused the stiffened bodice to draw in closely at her slender waist and fall into a full skirt, hitched up at the front to reveal a waterfall of white underskirts. It was high necked and loose-sleeved. Nothing about it was indecent, but it gave Ewan a definite sense of her figure. The cloth was finely woven and, though without ornament or pattern, was of excellent quality. The cost of the gown would have fed the poorest of Ewan’s tenants for a year. She was not alone in that, however. Ewan glanced round in distaste at the wealth on display, himself included. He might inwardly chastise her for her bold behaviour and superior attitude, but could not condemn her for that.

Among the more extravagantly and brightly dressed members of court adorned with braid and brocade she shone. A dove among peacocks. He wondered how much of this seemingly modest dress had been carefully calculated to draw the eye rather than deflect it. It was no wonder Ewan could not help but look at her.

Satisfied he had solved the mystery of his inexplicable attention to her, he decided to finally find something to drink, but Queen Margaret had finished speaking and the girl was walking towards Ewan. Once again he found himself unable to move.

‘Why were you staring at me, my lord?’

She had addressed him directly and spoke without introduction or hesitation, and with a touch of indignation. Ewan shivered. He had noticed last night that her voice was low and deeper than her compact figure and youth would suggest. It should be high and girlish, not the creamy purr that stroked down his belly and made him want to roll over like his deerhound before the fire and submit to whatever attentions she bestowed upon him. Caught out, he blinked and answered more honestly than he intended.

‘I was looking at your clothes.’

‘Oh!’

She drew in on herself. Her hands disappeared inside the capacious sleeves as she crossed them over her chest and her breasts were pushed flat and upwards. The high-necked chemise that filled the gap between the top of her bodice and her neck concealed them, but the silk was fine and translucent enough that it bunched and dipped. Ewan suspected they would be full and firm when liberated from their bonds. He was consumed by a sudden and highly unacceptable urge to ease the gown from her shoulders and find out if he was right.

‘The style is very strange,’ he explained. Imagining that he was about to undress her did nothing to dispel the guilt that crept up on him, but she did not seem to have noticed his unease.

‘Is that how you knew I was French?’ She tilted her head to the right and gave him another of the sweet smiles that made his stomach rise and fall. Her mouth was wide and slightly uneven. It rose a little more to the right as she smiled. Perhaps she had developed the habit of tilting her head to the side so the smile appeared straight. Ewan found himself wanting alternately to smile back or run his fingers over the slight indentation that appeared in her cheek.

‘Aye, it was,’ he lied, not wanting to admit he had asked Angus about her. ‘I’m no expert, but I could tell you aren’t Scottish. You wouldn’t be English, not here at this time. You’re not fair enough to be Dutch or dark enough to be Spanish.’