Lost in the Highlands

Found by the laird!

Part of The Lochmore Legacy: a Scottish castle through the ages! Far from her home in France, Marguerite Vallon escapes her arranged marriage to a man she despises. Stowing away in a stranger’s cart, she finds herself headed deep into the Highlands with Ewan Lochmore, the new Earl of Glenarris! Ewan vows to protect her. But maybe the freedom Marguerite has been searching for can be found with this rugged warrior...

ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or a Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which have made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children and three cats with ridiculous names.

Also by Elisabeth Hobbes

Falling for Her Captor

A Wager for the Widow

The Saxon Outlaw’s Revenge

The Danby Brothers miniseries

The Blacksmith’s Wife

Redeeming the Rogue Knight

The Lochmore Legacy collection

His Convenient Highland Wedding

by Janice Preston

Unlaced by the Highland Duke

by Lara Temple

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

Available now

Secrets of a Highland Warrior

by Nicole Locke

Coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

Elisabeth Hobbes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08906-7

A RUNAWAY BRIDE FOR THE HIGHLANDER

© 2019 Elisabeth Hobbes

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For J, A & A,

who braved midges and camping

so I could climb hills and look at lochs.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
September 20th, 1513

They came from all over Scotland, converging on Stirling. The young with fire and anger in their bellies, the old with steel in their sinews. They came from the Highlands and the Lowlands, the borders and the isles. They came bearing weapons and grudges and wounds. Crushed by defeat in battle, yet unbroken in spirit, the Chiefs and the Lairds gathered together.

Stirling Castle loomed on rocks that fell away steeply on three sides. It was an imposing sight by any measure, visible from miles around, far over the winding Forth River. At dusk with the sun blood red behind it, the effect was doubly striking. Flaming beacons at either side of the Forework cast eerie shadows over the six soaring towers and seemed to breathe life into the stones themselves. The Forework became a skull, the windows black eyes and the great central doorway a gaping maw ready to swallow all comers.

Sitting astride his horse in the slow procession that wound from the city huddled beneath the rock towards the great gateway, Ewan Lochmore shivered at the disconcerting image that had entered his head.

He considered himself a rational man, not given to believing tales of eldritch creatures that his grandmother had told him and his brother every Samhain Eve many years ago. Even so, as he drew nearer and nearer he was filled with foreboding that once he passed beneath the stone arch his life would be changed for ever.

He winced and clutched Randall’s reins tighter as a stab of grief sharper than the blade of any dagger knocked him sideways. He gritted his teeth, determined to betray no outward signs of his pain. His life had already changed beyond all imagining and what he would do over the coming days would only make it official.

He looked again at the castle, thinking it no wonder that he saw the face of death when Death had claimed so many Scottish lives recently.

‘You’re quiet. What are ye thinking of?’

Ewan looked at the man driving the small cart alongside him. Angus, his father’s cousin and right-hand man, was watching with shrewd eyes.

‘My father,’ Ewan answered, his voice thick with emotion. ‘And death.’

‘Aye, we’re all thinking of Hamish,’ Angus wheezed, filling the words with a depth of sorrow that matched what Ewan was feeling. Cousins who were more like brothers, Angus and Hamish had grown up the closest of allies, with Angus acting as Hamish’s retainer and answering only to him. If any man had a claim to share the grief that consumed Ewan, it was this man.

‘I found him and held him as he died, a pike still in his back,’ Angus continued. ‘Even then spitting a curse on the cur who struck him down. A great Laird to the last.’

Ewan bowed his head. ‘I should have been there,’ he muttered.

Angus shrugged, but did not contradict him, which twisted the dagger in Ewan’s conscience even deeper. The loss of his father was a blow so great he feared he might never recover from the grief. What weighed him down even more was the knowledge that the eyes of all Lochmores, young and old, rich and poor, landowner or simple yeoman, would be on Ewan as the new Earl of Glenarris. Leadership had been thrust on his shoulders in the most tragic way possible. So far he had failed to impress Angus, one of the few men now living whose good opinion he craved. Jamie, Angus’s sixteen-year-old son, who was sitting alongside him on the seat of the cart, rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

‘We’ll drink to his memory tonight,’ Ewan said. His tongue felt parched as he spoke. He needed a drink. Lots of them, in truth. He’d been riding long enough today and his throat was dry.

The line was moving forward and before long Ewan and his companions were through the curtain wall and into the Outer Close where visitors with their horses and transport were being admitted. Six sentinels lined the path from the gateway to the doorway of the residence known as the King’s House. A neatly dressed man in black robes stood before the door, flanked by two more guards in the royal colours. Beside him, a scribe sat at a table covered with rolls of parchment and an inkwell.

Ewan dismounted and passed the reins to Jamie. He moved to offer his arm to Angus and received a contemptuous eye roll.

‘I don’t know what sort of weaklings they have in Glasgow, but I’m no’ in ma grave yet, laddie. I can use ma legs.’

Ewan took a measured breath, reminding himself that though white haired, Angus was a man of fifty-eight who had fought and survived the massacre at Flodden, not in his dotage. His offer had been an attempt at courtesy, not to insult. He ignored the jibe against the city where he had been living for the past five years. They might walk streets rather than glens and hill paths, but there were men mad-eyed and bottle-brave enough in Glasgow to meet Angus on the battlefield.

Angus clambered down unaided. He adjusted the folds of his brat across his shoulders, and pushed back the sleeves of the yellow linen leine he wore beneath the heavy length of cloth. Ewan rearranged his own cumbersome length of plaid and straightened the more formal doublet he wore beneath. Satisfied that he was presentable enough for any royal court, he walked to the doorway and made a deep bow to the standing figure. The man inclined his head slightly in return.

‘State your name.’ The man at the table dipped his quill tip into ink. He waited, hand poised over the parchment for Ewan’s answer.

‘Ewan Lochmore of Clan Lochmore.’

The secretary wrote his name on what Ewan could see was a growing list.

‘Your business?’ asked the robed figure.

He sounded uninterested in the reason Ewan was there. His face was unfamiliar, but he was a man of some importance given the rich nap on his black robes and the jewels that bedecked his hat. He might be anyone, from a minor secretary, or an advisor to the Chamberlain of Scotland himself. He knew already why most of the grim-faced men were attending the hastily convened Special Council. The question was simply a formality.

Once Ewan said the words out loud it would be admitting to the nightmare he wished he could wake from, but with the light fading and many behind him waiting to be admitted, he could not permit himself the indulgence of delaying any longer. Ewan lifted his chin and gave the man a firm look.

‘My father Hamish Lochmore is dead and I am here to claim my title. I am the new Earl of Glenarris.’

The secretary scribbled this information, too, without raising his eyes.

‘And your servants?’

Ewan named them, managing to avoid Angus’s eye as he was described as such, and their names, too, were added to the document.

‘Stable your horse and stow your cart in the yard to the rear of the Great Hall,’ said the black-robed man. ‘You will be escorted to your accommodation. The castle is extremely full. Many of the Parliament arrived yesterday and have been meeting continuously.’

‘I have matters I wish to put before the Parliament,’ Ewan said. ‘Many men from my clan fought at Flodden alongside my father. There are tenants who lost their husbands and fathers fighting. I seek alms for them as King James promised.’

The man’s expression softened slightly. ‘That matter will be dealt and compensation will be given. The council has not yet decided the amount it can afford to spare, but rest assured, your people will be provided for.’

Ewan tried not to bristle at talk of ‘sparing’ money to support the families of those who now had no other means to support themselves. He followed the directions he had been given, promising himself he would not leave without an assurance, if not the money itself.

The rear courtyard was bustling and finding a convenient space for the cart took some time. Most of their property would have to remain on the cart. The small chest containing Ewan’s books of law, papers and other valuables was padlocked and chained to rings set into to the floor of the cart and Ewan had no fear it would be stolen or broken into. There were grander and more tempting vehicles surrounding their modest cart. He ran his hand over the top of the studded chest and another pang of misery welled up inside him. His days of studying law at the University of Glasgow were finished. When Angus had arrived bearing the news, he had left his rooms the same day, knowing he would not return.

Ewan’s eye settled on his father’s targe that was propped up at the back. The great shield had been no protection against a pike through his back. A feeling of grief overpowered Ewan. Regretting the loss of his future career seemed petty compared to the loss of his father and brother.

The three men rearranged a few rolls of cloth, boxes of dry goods and two barrels of wine, then pulled heavy sackcloth over the most vulnerable pieces of Hamish’s armour and sword. The whole cart was covered with a large piece of heavy sackcloth secured at the edges with rope. Satisfied with their work, the three men returned to the entrance and were escorted to a chamber on the second floor of the King’s House. The room was small and cramped, with two truckle beds squeezed side by side at the end of the larger bed meant for Ewan. There was barely room for the roll of clothes that Jamie carried.

‘It’s an insult to you, to be placed so high and distant from the Great Hall,’ Angus muttered, prodding his pallet with a foot while Jamie set to laying out their fresh linens.

Ewan grinned at his companion’s outrage. When they had been younger men Angus and Hamish would spend days away from Lochmore Castle sleeping in bracken under the skies. Ewan and his older brother had gone with them on many occasion, learning to hunt and snare. He sighed, remembering the good times. Not wanting Angus to see the emotion he was sure his face gave away he straightened the coverlet on his bed and realised how tired he felt deep in his bones. The mattresses were filled with sweet-smelling barley straw and looked comfier than anything he had slept on while travelling and the sheets were clean and tempting. He could gladly tumble back and pull the curtains around himself, blotting out the world.

‘I don’t mind this room,’ he said. ‘If we were the only guests I might see it as a slight, but you saw for yourself how many others are here.’

‘You should mind, laddie. It’s an earl you are now and you should remember you’re accorded respect. You should demand it!’

Ewan hid the unexpected grin that he felt forming. He was truly fond of the older man, even if Angus lived in a past where ready fists and a forehead could settle a score easier than negotiations. Fortunately Hamish had been more longsighted in his vision for his second son and, when he saw Ewan’s inclination was not for patrolling the borders between Lochmore and McCrieff lands, he had encouraged Ewan to take a place at the University in Glasgow.

‘The first Lochmore to be educated beyond reading and numbers!’ he would roar proudly, daring anyone to pour scorn on Ewan’s accomplishments.

‘Do you not think that respect is gained quicker if you don’t bluster and demand and shout?’ Ewan asked.

Angus looked at him as though the concept of not shouting was beyond him. ‘Aye, possibly here. But you’ll need to command the clan and the men will be wanting more than fancy words and polite bowing.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘You’ll need to be able to fight. Can you do that?’

This was the fear that had kept Ewan awake as much as his grief. Hamish might have valued his learning, but that mattered little to men who prized swords over quills. ‘I might spend most of my life surrounded by documents, but I can hold my own in a skirmish if I’m needed to.’

Angus nodded slowly. ‘Then make sure you show it to the court. Now, we’re wasting time while there is wine paid for by the Crown. I’m heading down to find a drink. Are you coming?’

Ewan’s mouth began to water, craving the sting of hot liquor down his throat. It would go some way to obliterating his grief if only for the night. As soon as he had stowed his belongings, he planned to make his way down and join them.

‘I will shortly,’ he said.

Angus left. Jamie stood by the window, uncertainly.

‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked.

Jamie seemed content to act as manservant. Ewan wondered if his brother, John, had intended to use Jamie as his advisor and confidant in the same manner their fathers had lived and worked together. He would never know, because John had fought and died at Flodden like their father.

‘No, you can go find something to eat. Enjoy yourself before we have to return home.’

‘I’ll do that. I saw a bonny lass with a fine arse on her and a pair of titties as big as twin babbies’ heads.’ Jamie grinned and headed out eagerly.

Ewan sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. If his cares could be worn away between a pair of plump thighs as easily as Jamie’s could, he’d have an easier mind. Now he was alone he could indulge himself in a moment of weakness as doubt crept into his mind. He was no leader. No great chief like Hamish had been, or John had been raised to be. Ewan could pray for the strength to be a leader, but his prayers that reports of his father’s death were false had gone unanswered. He had no faith this one would be heard. He felt more alone than ever before. He and he alone would have to find the strength to be a worthy leader.

Ewan lifted his head and took a deep breath. No more time to linger here while Angus appeared alone and tongues wagged. There would be a feast that night and the drinking had already started. Had been underway for some time, from the slurring of the old ballads and the volume and variety of the curses that had flitted to Ewan’s ears as they passed by the Great Hall. He thought briefly of his father, who had commanded the eyes and attention of everyone in the room with his loud laughter and booming tones, missing him more than he thought possible. John had been the same, vibrant and charismatic, while Ewan had been content to let him. They would have been the first to table, the first to empty a cup and call for more. There was something in what Angus had said. A chief must command and be seen. Ewan would not bring shame on their memories by appearing cowed or withdrawn.

He ran a comb through his jaw-length light-brown hair and shook it out free. He shaped his plaid over his shoulder and beneath his right arm until the long, woven russet-coloured cloth hung neatly. The brat was an outdoor garment but the colour proclaimed a man’s clan allegiance and at this time the usual rules of clothing would be relaxed. He added a swagger to his step as he left the room, holding his shoulders back and head high. He would make his first appearance as Earl of Glenarris one to remember.

He descended to the ground floor and made his way outside to the Inner Close of the castle. The sun had sunk beneath the height of the curtain wall and the limewashed stone of the Forework was a warm orange. The impression was much more benign than the image of the skull that he had first thought of. The air was warm and sweet with the scent of grass mingling with tempting smells coming from the kitchens beside the Great Hall. Ewan inhaled deeply, his appetite surging back for the first time in days. Since his father’s and brother’s deaths all food had tasted like ash, but the scent of rich juices from the roasting meat were more than any man could resist. He would eat well tonight and fill his belly, knowing that he had three days’ journey to take him home to Lochmore Castle.

A few other late guests were making their way across the courtyard, taking a direct route. The cool breeze on his face and neck made his stiff velvet doublet a little more bearable and Ewan decided to take a longer route. He made his way round the path, past the Chapel Royal, and came face to face with a ghost.

Chapter Two

The apparition appeared before him no more than half-a-dozen paces away. It was small, slight and female, and appeared to have passed through the solid stone of the inner curtain wall itself. The figure was facing away from Ewan. She was clothed from head to foot in grey, with a veil of long, white silk that covered her head and fell to her waist. Late evening sunlight seemed to stream through the wall itself, lighting upon her veil and causing it to glow and shimmer like a sunrise over the loch where the water took the colours of early lavender and slate.

Ewan stepped back in surprise, mouth falling open. His mind refused to believe what his eyes were seeing, but no living woman at court would be dressed in such a strange manner or such a colour.

He must have gasped out loud because the spectre spun on the spot to face him in a flurry of skirts. The veil she wore framed a face that was pale and angular. With the light shining behind her, Ewan could only vaguely make out the woman’s features. Black eyes and red lips that became a startled circle.

Ewan got an impression of fragile beauty and of apprehensiveness. The spectre looked more fearful of him than the reverse. His heart began to pound in his throat and his palms grew moist. Was this creature here to herald his death, or seduce him into giving up his soul? If he was going to be faced with proof that the unearthly creatures he had scorned as old wives’ tales truly existed, he could not imagine a more alluring example.

The creature raised an arm swathed in a wide, billowing sleeve and swiftly drew the edge of the veil around to cover her face, leaving only the tantalisingly dark eyes visible. Ewan raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight and try to catch a better glimpse of her. He could not have moved from the spot if his life depended on it. He had no idea how long he might have stood there, not daring to move in case the creature vanished, but waiting for her to melt away, because at that moment he heard himself being hailed loudly from across the courtyard.

The bewitchment that had transfixed him was broken. The ghost shuddered and stood motionless, then stepped quickly back through the wall, disappearing instantly. Ewan stepped towards her, hand outstretched. A sense of yearning filled him that such delicate loveliness was beyond his reach. He might as well try to catch mist.

‘Ewan Lochmore! It is you I see!’ came the voice that had intruded.

He tore his eyes away from the now-empty spot and gave his attention to the speaker. A familiar figure was striding across from the King’s House towards him, his reddish-gold hair streaming behind him.

‘Struan MacNeill!’

Ewan opened his arms wide, roaring his greeting and genuinely pleased to see someone he had not seen for over a year. MacNeill’s sept was a branch of Clan Campbell, neighbours of Clan Lochmore, and the men were on friendly terms. The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back amid loud exclamations.

‘My commiserations, Ewan,’ Struan said, once they had released each other. ‘Hamish was a great man. They both were.’

Ewan passed a hand over his eyes.

‘Are you ill?’ Struan asked. ‘You look as though you’re half-asleep.’

‘I was looking for a woman,’ Ewan murmured.

‘Aren’t we all?’ Struan laughed, grabbing his crotch in an exaggerated manner. ‘Don’t fear, there are plenty of bonny lasses in the castle who are more than happy to oblige. I cannae think of a better way to heal a wounded heart.’

Ewan forced a crude laugh. Dallying with serving girls didn’t appeal, especially when his thoughts were consumed with the unearthly encounter. He looked back over his shoulder. She was, of course, nowhere to be seen. He wondered if the whole incident had been the product of his mind and she had never been there at all.

He took a few steps closer to the place where the ghost had been, stopped and roared with laughter. What he had believed was a solid wall in fact held a small archway that had not been apparent from the angle he had been standing at. An iron gate had been pulled to. Ewan shook his head at his foolishness. The woman had not been a spectre passing through solid stone. She was a flesh-and-blood woman who had simply walked through a gate, albeit one dressed very oddly.

A prickle of excitement ran down his spine. If she was real, she would be among the guests and he might find her. Might even talk with her. He would like to see if she was as pretty as the brief glance had suggested she was. The path led only to the battlements and outer wall, which was no place for a lone woman to be walking. He peered through the gate, hoping to see where the woman had gone, but, seeing no sign of her, joined Struan making his way to the Great Hall with higher spirits and alert eyes. For the first time since his loss, his grief had to compete with another emotion.

The five great fireplaces in the hall were ablaze and filling the Great Hall with the heady smell of woodsmoke and herbs. The building was large, but men and women stood crushed together in tightly knit groups while serving maids and boys wove their way from group to group, replenishing wine cups. Ewan seized a cup from a passing tray and drank deeply, finishing it quickly and taking another almost instantly. He strode from group to group, greeting old friends and paying deference to the men who outranked him, remembering that he, too, was now owed respect as the Earl of Glenarris. All the while, he was conscious that his eye was searching for the woman in white, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Ordinarily a gathering of this many men from so many clans would lead to old grievances and rivalries being raised and fought over but tonight, at least, all within the walls were united in the grief that the devastating loss at Flodden had caused in all hearts. Scotland had lost her sons and fathers.

Lively music came from the minstrels’ gallery high in the rafters of the building and Ewan could tell from the way bodies were starting to move in time with the rhythm that it would not be long before the whole company began dancing. Ewan’s fingers began to click in time with the music. He decided that he would dance tonight and lose himself in the music in the hope it might diminish the sorrow in his heart.

Ewan was caught by the arm and found Angus by his side. They walked side by side through the milling people. They were almost at the furthest end of the Great Hall when Ewan saw a flash of McCrieff plaid. His cheeks flushed and he knew his previous reflection on peace and truces was about to be tested. If he had thought about it he would have remembered members of that clan would be present too. Donald McCrieff, son of old Earl Malcolm, laird of the McCrieff clan, was with his cousin Duncan.

They were thickset of body and florid of complexion and stood staring at the gathered men belligerently, occasionally whispering with their red heads together. Ewan recognised Duncan by sight, but they had never spoken. Duncan was reputed to have a quick mind that his cousin was entirely lacking. Ewan realised from the sharp intake of breath from beside him that Angus had also seen them. Angus began muttering threats under his breath.

‘Now’s not the time,’ Ewan said, placing his hand on Angus’s arm, even as his fingers itched surprisingly to curl into a fist. ‘We’re all here for peace and to decide the future of Scotland.’

‘Aye, though the future would be brighter without a McCrieff in it.’

The gap between cousins widened to admit a third person to the party. The figure that appeared between the two men was small, female and dressed in grey. She was none other than Ewan’s ghost.

His heart clenched.

She’s real.

Perhaps he had spoken aloud because Angus was staring him with an expression of amusement.

‘Pretty little piece, isn’t she?’

‘Do you know who she is?’ Ewan asked. Still pale, still looking wary, but more beautiful in the warm glow of firelight than she had been in the low dusk sunlight. He watched as she dipped a graceful curtsy to the McCrieff men. Duncan loomed over the woman, his thick frame and height serving to make her look small and fragile beside him.

‘The Frenchwoman?’ Angus leered at Ewan. ‘Don’t get any ideas about her. She’s the poor young lassie who is to become Duncan McCrieff’s second wife next week.’

A pit opened beneath Ewan’s feet. His stomach lurched with revulsion and, he was startled to notice, jealousy as Duncan took her hand and bowed deeply over it, lifting it to his lips. Ewan bit his in response, fighting the intense urge to be in Duncan’s place.

So she was French. That explained her slightly unusual manner of dress and told Ewan something else. Following the custom of her country, wearing white indicated she was in mourning. Well, she was not alone in that, with barely a single person not grieving for someone lost at Flodden.

‘A Frenchwoman,’ he muttered. ‘McCrieff’s last wife was English. Why he can’t marry a good Scottish woman is beyond me.’

‘Mayhap no good family wants to let their daughters breed with him,’ Angus sneered.

Ewan grimaced. The girl looked barely past childhood. The image of Duncan’s stocky frame heaving itself on top of the slender girl in white soured the wine in Ewan’s belly. A woman as beautiful as she should be cherished. He would treasure her, if she were his. He could not guess for whom she grieved, but any woman about to marry a McCrieff would have plenty to mourn in the future.

* * *

Marguerite Vallon slipped into the Great Hall. Keeping her head bowed, she walked rapidly through the groups that filled the whole space and made her way towards her future husband. No one had noticed her late arrival. These Scottish men were too busy drinking or shouting—and in many cases doing both simultaneously—to pay attention to one small woman.

She was out of breath from running back to the gateway. Her heart pounded from the exercise, coupled with the agitation from having been seen passing through the gate. Tonight it had been too close for comfort. Duncan did not ask how she spent her days, presumably believing she sat in attendance on Queen Margaret, sewing and reading with the other ladies of the court. If he knew what she really did with her time he would doubtless be furious with her.

On her second day in Stirling Marguerite had discovered the small gate that was unaccountably unguarded. Ever since she had been using it as a way in and out of the grounds without being seen. She had become complacent, however. Now the castle was busier she would have to be careful. She did not want to have to explain to anyone what she was doing.

She caught a glimpse of red hair and made her way towards it. Duncan was standing with his cousin Donald, a man as pleasant in manner as Marguerite’s fiancé. He was less handsome, but younger, and whenever Marguerite saw them together it made her want to weep that she was to marry a man who was almost twice her age.

‘Good evening, messieurs.’

Duncan gave her a charming smile, lifting her hand to his lips. Donald bowed, made an excuse and left them alone.

‘I was beginning to wonder where you were. We have all been gathered here for some time now.’

‘I was in the chapel,’ she replied.

It was not a lie. She had stood frozen in fear while the tall stranger had stared at her open-mouthed, as if she was more alarming to him than he was to her. Thank goodness his attention had been called away by his bellowing friend. As soon as he had looked away Marguerite had slipped into the Chapel Royal through the open door while he was distracted.

She shivered in memory of the way the man in the courtyard had looked at her. The expression of open interest when he had looked at her had caused hot prickles around her neck and between her breasts. The flush threatened to renew itself now. It was as though he had never seen a woman before.

He might be one of those men from the distant wilds that women of the French court had spoken of in horrified whispers whenever they discussed the uncivilised country where Marguerite was condemned to make her home. According to them, Scottish Highlanders who lived alone where there were no women took sheep as wives. It was dreadful enough to think a man had such base urges at all, but to consider he might satisfy them in such a disgusting manner made Marguerite flush scarlet and feel physically sick. She hoped she would not encounter the man from the courtyard again.

Although she had wept when her father told her she was to marry a man of thirty-five, she was thankful that Duncan, with his deep blue velvet doublet and close cut hose, seemed to possess an air of sophistication that would not be out of place in the French court.

She realised Duncan was speaking and she had not been paying attention.

‘I’m sorry, I was thinking of the peace of the chapel and my mind wandered.’

This was closer to a lie and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Duncan smiled again, though with a touch less warmth, Marguerite noticed. He bent over her, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to see into his face.

‘I said that to prefer prayer over a feast seems overly devout in one so young. You should stay close to me now we are here. We will be eating before long.’

She nodded meekly and looked down demurely. She had no appetite to speak of.

She looked away and as she did her eye fell on a figure that was standing at the other side of the room. Her breath caught, her ears began to buzz and she felt as though she might faint. It was the man from the courtyard and he was staring right at her.

Their eyes met briefly. His flickered in recognition and the muscles at the side of his mouth twitched. She thought he was going to smile, but his expression remained solemn. His brows knitted. He crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side slightly, regarding her with only a little less curiosity than he had in the courtyard. Her cheeks grew hot again and a faint fluttering in her belly spread out through her torso. It felt as though he was slowly drawing his fingers across the inside of her ribs in a caress that reached to her heart itself. She looked away, dropping her eyes down demurely and hoping that would be the end of it.

* * *

Duncan spent the greater part of the meal talking to Donald, who sat at her other side, and Marguerite was left in peace. She tried to muster enthusiasm for the dripping trenchers of roast venison and beef and platters of goose and pigeon that passed before her. She sighed, craving the freshness of delicate white asparagus with lemon sauce, or the gigot of lamb with red and black peppercorns that had been her favourite dish at home rather than yet another night of greasy meat lacking in sauce or spice.

When she had eaten as much as she could stomach, she spent her time looking around to see if she could recognise any of the faces about her. The man from the courtyard was sitting at the furthest end of the table at the other side. Marguerite watched him as he ate. He was solemn faced, bordering on surly, and kept his head down and his wine cup close as he devoured a great plate of beef. He spoke only occasionally to the men on either side of him and Marguerite only noticed him smiling twice. The men all wore the same pattern of plaid so she decided they must belong to the same clan.

* * *

The meal was drawing to a close when the grave-faced man sitting at the centre of the high table stood and began to speak. These men were the General Council of Scotland, the noblemen who had survived the recent battle against the English. A hush fell on the hall.

‘The Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, His Grace the Duke of Rothesay will be crowned King James V tomorrow. The matter of the Regency will be decided forthwith. Tonight we gather and remember those we have lost.’

He paused as a great noise that began as a groan and transformed into a cheer surged around the hall. The man smiled, acknowledging the mix of emotions that all men must be feeling.

‘The Parliament has been in session for the past two days. We have decreed that honours will be announced tonight so that tomorrow’s coronation may proceed with each man in his rightful place.’

He explained that new titles would be created to compensate for the loss of life in the recent battle, that some lands would be granted to them and others were to be presented to existing noblemen. A black-robed man sitting at the nearest table began to read from a long list detailing which land would pass to which surviving man. Most of the names meant nothing to Marguerite, but she listened in case McCrieff was mentioned.

‘The estate between Loch Carran and Gailsyth that was in the possession of William McNab, Fourth Earl GlenCarran, is to be granted to Ewan Lochmore, Third Earl of Glenarris.’

Donald swore beneath his breath and his usually mild expression was thunderous. Duncan leaned past Marguerite to grasp him by the wrist.

‘Is that bad?’ Marguerite asked.

Duncan whipped his head round and Marguerite recoiled at the anger she saw directed at her. She fumbled with a piece of bread. Duncan seemed to gather his thoughts. He patted her hand, then reached for his wine and drank deeply.

‘It is...unexpected. That land was promised to my cousin in the event of McNab’s death at Flodden. Now it is to pass to that young pup.’

Duncan nodded contemptuously towards the man from the courtyard. He was sitting at a table among a group who were congratulating him on his good fortune with hearty thumps to the shoulder. He looked remarkably solemn for a man who had been granted lands unexpectedly.

Marguerite eyed him with interest now the attention of the room was on him and it was acceptable to do so openly. He was beardless, with angular cheekbones, and his light brown hair was shorter than the men surrounding him, curling slightly below a narrow chin with a small dimple in it. He was still young and if Duncan had been the same age as this man, Marguerite had no doubt her fiancé would be the better looking of the two. Lord Glenarris was handsome in a lean-faced way, but what really distinguished him from the other men in the room was his eyes. Oh, they were the reason Marguerite’s heart raced and a previously unknown sensation woke within her. They were so very bright blue. They were currently grave, but Marguerite could imagine how appealing they would look when he was amused and the fine lines at the edge crinkled.

So he was an earl. She didn’t know where the places mentioned were and his name meant nothing to her. She should feel the injustice dealt to Duncan, but the glee on Earl of Glenarris’s face was delightful to behold and even though she did not know him, Marguerite was happy for him. Further names were announced. Donald McCrieff scowled when his name was called.

‘A spit of barren rocks!’ he said petulantly. ‘Why did I not receive the McNab land? You told me you could arrange...’

‘Be silent, you fool!’

The fury in Duncan’s voice made Marguerite quake. His hand tightened on Donald’s forearm. They glanced towards Marguerite, who gave a simpering smile and twirled her fingers around her sleeve. She had learned early that men spoke more freely when they believed a woman did not have the wit to listen. She tried to ignore Duncan’s whitening knuckles as he gripped. The hand that would lift hers so gently had become a claw.

‘I will not let this insult pass,’ Donald muttered. ‘There will be a reckoning.’

He glared across the room at the Earl, who looked deep in thought, his blue eyes unfocused. A chill ran down Marguerite’s spine. She felt the urge to warn Lord Glenarris. Of what, she was not certain, but she knew that Donald and Duncan McCrieff meant him nothing but ill.

Chapter Three

Servants swept in and bore away the remains of the meal. The minstrels in the gallery, who had been playing a muted, gentle air during the meal, began to increase the pace. The music of the pipes and drums that floated from the gallery above grew louder and faster. Men were beginning to circle and stamp their feet, calling and whooping along with the drumbeat. It was hard to tell whether the unruly leaps and steps towards each other was dancing or fighting.

Many of the ladies had retired to the far end of the hall, but joining them while they spoke of the men they hoped to marry held no appeal for Marguerite. She followed Duncan to his previous place by the great fire, trying to avoid being jostled aside or seized around the waist and pulled into the circles along with the merry serving girls, who protested that they had no intention of dancing while their eyes and lips said otherwise. Apart from the fact that the steps were unfamiliar and too wild, grief had transformed Marguerite’s feet to lead. She hoped Duncan would not ask. He was so much older than she and dancing must be tiring.

‘Shall we dance?’ Duncan asked, as if he had read her thoughts.

Marguerite declined with the best smile she could muster, which Duncan accepted with a shrug.

‘Ah well. We’ll have chance to dance aplenty once we’re wed.’

Marguerite nodded dumbly, her stomach flipping over. From the inflection in his voice she did not think Duncan meant the sort of dancing they were witnessing here.

‘You seem at odds with yourself tonight,’ Duncan remarked. ‘Are you ill?’

‘My head aches.’ Marguerite clutched at the excuse Duncan had suggested. ‘I would like some air.’

‘You’re better staying close to me so I can tend you if you become faint,’ Duncan replied. He summoned a serving girl and took a cup of wine from her tray. He dismissed the girl with a pat of his hand on her lower back, then leaned close to Marguerite, passing the wine into her hand from behind. His breath was hot on her neck and he let his arm brush against the length of hers in the process as he withdrew it. She tried not to wrinkle her nose too obviously. Usually she tolerated his presence, but tonight it was an endurance. The image of his hand gripping Donald’s wrist was too vivid for her to bear being held by him. Those hands on her body...

She looked again at the centre of the Great Hall where more and more men were joining the dance. Some of them were dressed in clothes that would not look out of place in France, but others were bare legged and wore layers of cloth wrapped over jerkins of leather and padded doublets.

Lord Glenarris was among them. She caught a glimpse of the deep russet-coloured cloth he wore across his shoulder as he leapt high into the air with an energy and exuberance that took her breath away, landing sure-footed on the floor, arms outstretched. His head was thrown back and he was laughing with glee, flashing wide smiles at anyone who caught his eye. Marguerite was determined she would not catch his eye again.

She looked back at Duncan, feeling further explanation of her reservation was needed. She gestured with a hand across the room. Greater numbers of men were joining in the dancing, adding ear-splitting yells whenever the music reached a certain point Marguerite could not discern.

‘It seems so strange. I miss the statelier ways of France.’

‘We are a more expressive people,’ Duncan said. ‘You will most likely prefer the court of England. You’ll discover it is more sedate when we visit.’

He spoke with a hint of disapproval. Marguerite looked back at the dancers, trying to find some beauty in the wildness, some sense of pattern in the steps.

‘I am unfamiliar with these ways,’ she explained. ‘I was not expecting to be brought to Scotland so soon after my mother’s death.’

Her voice caught in her throat. Duncan took her hand and patted it as if he was comforting a child. He lifted it to his lips, but must have noticed the reluctance that made her instinctively stiffen because he released it after only the briefest of touches. He rubbed a long finger across his jaw, stroking his neatly trimmed red beard as he regarded her thoughtfully.

‘The timing of your arrival when my attention is on matters of politics, not love, has not been the best, I must admit. You will grow to learn our ways soon enough.’

‘Should I return to France until matters are more settled before we wed?’ Marguerite suggested.

‘No, we’ll marry as planned,’ Duncan said. ‘It will give Queen Margaret’s ladies something to keep them occupied after the coronation of the new King. They’ll enjoy fussing around with chemises and stockings and suchlike.’

Duncan gave her a smile that bordered on lascivious. Had he deliberately chosen to name items of clothing that were so intimate? It was impossible not to imagine their wedding night where he would expect access beneath the delicate layers she wore beside her skin. Cold shivers stroked down her spine at the thought of submitting to his attentions. She looked again into the centre of the room. Lord Glenarris had danced closer to them as the surging mass moved around the hall and Duncan was staring at him, arms tightly folded across his burly chest.

‘I will go take some air after all, I think,’ she murmured. ‘Excuse me.’

She made her way round the edge of the room. As the dancers came closer Lord Glenarris leapt high into a twist, arms outstretched. He landed just as Marguerite stepped out. They collided and his arm caught her a blow across the shoulder, pushing her forward. It didn’t hurt much, but she squealed in alarm, her foot slipping on the stone floor, and she bumped into a table. Lord Glenarris staggered, but found his feet quickly and righted himself. He clasped Marguerite’s hand and put his other hand on her waist and gently pulled her upright. She tensed instinctively, anticipating the revulsion that followed when Duncan did that, but none came. Instead, her fingers tingled and grew warm. She closed her fingers around his and felt the tension flood from her limbs and core.

Lord Glenarris held her firmly, yet his grip was gentler than she would have assumed from the ferocious way he had thrown himself around as he danced. He spoke rapidly in the language Marguerite was only just starting to speak with any fluency. Every Scot seemed to have a different intonation. His was soft with a melodic roll to the ‘r’s. Marguerite could only catch half the words, but it appeared he was apologising.

The clamour of other voices dimmed and the room seemed to empty, leaving only them together. Marguerite looked up into intense blue eyes and he returned her gaze, unblinking. She began to set her face into the polite smile she had been trained since childhood to show. To her surprise it came naturally and his lips curled in response. It struck Marguerite that he found her attractive. His fingers spread along her inner wrist, resting over the soft spot where her blood thrummed through her veins. Warmth rose to her breast and neck as she discovered this was far from unwelcome. When Duncan showed interest, her body never reacted in such a way. She hoped the fascination she unaccountably felt for him was not equally clear on her face.

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.’

She looked at him seriously, then gave a rippling laugh. It was high and girlish and was more akin to the voice he expected her to have.

‘How ingenious of you!’

He might have taken it as a compliment if she had not sounded so surprised. She had made it clear the previous night that she thought the Scottish were savages. His irritation flooded back and he intended to end the conversation then.

‘Did you wish to speak to me for a reason?’ he asked brusquely. If she thought him uncouth, why be anything other?

‘I know I should not speak to you when we have not been introduced, but I wanted to apologise.’ She reached out her hand as she had the previous night, but held it steady between them, regarding him with entreaty in her eyes. ‘I did not intend to cause any offence last night when I spoke of the wildness I saw. I am sorry.’

‘You didn’t cause any offence, at least not to me.’ It was a lie, but now she was beside him he had no wish to spoil it.

She looked relieved, but managed to ruin the thawing tension by continuing with a sigh, ‘I find it strange. That is all. I do not think the men of my country would behave so if they were nursing wounds after a defeat in battle.’

Ewan rolled his eyes and folded his arms. ‘A little more tact might be advisable.’

Her lips twisted down and she pressed them together to stop them from trembling. Ewan felt as though he had slapped a kitten.

‘Tell me where you had been yesterday evening,’ he asked impulsively.

She did touch him now, clutching at his wrist with urgency while her eyes darted from side to side. Once again Ewan stiffened. The chill of her fingers on his skin was enough to make him quicken, his blood sparking to life like a flint catching in straw.

‘Don’t speak so loudly!’

He hadn’t been and her consternation told him he had touched on something secret. He clasped her hand briefly before removing it from his wrist with fingers close to trembling, not daring to risk touching any longer. He glanced around. Duncan McCrieff was deep in conversation with Queen Margaret and was unaware his bride was elsewhere. Ewan privately thought that if this delicate little lass with large, innocent eyes were his woman he would not leave her alone in a room full of lecherous Scots to fend for herself.

‘No one will hear over the music, but I shan’t if you tell me,’ he said, grinning to cover the bewildering surge of emotions that her fleeting touch had awoken in him.

She cast him a look of pure indignation.

‘I shall not, for it is no business of yours!’

Her hands moved to her breast and she began to fiddle with a heavy pendant that hung from a long gold chain, her thumb rubbing in small circles over the etched patterns. The gesture looked like a long-formed habit and Ewan wondered if she was even aware she was doing it. He watched her fingers moving over the polished gold. They were long and slender with nails shaped like almonds and he could not tear his eyes from them as they moved deftly.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I would have said you were meeting your lover, but I know McCrieff was in the hall before you.’

‘He is not my lover!’ She blinked rapidly, which made her thick, dark eyelashes flutter in a manner that caused Ewan’s heart to do similar. ‘I have no lover. If you slander me in such a way, I shall have to tell Duncan.’

‘You’ll inform him that I saw you slipping in furtively from somewhere you should not have been?’

She pouted, dropping her head.

‘I simply wanted to be alone.’ Her voice was filled with melancholy that spoke to the misery in Ewan’s chest in a language that needed no words. Had her necklace been a gift from whomever she was mourning? It was all Ewan could do to stop himself from drawing her into his arms in an attempt to comfort them both, but from the corner of his eye he saw Duncan McCrieff was now winding his way through the groups, heading in their direction. He wore his customary surly expression. Ewan thought about leaving the girl alone, but McCrieff had already seen them standing together and had increased the speed at which he jostled his way towards them. To depart now would be more suspicious than to stay. The girl had noticed his approach, too, and Ewan didn’t like the way her pale cheeks grew even paler.

Ewan lowered his voice and inclined his head a little. ‘It is probably not my place to say, but in a strange country with an unfamiliar husband I would try to win as many friends as I could.’

‘Yes. I do need friends,’ she whispered.

Her eyes grew wide and gleamed. She looked as if she was about to cry and Ewan felt a stab of remorse that he had contributed to her unease. He wondered if she was aware that she had edged closer to him as her bridegroom approached so that her skirt was brushing his leg. He could say nothing because Duncan was upon them.

Chapter Five

Duncan’s smile exuded warmth that Ewan believed was entirely false. He lifted his bride’s hand to his lips, then nodded curtly at Ewan, all warmth frozen over.

‘Lochmore.’

‘McCrieff.’

The girl was looking at them, surprised by the openly hostile tones they spoke in.

‘I hope you are not assaulting my bride again.’ McCrieff held up his hands in a parody of submissiveness. ‘Wait. I jest! I jest!’

Ewan eyed him coldly, wishing he had a sword to hand. ‘I merely stopped to speak with her to confirm she had not been injured last night,’ he said.

Duncan looked suspiciously between Ewan and his bride. She spoke rapidly in French, too quickly for Ewan to follow every word, but he understood she was confirming what he had said. It gave him a curious pleasure that she was joining him in the lie.

If Ewan had to gamble on anyone betraying Scotland, he’d bet every piece of silver plate in Castle Lochmore it would be a McCrieff. He tried to curb his prejudice, reminding himself that he had no evidence and the only reason for this was the longstanding enmity between the clans.

Duncan was the middle son of the Chief’s brother. He spent his time travelling around Malcolm’s lands, assisting when his cousin Donald was not capable, or venturing abroad or across the border into England. By any measure Duncan was nobody, yet he had risen high and risen fast. He’d had the knack of being in the right place at the right time. Some men were born with a kiss from Fortune herself. Duncan McCrieff was one such man, it seemed, and now he had won that delicate little blossom of a woman who looked up at him with nervous eyes and lips that were quivering.

‘My congratulations on your betrothal,’ Ewan said. ‘It must be five years since Elizabeth died.’

‘Almost six,’ McCrieff said, referring to the death of his first wife. ‘My congratulations to you also. You’ve acquired yet more land, I see. You’ll be hard pushed to keep it all under control.’

If Ewan hadn’t genuinely feared the same thing he’d have had his dagger at McCrieff’s throat for the slur without hesitation.

‘Fortunately there are men I can trust to ensure the tenants are well cared for and safe from attack by raiders.’ He let that hang there. They both knew it was from McCrieff men the Lochmore farmers were most at risk where their lands shared boundaries. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t equally fortunate yesterday.’

Duncan smirked. ‘I don’t crave land. It’s my wealth I’m trying to increase. It’s less bothersome to keep control of and doesn’t require me to throw a costly feast at it every autumn and spring.’

Ewan laughed. The twice-yearly gatherings of as many of the clan as could make it was one of his favourite traditions. ‘Some of us enjoy the feast and dancing. Perhaps your new wife would enjoy it, too.’

‘I think Mademoiselle Vallon has experienced enough of your dancing.’ Duncan gazed down at her and patted her cheek affectionately. Ewan tried not to show his disgust openly at the sight of a man of thirty-five leering at a girl young enough to be his daughter. Mademoiselle Vallon simpered. Disdain crept into Ewan’s heart that she could appreciate such behaviour. To think he had been on the verge of feeling sorry for her when, with her fine clothes and jewellery and silly opinions of his country, she was nothing more than a pampered pet.

‘Where is your cousin?’ he asked Duncan.

‘Donald left at first light for Castle McCrieff to take news of the land he was granted. I’m sure he will pass on your good fortune to Malcolm.’

Ewan was sure of it, too, and that the reaction would not be favourable. The land he had been granted was at the meeting point of both the McCrieff and Lochmore borders. It was fertile land further inland from Kilmachrie Glen and would provide a good income.

‘I’ll be leaving myself in the morning,’ he said, preparing to bow farewell. ‘I need to distribute the alms to my tenants.’

‘We’ll be staying a few days longer,’ Duncan said. ‘I’m interested to see who becomes Regent for our new King.’

‘It will be Albany, surely,’ Ewan said, his intended departure delayed by the opportunity to discuss the impending regency. There had been such great losses at Flodden that there seemed to be barely anyone left who was able to stand to the role. ‘He is closest to the throne.’

‘Possibly the widowed Queen will wish to rule in her son’s name,’ Duncan suggested.

‘An English Regent?’

‘Aye, it will be unpopular at first, but she has friends here and the backing of her brother in England.’

‘But a woman!’ Ewan scoffed.

‘Why should she not be Regent? Are women incapable?’ Mademoiselle Vallon had spoken. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes were bright. She looked at him sternly, her straight, dark eyebrows coming together, and Ewan was astonished to see fierce intelligence in the dark brown eyes that flashed in his direction. It gave her an earnest air that he found surprisingly endearing. He didn’t want to argue as much as coax her into agreeing with him.

‘Do you think the English Widow Queen should be Regent for Scotland?’ Ewan asked, giving her his full attention. ‘Isn’t your allegiance towards a French faction?’

She looked delighted that he had answered. She raised herself to her tallest, straight backed and chin tilted up. ‘Why should I feel more allegiance towards my country than to my sex? Besides, your country is my country now, or will be before long.’

She tailed off, her fierce expression replaced by a furrowed brow and look that Ewan could only interpret as disgust. His hackles rose to hear her casting yet another slur on Scotland. She seemed to gather her thoughts and dropped her eyes.

‘I merely question your belief that a woman is not capable of ruling.’

‘You are best suited to ruling our hearts, Marguerite, my sweet. Best keep to your sewing and playing. To give you our kingdoms would be unwise.’ Duncan gave an indulgent laugh and patted her hand again. Ewan wondered that she did not ball her fist and give him a blow to the ear for his cloying pawing at her. She merely gave him another simpering smile, but her eyes were dull and placid. Ewan wondered how often her intelligence was allowed out to play and once more felt a stab of frustration that she was to be married to Duncan, who would not appreciate such forthrightness in a wife.

‘As for the Queen,’ Duncan continued, ‘while her husband lived he guided her. I am sure she will be able to make her case well. She has friends as well as enemies at court who will doubtless support her claim.’

‘Do you count yourself as one of her friends?’ Ewan asked. ‘Your first wife came from England with Queen Margaret. You must have some inclination to believe she has a claim.’

‘Ah, but as you can see, my new bride is French.’ Duncan smiled, but his eyes were steel. ‘No one could doubt my support of the Auld Alliance with such a treasure at my side.’

Ewan smiled back, equally frostily. ‘An admirable cause for a wedding celebration.’

‘It would be, if I had not fallen deeply in love the first time I saw her and begged her father to give her to me.’

The future bride gave them both a brittle smile that did not reach her eyes.

‘Then I wish you good fortune on your wedding,’ Ewan said. He had never wished anything less.

‘That reminds me, my sweet,’ Duncan said. ‘I was telling Her Grace how well you play the clavichord and she is eager to hear you. She plays herself, as you know.’

Mademoiselle Vallon shrunk back. ‘I don’t think...that is... I have not played for a month at least. I am sure to disappoint.’

The expression of modest denial of her skills could be an affectation, but Ewan thought not.

‘That won’t matter in the slightest.’

Duncan took her arm under his. She glanced at Ewan in appeal, but as much as his heart lurched in pity, it was not his place to intervene in their dispute. Duncan did not appear to notice how distraught Mademoiselle Vallon was as he swept her away, but her expression of panic played on Ewan’s mind.

What had compelled him to warn her in such an alarming manner to make friends? She had given him no reason to become her defender, but he wondered if he had been wrong about the cause of her distaste. Perhaps it was the thought of her future husband that caused her dislike for Scotland. And, Ewan thought as he followed behind, who could blame her for that.

* * *

‘I did not know you had been married before,’ Marguerite said as Duncan escorted her down the side of the Great Hall.

‘Did your father not tell you?’ Duncan laughed. He looked down at her with an expression of surprise. ‘I’m five and thirty, my sweet. Did you expect your husband to be a virgin like yourself?’

‘Of course not.’ Men had wants and needs. No man would be content to wait until marriage, or would be censured for not doing so. Sometimes she could almost understand them, when impulses raced through her and her body cried out for fulfilment of something she could not explain. ‘You have never spoken of her and I wondered why not. She was English?’

‘Aye, she was from close to the borders near Berwick. And why not, when our King married an Englishwoman himself. Elizabeth died from a childbed fever.’

‘Did you love her dearly?’ Marguerite asked softly.

‘Yes. Yes, I truly did.’

Duncan looked down at his hands and for the first time since they had met she felt she was seeing his true thoughts. She knew then that his heart belonged to a dead woman and he would never love her. When he raised his head again, his face was hard, all emotion under control.

‘Her death was tragic, doubly so as she died before she was able to give me an heir. Our child is a daughter.’

‘You have a daughter?’ Marguerite couldn’t hide her surprise at the revelation she was to be a stepmother. ‘When will I meet her?’

‘Soon. When we travel to England. Liza lives with her aunt and uncle. Better placed for stability and good alliances for a girl than living with a father who travels between lands.’

He gave Marguerite a look gleaming with desire. ‘I hope you shall be more successful in providing me with a son than Elizabeth was.’

Nausea flowed over Marguerite. How easily a man spoke of such matters as childbirth!

‘I hope so, too,’ she said faintly. ‘I do not wish to die.’

Duncan smiled warmly and chucked her under the chin, but his eyes were iron. ‘Of course. That is what I meant. A flower as delicate as you should be cherished and kept safe from harm. Don’t fear. We’ll get you with child as soon as we are able.’

Her mother, Dominique, had warned Marguerite and her sisters that a wife’s path was perilous and, sure enough, she had been proved right. Visions filled Marguerite’s mind of her sister Marie lying limp, her pallor grey, pleading weakly for some relief from the agony of childbirth. Marie had been granted her release and now lay cold in her grave. Marguerite could not bear the thought this would almost certainly be her fate, too.

Duncan gestured for Marguerite to approach the dais where Queen Margaret sat and it took all her strength to walk there.

‘I hope my fiancée might favour us with a song from France our court might not have heard. She plays excellently.’

Marguerite could gladly have screamed at Duncan for bringing her to the notice of the court. Nevertheless she gave her prettiest smile and, amid murmurs of assent, took her stool before the instrument that had been brought into the room and placed at the foot of the raised dais beside the last of the great stone fireplaces. The heat was stifling and she had an urge to feign illness and run to the safety of the courtyard, but such a thing was impossible.

She bent her head over the clavichord, taking longer than necessary to feel her way around the keys, giving herself an opportunity to compose herself. She picked a merry tune that the peasants in the nearby village used to sing at midsummer. She knew it well enough to play without thinking and let her fingers find their positions. She played the first refrain, then began to sing as she repeated the melody.

A murmur rippled through the audience and Marguerite drew courage from their astonishment. She played well enough to pass in company, but her strength was the voice that dipped to lower notes and greater heights than her size would indicate. She was proud of it. Now she dared to look at the audience and see what effect her performance was having. Duncan was nodding his approval. Other faces she recognised smiled at her or stood rapt.

Her eye fell on Lord Glenarris. He alone looked unmoved. He stood with his arms folded across his chest. His face could have been carved from the same granite that the castle stood on. His eyes flashed cold as they met hers. The hostility that emanated from him was strong. He didn’t like her. He found her attractive, though, she could tell from the way his eyes caressed her almost as freely as Duncan’s did. Oddly, knowing this did not make her shrink from him as she did from Duncan, but she needed privacy and time to untangle why not.

His words had made her shiver with a sense of foreboding. Why would she need to win friends? Possibly he only meant as a stranger in an unfamiliar country, but, remembering his heated exchange with Duncan, Marguerite could not help but imagine a more sinister reason. It had sounded more like a threat than friendly advice.

She finished the song and dipped her head at the applause. Duncan wore a smile of approval and gestured to continue. She shot him a look of entreaty, but he did not appear to understand and called for another song.

Marguerite began to play a gentle air that her mother had loved, but realised instantly it was a mistake to have chosen a song with so many memories attached to it. The words spoke of the coming of dark nights and winter snows, something her mother would never experience again. Her back and neck grew damp and she knew from the heat rising in them that her cheeks and throat would be starting to flush. The song required more subtlety than Marguerite felt capable of, but she continued into the refrain with a voice that was growing breathy and frail. Her eyes blurred as each note seemed to echo into the high rafters, with no end in sight. She had only sung one line of the second verse, in a voice she could tell would not last out the song, when she heard someone starting a gentle clapping. Others joined in.

Marguerite’s fingers faltered and she looked up. Lord Glenarris was striding towards her, hands raised before him and leading the applause. She could no longer be heard over the increasing volume and dropped her hands to her lap. Had her performance been so poor that he could not bear to listen any longer? She was torn between a sense of humiliation that he had interrupted and relief that she would not reveal her weakness to the entire court. She would no longer have to continue playing.

‘Beautifully played and sung, Mademoiselle Vallon,’ he said. ‘You remind us that the Auld Alliance benefits our country in matters of culture as much as in politics and trade.’

His eyes glinted and his lips were twisted into a smile that looked sincere enough, but which Marguerite suspected was as false as his praise. ‘Forgive me for bringing an end to your performance, but this is a time for celebration, not slumber. Who will give us a song from Scotland and lift our hearts?’

Voices cried out as quarrels between men promoting the songs of their clans broke out. Marguerite slipped from her stool with relief that she was now forgotten. She adjusted her hood and slipped away, coming face to face with the Earl, who was leaning against the carved fireplace. He had assumed the same position he had in the courtyard, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle and head resting back. The top point of his doublet was unlaced and it displayed his throat and a small V-shape of skin between the nubs of his collarbone. Still uncomfortably hot from the fire and her ordeal, Marguerite felt her back and chest grow warmer still and a slight trickle of perspiration began to make its way down her lower back. He had been watching her and she had been unaware.

‘You are not offering to sing, my lord, since you have interrupted my performance?’

The Earl ran a hand over his hair, causing it to flop across one blue eye. He tossed his head to send it back into place and looked at her keenly. ‘I only sing when I want to keep the wildcats away from the hen house. They flee screaming, thinking a monstrous one of their type is upon them.’

Marguerite stifled a smile at the image and noticed the way his eyes flickered to her lips, then back to her face, his pupils growing wide. She had not intended to show amusement. She was angry with him, after all. Annoyed that he noticed how his words had affected her, she lifted her chin and gave him a cold stare.

‘You doubly insult me if your singing is so terrible yet you still cannot bear to hear mine to the conclusion of a song.’

He frowned. ‘You’re still looking red in the face and a little sick. You should find your fiancé and ask him to take you somewhere cooler now you’re at liberty from the obligation to perform.’

He made a clipped bow and strode away towards the throng of men who were still debating which clan had the best songs. He raised his hands above his head, beating his hands together and beginning to sing a loud, stirring march in a voice that was as tuneless as he had threatened it would be. Other men took up his song or began to sing their own with different degrees of discord. Some of the rhymes she caught made her blush to hear.

Marguerite leaned against the fireplace in the spot the Earl had vacated, feeling the cold stone pressing into her back and gradually cooling her down. She did not understand him. He made no effort to hide his dislike, but he alone had noticed she was becoming distraught and had succeeded in freeing her from the obligation of performing. Whether or not that had been his intent, she was unsure, but the fact he had made a point of showing he was aware she was uncomfortable, and his wounded air, suggested his interruption had been a rescue after all. Perhaps he had been trying to be kind earlier, too. She wondered if Ewan Lochmore might be a good friend to have and what she would have to do to make amends.

Chapter Six

Duncan found her shortly afterwards and consented to take Marguerite outside. They strolled around the courtyard in the fine rain that Marguerite welcomed as it washed the heat from her cheeks.

‘That upstart whelp needs a whipping for insulting me in such a manner,’ Duncan said.

‘How did he insult you?’ Marguerite asked.

Duncan placed his hand on her shoulders. ‘Why, by interrupting your performance, of course. You played and sang beautifully. He just could not bear to see you bring credit to me.’

Marguerite said nothing. That interpretation had not occurred to her. She resolved to keep her own to herself.

Duncan’s fingers travelled beneath her veil and pushed it behind her shoulders. He ran his thumbs over the wide braid at the neck of her gown.

‘I wish you would wear colours that might reflect your beauty. White draws attention to you. No wonder Lochmore couldn’t tear his eyes away.’

Marguerite buried her hands in her skirts, wishing Duncan would remove his, but he spread his fingers wider and began slowly running them down her arms, smoothing her voluminous sleeves down. She knew her refusal to put away her mourning clothes angered Duncan. On her wedding day she would have to lay them aside and appear as a joyful bride in brighter colours. Until then it was one small act of rebellion she was determined to maintain.

‘He has not been looking at me in any particular way. Beyond growing bored of my playing.’

Duncan’s hand tensed, fingers growing firm.

‘Your face is unusually flushed,’ he said. He finally took his hands from Marguerite’s arms, instead tilting her head and stroking his finger across her cheek. ‘I hope you are not growing ill.’

‘You may be right. I think I should lie down on my bed for a short while until I feel better.’

‘Then I will escort you to your chamber.’

Duncan’s eyes lit up with an expression of open craving that made Marguerite shudder, a hunger that she knew he was eager to satisfy. As they travelled towards her chamber, she reflected that he had not touched her beyond what propriety allowed, but he made no secret of the fact he desired her. The thought terrified her. It kept her awake at night. It made her want to scream whenever he touched her.

‘Rest well, my sweet,’ he said. ‘I shall be counting the hours until our wedding day. In the meantime I shall have your maids sent to assist you.’

His eyes followed Marguerite as she slipped into the room and she did not turn her back from the door until she heard the catch shut. She did not wait for the maids to arrive, but tore the hood from her head and let her black hair tumble the length of her back. She reached beneath each arm to unlace her gown and tore it off, removing her chemise until she stood clothed only in her sleeveless shift. She filled the ewer of water and began to scrub her neck and arms until they smarted, but at least she had rid herself of the sensation of Duncan’s hands.

By the time maids and two Ladies of the Queen’s Bedchamber arrived Marguerite was sitting composed on a low stool before the narrow window with her chemise on and her embroidery in her lap. The maids twittered around her like a flock of birds, brushing and scenting her hair. As Duncan had predicted, the women were more interested in the forthcoming wedding than the coronation of King James. Now the babe was their monarch they were unable to coo over him as they had done previously. They talked of the wedding feast, Marguerite’s dress and her fortune in marrying such a husband. The little French they spoke was halting and worse than her grasp of English so Marguerite was able to shut out most of their conversation and retreat into her head until she could bear it no longer and dismissed them, claiming a headache.

The room was stifling and she felt restless. It was the time of afternoon when Marguerite’s mother would have escaped her pain in a drugged slumber. Marguerite had relished the hour or more of freedom to roam outside and it was as if an internal hourglass had tipped, drawing her outside. She dressed and made her way out of the King’s House and along her customary route to the small gate in the wall that led to the path out of the castle. She paused as she drew near, half-expecting to see Ewan Lochmore waiting for her as he had done the night before, but he was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he was still inside the Great Hall, singing songs about doxies and tanners.

After passing through the gate, the path wound down and around the front of the castle, away from the vertical cliffs and towards the flatter, rougher ground below. From here she was able to walk through the knee-length tangle of bushes and weeds towards what had once been a formal garden. She had discovered it on the second day in Stirling. This place alone reminded her of her home and her mother’s gardens full of lilies and irises stretching down to the lake. As she walked she began to hum the song she had been unable to complete. Now she was alone she could allow her grief to emerge. A small knoll of thick grass faced over the town below and it was here Marguerite spent her days. When she arrived now, she discovered it was already occupied.

The Earl of Lochmore was sitting on the bracken. He had his back to Marguerite and sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands cupping his chin as he stared out over Stirling. She would have fled, but he looked round as she approached.

They stared at each other.

‘Why are you sitting in my spot?’ Marguerite demanded. It was unbearable to think that her refuge had been discovered and invaded by this man of all people. ‘Are you spying on me?’

Lord Glenarris unfurled himself from his huddle like a long-limbed marionette being taken from a case. He faced her and ran his hand through his hair. ‘I wondered when I came here whether this was where you had been creeping away to. No, I’m not spying on you, or waiting for you.’

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