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 McCrief
f 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 looki
ng 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.’
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 2