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 th
ick 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.’
‘Then why are you here? Have you come to criticise my singing further?’ Her eyes fell on the bottle that was lying at his feet. It had crushed a posy she had left the previous day and she was filled with unreasonable anger that he had violated her sanctuary.
‘Or to pass judgement on my choice of flowers!’
He followed her gaze and unearthed the bruised bouquet from beneath his bottle. Marguerite was about to demand it from him, but paused. His lean face looked gaunt and he was lacking the vitality he had displayed so far. His blue eyes were startling in their brightness and rimmed with red.
‘Surprising though it may seem, you aren’t the only person in the castle who craves solitude on occasion. Even more surprising, you were not even in my thoughts when I set out.’
He held the posy to his nose and inhaled, then straightened one or two stems and held it out to her. She took the flowers from him, noticing how careful he was not to touch her. After Duncan’s constant fondling she appreciated the unexpected sensitivity. She tweaked another flower into place and he grinned.
‘I’ll admit to choosing the gate you used deliberately, but only because I was curious to see what drew you to it.’
He sat down again and looked out over the city towards the distant mountains. Marguerite stood, uncertain what to do now her plans had been thrown into disarray. He cocked his head back to her and patted the grass at his side. After hesitating for a moment she joined him, taking care to keep her skirts away from his legs.
‘I can see why you like it here,’ he said presently. ‘It’s very peaceful.’
‘I can think of home and don’t have to remember I’m in Scotland,’ she explained.
His expression darkened. ‘Aye, and you wouldna’ want to do a thing like that now, would ye!’
Marguerite had had enough of politeness with this man. ‘No. I wouldn’t. I did not ask to come here. I do not wish to be here. I would go home tomorrow if it was within my power to do so.’ She stood and gestured up to the castle walls. They loomed above the garden like a faceless ogre from a folk tale, dark and foreboding in the drizzle. ‘This grey drabness is stifling. It is not what I am used to. Do not condemn me for how I feel!’
‘You aren’t seeing the best of the country,’ he said. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’
Unexpectedly, he jumped to his feet and held his hand out. She should leave. To be caught alone with any man would be scandalous, but to be found with someone Duncan disliked would be disastrous. She eyed him fearfully, disinclined to obey. He stared back at her with such intense blue eyes and she recalled what he had suggested about making friends.
‘We won’t be walking far, if you’re worried about becoming tired,’ he said.
He had misinterpreted her hesitation and that decided her. ‘My lord, I can walk for hours without tiring.’
She reached out. His hand closed over hers and she tried to ignore the way her flesh seemed to grow warmer. He dropped her hand as soon as she was beside him and strode ahead. He seemed as unwilling to touch her as she was to be touched.
She followed Lord Glenarris further round the side of the hill, as he pointed out mountains in the distance with names that sounded harsh to her ears. They walked all around the castle and arrived at the gate. Marguerite glanced around, not wishing to be seen in his company but Lord Glenarris continued walking and climbed the steps to stand on the walls themselves.
‘You see nothing of beauty here?’ he demanded. ‘Have you ever seen mountains so imposing?’
The mist was thickening into fine rain, but Marguerite could see the hills beyond the flat plain in the distance. They seemed nothing compared to the jagged, snow-capped peaks that were visible from her home in Grenoble, but she admitted their beauty, which drew a smile from the Earl.
‘We have mountains, too, where I live,’ she told him. ‘I mean, where I used to live. Bigger than these. They tower to the sky and are white with snow until at least April. I wish I could return there.’
She sighed with longing and noticed from the corner of her eye his face was grave.
‘You said you are returning to your home tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Aye.’
‘Tell me about where you live.’
He chewed his thumb before placing his hands on the wall, staring out along the river. When he spoke it was grudgingly.
‘It is a high tower, built centuries ago when times were more dangerous. It has been changed over the years. It is not as large as this, of course. It’s on the coast, high on a small spit of land, surrounded on two sides by sand and rocks. The sea is rough at times and the sands are treacherous, but where the sea becomes a loch it is calmer. It’s beautiful when the sun sinks over the turrets and the water becomes gold and amethyst.’
Marguerite smiled. ‘That’s almost poetry.’
He grew serious again. ‘We’re not all the savages you seem to think us.’
She ignored his taunt. ‘Imagine if you could never see your home again, but were taken somewhere else against your will. You can go home tomorrow. I never can.’
He stepped towards her, but drew back. ‘Can’t you? Why not persuade your husband to take you after you are married?’
Marguerite bit her lip. ‘I don’t think so. He says the first place we will visit will be Berwick.’
‘Berwick, you say?’ His head snapped up and he tugged her sleeve, staring keenly at her.
‘My lord! Please, release me.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said. His grip loosened and he stroked her sleeve back into place, smoothing it out before withdrawing his hand. It was a gentle gesture she could not imagine Duncan performing. She forgave the indiscretion immediately, wondering why Berwick was of such interest to him.
They stood side by side and watched the clouds growing dense and heavy over the distant mountains. The rain would become heavier and already there was dampness in the air.
‘At what hour do you leave tomorrow?’ Marguerite asked.
‘Soon after first light. My cart is already packed and ready.’ He pointed to the Outer Courtyard where coaches and carts were parked in rows. He singled out a sturdy looking four-wheeled cart with high sides and rough, homespun sacking covering the contents. ‘All I need is to collect the alms I am to take to my tenants.’
‘Then I shall say farewell now for I am a late riser,’ Marguerite said. ‘I do not expect we shall meet again.’
Impulsively she held her hand out to him. Lord Glenarris bent his head and brushed his lips across the back, keeping his eyes fixed on Marguerite’s. She curled her fingers around his hand and her nails grazed his palm. His head snapped up. His blue eyes looked grey in the dim light and were gazing at her with a look of longing almost as intense as Duncan’s. A delicious shiver raced over Marguerite’s skin. Her body wanted to answer the silent question his eyes asked. She would never willingly touch Duncan, whereas she almost craved the opportunity to do so with Lord Glenarris. She could enjoy the thrill of that unsettling reaction, but she would never have to
act on it and submit to what she dreaded with Lord Glenarris. Perhaps this was why she did not mind knowing that he found her attractive.
‘Thank you for showing me your country,’ she whispered.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. ‘I hope one day you will grow to love it. Farewell, my lady.’
Marguerite waited until he was out of sight before she descended and returned to her room. She had spent a whole afternoon in the Earl’s company and it was growing dark. Even so, she was surprised to see lamplight flickering beneath her bedchamber door. She pushed it open cautiously and found Duncan sitting in the high-backed chair by the window.
‘Ah, you return! I thought I would see if you were faring any better and to offer you some succour. Imagine my distress when I discovered you were not here.’
He gave her a broad smile. She did not return it.
‘I went for a walk to clear my head. Have you been waiting long?’
‘Long enough to grow a little tired myself. We could rest together.’
He looked pointedly at the bed and a chill ran down Marguerite’s spine. Sleep was not his intention. She would have to admit him to her bed and allow him to do what he desired with her body once they were married, but for now she did not belong to him.
‘Please, don’t ask that of me when you know I must refuse.’
She walked to the table close by to wash her hands in the ewer of cold water. Duncan joined her and dipped his fingers in the water.
‘We shall be married within a week,’ he said. He smiled and Marguerite was reminded of a fox, red haired and deadly as it prepared to devour its quarry. ‘Would anyone blame us for getting to know each other a little better than we already have?’
He took hold of her hand, sliding his wet thumb around until it rested on her pulse. She became aware that her blood was racing. She hoped Duncan did not feel it rushing beneath his thumb and interpret her fear for excitement at the prospect. Her room was on the highest floor at the end of the passage. No one would pass by at this time of day. If he decided to take her now, she knew she would not be able to prevent it.
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 6