‘One week is not too long to wait when we will have our lives together,’ she said, aware how shaky her voice was. She gave him a coy look and wriggled free. She moved towards the open door, hoping he would follow and leave, but he stayed where he was.
‘A kiss, then!’ he said. ‘To give me something to anticipate if you will not permit me any other token of your affection. Then I shall leave you to prepare for the evening.’
If she obliged he might leave. She nodded and he strode to her. He leaned an arm against the top of the doorframe, blocking her exit, and inclined his head. Marguerite stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips across his. Immediately, Duncan’s hand came up, gripping the back of her head. He held her steady and pried her lips open with his tongue, forcing it deep into her mouth until she almost gagged in shock and disgust. He moved it slowly and firmly around before withdrawing it. He trapped her bottom lip between his teeth, scraping as he released it and bringing tears to her eyes. He pressed his nose against her neck and inhaled deeply and loudly. Bitter bile rose in Marguerite’s throat.
‘That’s my sweet, obedient child,’ Duncan murmured. ‘I look forward to availing myself of the rest of your treasures before too long.’
Something ugly flashed behind his eyes and Marguerite realised she really, really did not want to marry this man. He lowered his hand and stepped into the passageway, bowing too deeply to be respectful. Tears of humiliation made his face swim before Marguerite’s eyes. She slammed the door and collapsed face first on to her bed, clutching the heavy woollen coverlet between her fists. Burying her face in it, she muffled her rising scream and gave free rein to her tears of shock and hopelessness.
The Duncan who had violated her so crudely was not the polite, courteous man she had believed him to be since arriving in Scotland. Oh, he spoke of love and tokens of affection to her, but it was lust that drove him. Her mind tumbled down a dark well of horror at the prospect of those lips touching her elsewhere or the hands roving beneath her clothing.
She could not—would not—marry Duncan McCrieff.
She would return to France to plead with her father to release her from the engagement. If she could make her way to the port at Leith, she could board a ship heading to France. With the jewels she had inherited from her mother she had more than enough money to pay for passage. Whatever remained she would donate as admission to a convent and take holy orders. Marguerite sat up and wiped her eyes, never subdued by tears for too long. A plan started to form. She did not even have to get to Leith in one journey, only far enough away that Duncan would not be able to trace her. Thanks to her conversation with Lord Glenarris she knew exactly how to put distance between herself and Stirling. He had told her he lived on the coast. She would conceal herself on his cart and get as close as possible to the port.
Removing her mourning gown and veil caused a pang of sadness for her mother. She pulled the long gold chain out from between her breasts and held the locket tightly, running her thumb over the D and V that were etched into the gold. It was a legacy to Marguerite before Dominique’s death.
‘I’m sorry, ma fille, I could not prevent your marriage...’ Her mother had wept.
Dominique would have forgiven her. Marguerite would only have worn the clothes for another week before Duncan insisted she stopped wearing them anyway. She slipped coins into the bottom of her stockings and put on her sturdy boots, reassured by the feel of the cold silver beneath her feet. A band of linen around her torso held more coins close to her body. She put her rings and necklaces into her jewel casket, wrapped them in her spare linen chemise and shoved them into a leather bag. She dressed in a russet petticoat and a gown of olive-green wool.
When a knock at the door brought a servant calling her to the evening’s meal Marguerite answered weakly that she was indisposed and could not attend the coronation banquet. She would most likely stay in bed the next day, too. She listened to the retreating footsteps, then forced herself to eat a whole dish of sweetmeats and drain the water from the jug, uncertain when she would next eat.
* * *
Marguerite had waited until curfew was imminent and other guests would start to go to bed. She put on a heavy wool cloak with a large hood that concealed her face and she was ready. With heart drumming a march, she kept to quiet stairs, pausing only to snatch up a small loaf of bread and a round of cheese from a tray as she passed the kitchens. She reached the Outer Courtyard unseen, found a dark corner to curl up in and waited for morning.
* * *
The fine rain had grown heavier in the night. In spite of her heavy cloak, it penetrated every layer she wore. Somehow she had slept, with Lord Glenarris’s gentle burr winding itself into her dreams, and woke to a pale sun trying to break through heavy clouds. Her first thought was that she was too late and Lord Glenarris would have departed, but his cart was still there. She hesitated. It was unfair to involve Lord Glenarris in her escape, but with luck she would be able to slip away when they reached a town and he would not even know she had travelled with him. He would be able to tell Duncan truthfully that he had nothing to do with her disappearance.
She wriggled under the covering. The carriage was crammed with boxes and barrels and there was barely space to hide, but Marguerite squirmed to the front and discovered a shield that had space for her to curl into a ball behind. Her belly churned as if wild snakes filled it, but beneath her trepidation a small knot of victory began to grow. True, her damp shift stuck to her legs unpleasantly and she was shivering with cold, but she was safe for now and the longer she remained undiscovered, the greater her chance of success.
She could not tell how long she waited for the cart to start moving, but soon after the lurching of wheels began, she allowed them to lull her as a babe rocked in a cradle and Marguerite could no longer fight the tiredness she had been denying. The cart bore her away from Stirling, away from Duncan McCrieff and back towards France, and with this comforting thought, Marguerite fell asleep.
Chapter Seven
Despite his intention, Ewan was unable to leave at first light. There were courtesies to be observed and proper farewells to be made. The matter of alms needed to be settled. It might take half the day, but Ewan was determined not to leave without the compensation owed to his people. He woke Angus and Jamie and ordered them to leave with the cart as soon as they had broken their fast. He would ride and catch them up as soon as he was at liberty to leave.
He instructed them to make sure the contents were secure, but as Ewan watched Jamie tuck a basket of provisions on to the seat beside Angus, he knew they had done a half-job at best. Ewan threw an eye over the bulk of boxes, barrels and sacks that made lumpen shapes beneath the covering and was satisfied none of them seemed to be missing. He tugged the back corner back into place where it had come loose and sent Angus and Jamie off. The cart trundled down the path, becoming part of the slow procession of other men returning to their homes.
It had been a remarkably trouble-free gathering, Ewan mused as he returned to the King’s Hall. Naturally some eyes had been blacked and noses broken, and plenty of stomachs would be raw and empty this morning, but in the wake of Flodden even the most hardened feuds had been put aside for two days.
Morayshill caught him as soon as he stepped over the threshold.
‘You have not managed to identify the traitor?’
‘Since yesterday morning? It would take skills beyond mine to work that quickly.’ He scratched his beard and thought about what he had learned at the coronation banquet the night before.
‘I know he has red hair, but that does not narrow the field much among Scots. There are some possibilities.’ He named three men who had been loudly critical about the previous King’s decision to strike at England once they had drunk more than advisable.
‘We can ignore dissent, especially at this time,’ Morayshill said.
Ewan nodded in agreement. A spy would not be foolish enough t
o openly draw attention to himself. The spy must be someone Hamish encountered frequently enough to have cause to suspect. That meant someone close to the Lochmore lands.
In his bones he felt sure he knew the most likely suspect but paused. He sucked at his teeth, uncertain even now how much of his suspicion against Duncan McCrieff was down to the longstanding feud between clans and his instinctive dislike of any McCrieff.
‘It is the future stability we are concerned with,’ Morayshill continued. ‘Our Queen has been a faithful wife to her husband and to Scotland. There is no reason why she should not continue to serve her son as Regent in such a way. It would be a shame if the influence of her English brother were to divide her loyalties.’
‘Duncan McCrieff has strong relationships with the northern families in England through his previous wife,’ Ewan said, now that particular door was open. ‘He has ample opportunity to pass information to interested parties as he communicates with his daughter’s guardians. I have also learned McCrieff is intending to travel to Berwick after his marriage.’
Ewan felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the mention of the marriage. How much of his dislike of Duncan McCrieff was fuelled by jealousy that Duncan had negotiated marriage to a woman Ewan was finding increasingly hard to push from his mind? She’d disrupted what he had intended to be an afternoon of solitude and contemplation by appearing in the old knot garden and her small, white hands playing with the jewelled locket around her neck had slipped into his dreams. He felt a little guilty that he had wasted an afternoon with her rather than investigating, but it had been worth it to see the appreciation in her eyes as she had admitted Scotland was beautiful and the way they lit up further when he had kissed her hand.
‘The reivers are notoriously changeable in loyalties,’ Morayshill said, referring to the families that lived on the ever-changing border between Scotland and England.
‘Did McCrieff persuade his kin to throw their lot in with the English in promise of reward following the battle, I wonder?’ Ewan suggested.
Morayshill raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘But he is making a marriage with a French family and has been speaking much of his commitment to the Auld Alliance.’
‘A cunning man would profess loyalty and what better way of demonstrating it,’ Ewan answered. ‘I do not believe McCrieff is in need of money so any dowry would not be a consideration. He could be wildly in love with the maid, of course. She has a certain charm.’
‘Though a singing voice that offends you, I understand.’ Morayshill’s expression gave nothing away. ‘I believe the marriage was delayed because the bride refused to leave her mother, who was ill for over a year with a tumour.’
Which explained Marguerite Vallon’s mourning garb. Ewan had not even thought to ask whom she grieved for. Their losses—her mother, those of Hamish and John—were doubly tragic, forcing unwished-for responsibilities on to both of them. It was no wonder she had seemed alternately spiky as the prickles of a hurcheon and as nervous as a starling. Ewan was aware of a growing cauldron of emotions regarding the girl and currently sympathy was bubbling to the surface. He wished he had been a little kinder to her rather than teasing and rebuking her and perhaps they could have offered each other a little comfort.
‘Thank you for your intelligence,’ Morayshill said. ‘It shall be noted and investigated further. Farewell, my lord. I wish you safe journey back to Lochmore. I have been asked to pass this to you. Alms to compensate for the loss of your clansmen.’
He held out a drawstring leather purse that seemed rather small in Ewan’s opinion. Divided between the many Lochmore kin it would not go far to ease the trouble of a wife who had lost her husband and who might struggle to replace him from a greatly diminished stock. Ewan took the bag, wondering if it would have been given so readily if he had not provided names. These games angered him. The court strangled him even after two days. It was time to leave.
He had hoped to glimpse Marguerite Vallon before he departed. A kind word or smile to let her know he understood her pain would go a long way to settling his churning conscience, but she was not in the Great Hall. Duncan appeared to be angry about something because he was striding around with a thunderous expression. He gave Ewan a long, hard stare, which Ewan returned. Provoking Duncan by asking the whereabouts of his bride was tempting but would most likely mean trouble for her, so he left. The girl could be in Queen Margaret’s apartments, but Ewan had no intention of invading that female domain in search of a woman he had no right to be seeking out.
It was with regret that he made his way to the stables and ordered Randall to be readied. He had the memory of her sweet smile, a stolen hour in her company and the scratch of her nails on his palm as he had kissed her hand. Stealing those from under the nose of a McCrieff was a victory enough to satisfy him and would be something to brag about on dark winter nights. He could even get the bard to write a song to celebrate it so he went down in clan legend along with figures such as the great Chiefs Rory, Camron and Fergus, whose names he knew from the chapel in the grounds of Lochmore Castle. ‘The Ballad of Ewan and the Glaistig Who Wasn’t’ would pale in comparison to their exploits, but the thought made him smile nevertheless.
A sudden, violent shower brought him back to the present and Ewan decided he did not wish to linger to get a soaking. He pulled his brat over his head to ward off the worst of the rain, lowered his head and spurred Randall into a gallop out of Stirling Castle in pursuit of Angus and Jamie. The cart had been Hamish’s finest and his pride. It was four wheeled where many used two, was fast and the horses pulling it were a good pair bred from a sturdy mare. Once out of the town and on to the road it would make good speed and Ewan knew he would be likely to catch it before midday in this flatter part of the country. He had lost more time than he planned trying to squeeze money out of the treasury, but after the conversation with Morayshill, he was glad of the chance to ride in solitude to gather his thoughts.
Leaving the formality of the court was welcome, but a weight settled on his shoulders nevertheless. He had been accepted as Earl of Lochmore by the court, but would the clan accept him? Hamish had been a popular chief and John was well liked. Ewan with his milder temperament would have to work hard to prove himself. The matter consumed his thoughts as the road passed beneath his horse’s hooves. Peace looked to be settling on the country for the time being so he would have no opportunity to show his abilities with a sword or bow. Only a foolish man would wish for further conflict, especially in the aftermath of the recent battle, but a gathering with tests of skill and strength might be a way to prove himself. The yearly autumn feast for the Lochmore tenants was due. That would serve as an arena where he could demonstrate he was capable of fighting.
* * *
The cart was approaching a small cluster of houses nestled together in the shadow of the hills before Ewan caught up with it. They had made good progress, but the journey was close on a hundred miles and it would still be a week before they arrived home.
Keen to make miles, they passed through a village and travelled until after sunset, stopping at a croft by the road to beg a bed for the night. Hospitality deemed that no one would deny a traveller a bed, even in this modest home. Ewan saw to Randall and the mares, rubbing them down vigorously. He whistled as he stroked the velvet withers and it took him a full minute to realise it was the lively folk tune Marguerite Vallon had sung before she started the slow, sad air that had made her look so grief-worn it had torn a hole in Ewan’s chest. He glanced at the sky in the direction of Stirling and saw it was black with clouds that promised a thunderstorm over the city.
‘You won’t have been walking out today, lass,’ he murmured. A burst of jealousy made his belly curdle at the thought that instead she would have been in Duncan McCrieff’s company.
He walked to the house and found Angus and Jamie in the process of drinking ale with a flame-haired, handsome woman who stood by her doorway, exchanging jokes
. This must be the crofter’s daughter. Ewan greeted them all cheerily, his spirits lifting at the sight of the dark brew. He asked for a pot and was taken aback to see how the woman’s laughter ceased. She bobbed up and down deferentially and vanished inside, returning with a pewter tankard that she filled and handed to him with another bob and averted eyes. He drained it quickly, aware of the uncomfortable silence that had descended on them. All through the meal of stewed lamb and barley the crofter and his family sat in silence, mumbling short answers to anything Ewan said.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ Ewan asked as he walked behind Jamie up the narrow staircase into the hayloft where they were to spend the night. Jamie looked almost as worried as the family had. Angus came up behind Ewan, slapping him on the shoulder.
‘You’re dressed like something they’ve never seen before, or if they have it’s on someone squeezing them for rent. They ken you’re of noble birth, Lord Glenarris, and was treating you with the respect you’re owed.’
Ewan tugged at his collar. Angus was right. With the stiff velvet and slashed sleeves he was dressed for court, not travel through the Highlands. He untied the braided points and shrugged his cream-leather jerkin off. His doublet and hose followed. He wrapped himself in his brat and a blanket and tried to ignore Angus’s snoring. He dreamed he heard Marguerite Vallon’s deep tones shushing him back to sleep, but it was only the whinnying of the horse. Her dark eyes haunted his dreams as her white-clothed figure passed through the wall, coming to Ewan’s waiting arms, but passing through him, too, leaving him restless and unendurably aroused. He tried to ignore his erection and refused to relieve himself, feeling that to use Marguerite’s image in such a way would somehow defile her, and spent an uncomfortable night until the stiffness subsided.
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 7