‘I can’t see an inn,’ she said.
‘There isn’t one. We’ll sleep in the croft by the burn.’
He took her hand and guided it until she picked out a small, stone building a few miles in the distance. It nestled in the dip where two hills met and flattened, and was most definitely not an inn. She wrinkled her forehead.
‘What is it?’
‘A shelter for shepherds. Travellers use them at times. It won’t be lavish, but we’ll be under a roof and warmer than last night.’ He tilted his head and gave her a deep stare, his face unreadable. ‘Unless you’d prefer to repeat that experience?’
And sleep wrapped in Lord Glenarris’s strange garment? In his arms? She could almost feel his breath on her neck once again and smell the heady scent of him. A tremor ran the length of her spine and she snapped her head round to look him in the eye.
‘That will do fine,’ she said coldly.
She became aware he was still holding her hand. She tugged gently and he uncurled his fingers, allowing her to slip free, before taking up his reins again.
‘Let’s ride. I want to be out of this saddle.’
He spurred his horse into a trot, his face set once again into a solemn frown. His horse could travel faster than Grincheux and she knew he was holding back, so he might be irritated by the speed they were making. Marguerite urged her pony forward. It ignored her before grudgingly increasing into a trot and finally into a canter. She gave the pony his head and pitched past Lord Glenarris, who had not been expecting her burst of speed. It was not long before the Earl was alongside her, keeping pace with ease. They glanced across at each other. Marguerite noticed his face had lost the sombre expression and his eyes were bright.
She risked a smile that he returned, transforming him into someone altogether more appealing. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head towards the distant hills. She nodded. He gave a grin that was full of challenge and daring, then, with a whooping cry, he broke into a gallop, heading off into the distance. With an answering call Marguerite urged her mount forward. She could not hope to keep up, but with the Earl leading the way, her hair and cloak trailing behind her, and the knowledge that Duncan was further away with each passing mile, she felt happier than she could recall since leaving France.
He was waiting at the shelter, which Marguerite discovered was a low, sturdy building of grey stone with a single entrance. A small stream to the left gushed over moss-covered stones before collecting in a small pool. Lord Glenarris’s horse was drinking there and Marguerite rode over before dismounting. Grincheux thrust his head in, drinking deeply, and Marguerite looked enviously at him, feeling the same thirst.
‘Will it be clean?’ she asked.
‘The burn? It’s the purest, coldest water you’ll drink.’ Lord Glenarris strolled over. ‘It comes down from the mountains. Drink from the flow, not the pool.’
He strode a little way uphill of the horses, filled his hand and began drinking. After only a moment of hesitation Marguerite followed him and discovered he had been speaking the truth. The water was so icy it hurt her belly, but was more refreshing than she could have imagined. She put her hands together and gulped down more, sighing with pleasure, then ran her fingertips across her brow. She looked up to find him staring intently across at her, but when she stared back and smiled he looked away and rose to his feet.
He refused all Marguerite’s offers of help as he unsaddled the horses, built a fire and began preparing a meal of some sort of root vegetable, oats and a small lump of lamb. Nor did he speak to her. She investigated the hut and found an assortment of thin straw mattresses that had been piled on top of each other. She did not look too closely as she divided them equally and dragged them to each end of the small room. They would have no privacy, but at least she would not need to sleep as close to him as she had the night before. The Earl came inside, noticed how she was arranging the room and his lips jerked into a caustic smile.
‘At least here it doesn’t matter that you don’t have a maid to uphold your reputation.’
He dropped his bags down beside one and Marguerite’s bundle by the one she was kneeling beside and left. She unpacked and repacked her new clothes, taking little comfort from his words. Reminding her she was alone in the wilderness with an unfamiliar man was an odd way of offering consolation.
* * *
The stew filled Marguerite’s belly, but that was all that could be said for it. Without being asked, she took the bowls and rinsed them in the pool. Lord Glenarris acknowledged her return with a nod, then went back to staring at the black sky. He was sitting with his long legs crossed and had pulled his great brat over his shoulders to keep himself warm. His fingers were locked together and he looked as deep in thought as he had when they had met in the castle grounds. A frown caused a crease between his eyebrows and a solitude emanated from him that reached to Marguerite and squeezed her heart with invisible hands, teasing her own loneliness to the surface.
She had intended to go to bed, but did not yet want to be alone.
‘May I join you?’
He waved a hand at the ground beside him. Marguerite sat close to him. She drew her knees up to her chest and pulled her cloak around her to keep as much heat in as possible. His shoulders tensed and the muscles in his throat tightened. He clearly did not welcome her presence. She should move further away, but the evening was growing cold and the fire was already dying. The sky above them was clear and the stars looked like tiny diamonds on a gown of black velvet.
‘It is beautiful,’ she murmured.
He didn’t answer, but he blinked rapidly and continued to gaze upwards. Grey clouds were gathering in the distance, obscuring the stars in the direction Marguerite thought they were travelling towards. Today’s fine weather had only been a respite and another day of rain looked likely. She gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Will it rain tomorrow?’
He still did not look at her, but gave a gruff cough and stretched his legs out.
‘Aye. Most likely.’
His surliness had gone on long enough and Marguerite had reached the limits of her tolerance. She rose up on her knees and faced him, frowning.
‘Why will you not speak kindly to me?’ she demanded.
‘You aren’t paying me to be sociable.’
‘How much would that cost? Do you have rates?’ She raised her hand, spreading the fingers out. ‘A penny for a smile? A groat for a kind word?’
That raised a smile at least, though it vanished as quickly as lightning flashing across a noon sky.
‘If we are to travel together, it will be more pleasant if we can be friendly,’ she said.
He turned to her finally and gave her a long look, sharp blue eyes fixing on her with an expression that made her skin flutter. He closed them and leaned his head back, resting against the wall of the hut with a sigh.
‘Forgive me if I am not talkative. I have thoughts that weigh on my mind.’
His voice was heavy and he sounded weary.
‘Will you share them with me?’ she asked.
He clenched his jaw so tightly she could see the tendons in his throat standing out. ‘No.’
‘But I have added to your troubles.’
‘Frankly, yes, you have.’
His honesty was unexpected. Impulsively, she reached a hand out and touched his shoulder to console him. He flinched and she withdrew it.
‘I am going to bed,’ she said.
She rose and bobbed a curtsy. He stayed seated, but bowed his head slowly. She backed through the low doorway, only turning away when she had to make sure she did not bump her head. She lay fully clothed on the thin mattress with her cloak wrapped around her and faced the wall. Much later she heard him come in. She feigned sleep and he settled on to his mattress at the other side of the room, grunted a couple of times and fell asleep.
Re
st didn’t come so easily for Marguerite. She shivered and rolled about, and lay awake for far too long, musing grumpily on the fact that she had found rest easier the night before in the unfamiliar arms of the Earl.
* * *
It had not been a good night. Marguerite wasn’t rested. She wasn’t clean. She ached and was hungry. She rolled over and opened her eyes. Lord Glenarris’s mattress was empty and she could hear him moving about outside, whistling softly. While she had some privacy she pulled her new clothes from her bag. She could be clean, if nothing else.
She stripped to her linen shift and bunched the fabric, using it to scrub her body briskly, then threw it in a heap and reached for her fresh one. She stood upright and raised her arms, bunching the shift to pull over her head.
A silhouette blocked the light from the door and a cry of surprise filled her ears. She spun to face the door in time to see Lord Glenarris spinning on his heel, arm raised as a shield over his face and leaving in a hurry. Marguerite squealed. She ducked down, covering as much of her body as she could with arms and shift, but he had already gone.
‘My lady, I’m sorry. I didna know!’ From the direction of his voice Lord Glenarris was standing just outside the door. ‘I would never have...’
‘Go away!’ Marguerite gave a soft moan of dismay and curled into a ball on the mattress in a belated and unnecessary attempt at hiding herself. He had seen her naked. How could she ever face him after that? Her only hope was that the light had been so poor she would have been in shadow and he would not have been able to really see her.
‘I’ll ready the horses,’ he called. His voice was unnaturally high and nonchalant. ‘Join me when you’ve... When you’re... Come out soon. There are oats to eat.’
Oats! As if that mattered! Marguerite pulled the shift on and tugged it down, wondering if spending the rest of her life in the hut was at all possible so she did not have to look him in the eye. She fumbled her way into the ankle-length shirt and the deep blue dress she had bought in the town and her dark mood lifted a little. The dress fastened down the front from neck to waist with pairs of laces, but the wool had been cut and sewn so it pulled in at the waist without needing the reams of braid her French gown had. After her closely fitting gown, the clothes felt oddly loose around her breasts and waist, but comfortable none the less. Riding would be easier without the stiffened stomacher, tightly laced waist and narrow sleeves. She tried to remember how the women in the town had worn their hair and headdresses and did her best to copy them, but in the end simply plaited her hair and let it hang down her back. She pulled her new shawl around her shoulders, pinning it on the shoulder as Lord Glenarris did. Feeling apprehensive about what he might say, she slipped out of the hut with her bag held tightly in front of her.
Lord Glenarris was attending to the horses, fastening rolls of luggage on to the saddles. He did not look up when Marguerite emerged. He was very obviously avoiding looking at her at all because he waved a hand behind him and pointed in the direction of the cooking pot.
‘I’ve left you some porridge if you’re hungry,’ he mumbled.
The back of his neck was pink and Marguerite realised that he was as mortified as she was at what had happened. Knowing that made her feel slightly better. She forced the oats down though they were cold and so tasteless they made her want to gag. He seemed to have an unending supply and she resigned herself to them being an ingredient of every meal. She resolved to keep watch for any berries or plants that looked edible as they travelled.
* * *
When she had finished she could postpone facing Lord Glenarris no longer. With her head high in the hope of retaining a scrap of dignity, she strode over to him. Whatever he said, she would endure it.
‘I am ready to leave.’
He turned slowly and, Marguerite noted with amusement, with his eyes down as if he feared she might still be naked. It gave her an unaccustomed feeling of power that she could cause such a reaction in him. She found it surprisingly invigorating.
‘You can look at me now.’
He raised his head obediently. His eyes widened and he broke into a delighted smile.
‘Well, don’t you look bonny, lass!’
Was that good? Marguerite assumed so from the expression on his face.
‘You’ve got it almost right except for your arisaid. May I?’
He darted forward and made an adjustment here and there, tugging the shawl so it was held in place over her breast rather than shoulder. He stepped back, surveying her, and she dipped a curtsy, oddly pleased at the effect she had on him. At least he had made no mention of what had happened in the hut and it seemed he was not going to. She walked past him and took up her reins.
‘Thank you, Lord Glenarris. Shall we leave?’
‘It occurs to me that if we’re to travel together we may as well call each other by name,’ he said as they mounted their horses. ‘I am Ewan.’
‘You may call me Marguerite.’ She held a hand out and he lifted it to his lips.
‘You need a Scottish name to go with your new clothes.’ His eyes danced. ‘That’s Margaret in my country.’
‘Then I shall be Margaret.’ As an afterthought she asked, ‘Is Maggie short for that?’
‘Aye. Though we should wait until we know each other better still before I call you that.’
He clicked his tongue and the horse began to walk off. Marguerite couldn’t help wonder how much better they would grow to know each other.
* * *
They did not climb into the hills, but kept to the edge of the large lake that Ewan called a loch for the rest of the day. The journey should have been easier, but the clouds grew more threatening, rolling across the sky leaden with the threat of rain. The wind blew down from the mountains in bitter gusts that reached beneath Marguerite’s shawl. They made her shiver despite the thick layers of wool she wore and, though she tried her hardest to hide her discomfort, she knew the Earl must be aware of how hard she was finding the journey.
Ewan, as she must now remember to call him, was slightly more talkative than he had been the day before, riding alongside where he could and directing her eye to the wide-winged eagles that soared overhead. Later he even provoked an argument that lasted half the afternoon by suggesting Marguerite only supported the cause of the widowed English Queen Margaret because they shared the same name. She was surprised he remembered they had spoken on the subject, but threw herself into her defence with enthusiasm.
‘She is a widow, grieving for her husband, and the mother of a young child,’ Marguerite concluded. ‘Of course she is going to wish to keep her son close by her. No parent would do otherwise.’
It did not occur to her until later that he was doing his best to distract her from the hardships they faced. He succeeded, because by the time they had settled their argument it was growing dark. She stopped talking when she realised Ewan was climbing from his saddle.
‘Where are we?’
The loch was still and silent with mist hanging over the water giving it a ghostly air. There was no sign of a hut, much less an inn, and the trees that almost met the water grew densely.
‘I’m afraid we’ll be spending the night outside once again,’ Ewan said. ‘We’ll go inland a little to find more shelter.’
They led their horses through the trees until Ewan stopped in a small clearing. Once again they dined on oats cooked with water, but with slices of salty cheese Ewan produced with a flourish from his saddlebag. They ate in silence, both too exhausted to make conversation and craving sleep. Ewan had removed his sword and the odd-looking dagger and had drawn his great brat up over his head. Marguerite pulled her shawl around herself in similar fashion. She peered out from beneath the heavy folds.
‘You look cold,’ Ewan said.
‘I did not imagine I would ever miss a simple hut.’ She tried to laugh, but her teeth chattered. She wrapped her sh
awl tighter round herself and huddled against the tree. Ewan shuffled close beside her. He unwound his brat and, as he had done before, wrapped it tightly around Marguerite, then his hand found hers and he squeezed gently.
‘Your hand is frozen!’ he remarked. He took both her hands between his and began rubbing them in firm circles until Marguerite’s fingers grew warm. She flexed them and gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you.’
He kept hold of them, drawing them to his chest, and Marguerite found herself leaning closer to him, drawn by cords she could not see or feel. Ewan inclined his head towards her. Even seated he was taller than she was. Marguerite had to tilt her head back to keep his eyes in view, but her gaze kept returning to his mouth. His lips were no longer tightly pressed together or as severe as she had grown used to seeing. Now they were relaxed and slightly open, curving into a smile that lent them a measure of sensuality she had not seen before. When Duncan had demanded she kiss him, she had been overcome with revulsion. Now there was no distaste. She licked her lips and parted them in anticipation of something she had never imagined she might willingly do and closed her eyes with a gentle sigh.
Nothing happened. She opened her eyes to discover Ewan was sitting back, frowning once more.
‘How old are you?’ he asked sternly.
A blush crept down the back of Marguerite’s neck and round over her chest. He hadn’t kissed her. She should feel relieved that he was as honourable as he had promised to be, but all she could think of was what his lips would have tasted like.
‘What day is it today?’ she asked.
Ewan raised his eyebrows. ‘The twenty-fifth of the month.’
‘Then I am eighteen.’ Her stomach lurched. She held up a hand, two fingers raised.
‘For two more days, at least. My birthday is on the twenty-seventh.’
‘You’ll be spending it somewhere a lot less comfortable than Stirling, I’m afraid,’ he remarked, grinning.
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 12