She noticed where his gaze had strayed. Her eyes grew cold and hard. Ewan could hardly bear the change.
‘You said we needed to leave. So let’s leave.’ She walked slowly towards him and every hair on his body prickled with anticipation, but she carried on past, stopping to look coldly at him once she was safely out of his reach. He ran and caught her by the arm. She spun around, face contorted in anger.
‘Let me go!’
He released her, and held both hands up to demonstrate she had nothing to fear. ‘Don’t walk away from me!’
She tossed her hair back and glared.
‘Did McCrieff force himself on you?’ Ewan demanded. His eyes blurred with hatred. He’d return to Stirling. He’d hunt McCrieff down and dismember him. He’d hang his testicles from the wall of Lochmore Castle. ‘Is that why you ran?’
Her face crumpled, her mouth twisting into a grimace.
‘You do not command me to answer in that tone! I don’t wish to speak about this. I want nothing to do with you.’
He had mocked her as crudely as if he had pulled his member out and waved it at her.
He held his hands out, then withdrew it, clenching his fist out of her sight. He yearned to offer comfort, but understood that to touch her would be to shatter the fragile friendship they had begun and which he had so stupidly kicked around the floor like a sheep’s bladder. He reached out to hold her, but hesitated lest she fear he was about to commit some violation and dropped his hands to his sides.
‘Tell me, please, why did you leave Duncan? What did he do to you?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Because the way your face closed down made my stomach plummet and I can’t bear the thought of you in such pain.’ He held his hands out, palms upwards, and spoke softly. ‘Will you share it with me?’
She held his gaze. ‘You share none of your troubles with me.’
She made a fair point. She had made overtures of friendship the night before that he had ignored. Keeping his problems to himself suddenly seemed unimportant and the need to understand what she had endured was overpowering, but he said nothing, fearing that to begin explaining his heartache would see him unable to cease.
She shook her head in disappointment and walked back to their camp ahead of him. Ewan sighed, rubbing his eyes before following her. The sun was barely up and his soul already felt battered to pieces.
Chapter Thirteen
They rode in silence, keeping the loch on their left side. Marguerite rode on his left, which gave Ewan the opportunity to stare at her as often as he could. If she asked, he would say he was watching the road that followed the other side in case he saw anything untoward. She kept her eyes forward and never as much as glanced at him. He was uncertain whether her reticence was due to his blunder or because she was tiring of the journey. She looked as weary as Ewan felt, and slumped in her saddle, showing none of the enjoyment in riding she had shown the previous day. He admired the fortitude she had shown, but was growing worried that another night sleeping in such conditions would see her becoming ill. Coming this way round Loch Lomond had been a mistake. He should have taken her along the well-travelled route with crofts and inns even if it meant Duncan McCrieff chancing upon them.
* * *
They stopped earlier than Ewan had intended to that evening when they happened upon a steid at the head of the loch. It had been drizzling for hours and the clouds were becoming blacker when the cluster of small houses appeared through the mist. The certainty of a proper mattress in the dry was too good to pass up.
‘We’ll have a bed tonight,’ he said to Marguerite with a grin. She nodded and raised a small smile.
She spoke for the first time as Ewan knocked on the door of the largest of the four houses. Her voice was even lower and huskier than usual, tinged with anxiety that made Ewan want to hold and comfort her.
‘We don’t know them. Why will they allow us in?’
‘The laws of hospitality,’ he said. ‘No one will turn away travellers somewhere are remote as this. Feuds have been started for such.’
A thin woman in a drab, green dress opened the door. She peered suspiciously at Ewan and Marguerite. Ewan bowed and spoke rapidly, explaining his name and purpose.
‘Who’s she?’ The woman glanced at Marguerite, who was standing meekly at his side with an uncertain smile on her face. She would not have been able to follow their speech, but must have guessed the question referred to her.
Ewan paused, recalling how he had taunted her by suggesting he would call her his whore. He flushed at his crassness.
‘She is my wife,’ he said firmly. From her sharp intake of breath Marguerite understood that. She looked at him, then back at the woman.
‘I am,’ she agreed.
The woman’s face relaxed and she opened the door a little wider to admit them into the small house. She introduced herself as Moira and screamed a handful of names. Before long five children, equally ragged as their mother, appeared. Moira gave brisk orders, cuffing the oldest lad around the head for good measure. By the time Ewan had attended to the horses, Marguerite was sitting on a stool, drinking a cup of milk. Three small girls cooed in admiration at her long black hair, risking an occasional stroke. Ewan gazed on enviously, fingers itching to do the same. He caught her eye and smiled.
‘You’re the most beautiful thing they’ll have ever seen,’ he said in French.
She blushed scarlet and gave her attention to the children as she played clapping games and sang songs in French to them. She seemed to have no fear of singing in small company and her deep melodic voice stroked Ewan’s temper as sure as if her fingers were stroking his brow. The two boys sat at the table to listen while pretending not to and Ewan drew them into a game of jacks. Moira nodded her head in time to the rhythm as she stirred the pot over the fire.
‘Give us the one you sang in Stirling,’ Ewan suggested, when she came to an end. ‘The happy one.’
‘No sadness tonight,’ she murmured, settling her skirts. ‘Will you join me?’
He shook his head. ‘It would be unfair on our hostess to curdle her milk with my voice.’
‘I believe there are no wildcats here anyway.’
Her eyes crinkled with laughter at the private joke and briefly the room contained only them.
‘I will join you, however,’ Ewan said. He moved closer to the fire and stretched out at her feet. She did not stiffen as he leaned back alongside her, but allowed her hand to fall into her lap close to his shoulder. She began to sing the song he had requested and the world became a softer, happier place for Ewan.
News of their arrival spread because before long other groups of women and children arrived. A lone man arrived as night fell. He was a ten or more years older than Ewan and moved with a deliberate, ponderous manner of moving that made Ewan wonder if he was slightly touched in the head. He dropped two brace of rabbits on to the table and grunted. His wife was a pretty, heavily pregnant woman with intelligent eyes. Ewan wondered whether her situation had caused her to marry a man who seemed half-witted. Living so remotely there would not have been many to choose from, of course, and now Scotland had lost so many sons there would be fewer still.
With a slow smile the man produced an earthenware bottle and poured two drams. As the man returned the bottle, his sleeve fell back to reveal a recent wound running from wrist to elbow. He saw Ewan looking and pulled the neck of his leine to reveal livid bruises across a collarbone that looked misshapen from a recent break.
‘Flodden,’ the man said.
A moment of understanding passed between them and nothing more needed to be spoken, though Ewan felt like the basest fraud to have not admitted he had not been there. He shared a toast with the man to lost friends and they both tipped the cups back, followed by fits of loud coughing as the harsh brew burned their throats and bellies.
‘
Uisge beatha,’ Ewan explained to Marguerite, holding out the refilled cup towards her. ‘It means water of life and right now I’d say it has improved mine beyond telling. Try it.’
She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose before pushing it away. ‘I think I would be sick.’
Despite the moment of melancholy he had shared with the man, it became one of the most pleasant evenings Ewan could remember for many years. When his head began to nod from the effect of the uisge beatha Marguerite reached out and stroked the hair back from his brow. Feeling bold, he rested his head against her skirts and let himself dream.
He sat at Marguerite’s feet, his heart quickening whenever she glanced at him, sharing tales and drinking with good people. He wished he could fix the moment to a canvas to bring out whenever his heart filled with grief. He’d willingly give up his Earldom for the chance of such companionship even in a house as poor as this one, but perhaps he wouldn’t have to.
He had never thought about marriage, but Angus had been right when he said an earl needed a countess. Ewan would have to wed and produce the next Lord Glenarris. A match with a woman from a neighbouring clan to strengthen alliances or create new ones would be most sensible, but why not a French alliance? If Marguerite was not to marry Duncan, she would still have to wed someone and he passed the rest of the evening dreaming idly of enticing Marguerite to stay in Lochmore as his bride. He would deal with the consequences of offending the McCrieffs as and when it arose, but with a dozen reasons for enmity, he did not care about adding one more. And what better way to raise his status as laird than to steal a McCrieff bride?
When the children were rounded up and bundled off to bed behind a curtain at the far end of the room they snatched a moment of peace. Ewan gazed at Marguerite, not knowing what to say that could adequately express his enjoyment of her company. She smiled down at him.
‘You should tell them about the coronation,’ she suggested.
‘What would these women care for who sits on the throne?’ Ewan replied, more harshly than he intended. He’d been thinking of words of love and her mind had been on politics. ‘They may care if their new laird will be a fair man, but I don’t think they’ll care who is Regent or King.’
Marguerite looked shocked at his tone. Ewan took her hand.
‘Forgive me. But look how poorly they live. They’ve lost their men and will be worrying how they’ll survive the winter and clothe their children,’ he explained.
He sighed. The intrigues of the court seemed a world away now. These people didn’t worry over Morayshill’s traitor, or whether ambitious men took foreign brides. Ewan thought of the pouch of alms money he had to deliver to his tenants and wished he had more. He was unsure which clan these people belonged to, but hoped whoever it was intended to treat them fairly. A determined light filled Marguerite’s eyes. She crossed the room to where her bag had been stowed and delved inside, producing a jumble of linens and other clothes that she spread on to the table.
‘What are you doing?’ Ewan asked.
‘One of these gowns will make smocks for at least three children,’ she told him, passing a pair of fine wool stockings to Moira. Ewan tried not to think of Marguerite wearing them, or of himself teasing them off and exploring the soft skin beneath because the image caused him to break out in a sweat.
* * *
Much later than was sensible to be going to bed Marguerite and Ewan lay facing each other side by side on a pallet before the dying fire where the children had been ordered to drag it. The peat burned low in the hearth, casting light on to their faces and turning Marguerite’s glossy raven locks into glowing ribbons of midnight red. Marguerite’s hands were beneath her cheek and, though her eyes were tired smudges of purple, her expression was serene. He would have looked at her for ever. Not reaching out and touching her, not drawing her into his arms, not kissing her was unbearable.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked unexpectedly in a whisper.
‘That you were very generous to give away your clothes.’
She gave him a smile of such indescribable sweetness Ewan’s heart melted.
‘I can buy others when I reach France,’ she said.
A heart that had so recently melted should not be able to shatter, but Ewan’s did. They were travelling to Lochmore Castle, but while that was his final destination, it was not hers. That was all he had been thinking of and he had somehow forgotten that Marguerite was not intending to stay longer than necessary. The thought made him unutterably sad.
‘When I first saw you in the courtyard I thought you were a glaistig,’ he murmured. ‘A ghost.’
‘Why?’ She looked astonished and a little amused.
He laughed, remembering the expression of shock she had worn at the time. He had been shocked himself, he recalled.
‘You appeared from nowhere and were so pale, dressed all in white with your dark eyes staring into my soul. I did not realise you were mourning then. I thought your white clothes were from beyond the grave.’
Ewan closed his eyes and when he opened them it was to discover she was still watching him. Her eyes had such a depth of sadness in them that his own began to sting in response. Marguerite lay silently, watching and waiting for him to continue.
‘I’m mourning, too. For my father.’
‘I guessed that,’ she said softly. ‘At Flodden? I can’t imagine how terrifying the battle must have been. Were you with him when he died?’
She would not judge him unfairly. Lying close, in the near dark, Ewan could finally allow himself to admit the truth to her.
‘I knew nothing of his death until afterwards.’ He could have left the story there, but now he had started unburdening himself he could not stop the guilt and rage bursting out. He pressed his fingers to his temples then ran them down his neck to his shoulders, massaging them in small circles.
‘I wasn’t there at all. For five years I have been studying law at Glasgow. I feel more at home with a quill in my hand than a sword. Father thought it would be useful to have a son versed in matters of law. He had no time for such things himself, but he could see the country is changing. It won’t be enough to settle disputes with the sword for much longer. When the clan members were summoned my father didn’t call on me to join him in the battle. He took my brother instead and left me in Glasgow. I would have been useless to him.’
He closed his eyes and muttered darkly, admitting the fears that had plagued his nights.
‘I fear I’ll be a sad disappointment as Earl. I’ll fail his memory.’
‘You won’t fail. Fighting isn’t everything. Think how cleverly you managed to keep Duncan from finding me and you saw I hated having to perform and were kind enough to stop me.’ She took his hand.
‘Cleverness is all well and good when they want someone to arbitrate over the theft of a sheep, but will that be enough to lead them into battle or keep them safe from attack? I’m afraid you’ve chosen your travelling companion poorly, Marguerite. I should never have agreed to take you with me.’
‘Why did you? The other night you called me an inconvenience,’ she reminded him.
His guts twisted. ‘That was rude of me. Put it down to lack of sleep.’
‘If you wish.’ She gave him a stern look that made him shiver with delight. ‘No tales of pups now. Tell me the truth.’
He was quiet for a long time and rolled on to his back, staring into the eaves. ‘I didn’t like the thought of you trying to find your way home alone. That was the truth. But deciding what to do with you gives me a distraction from what I should be doing. What I’ll have to face when I get home to Lochmore.’
‘So your tales of rescued pups was a story?’
He gave her a sidelong look.
‘Not a story. But not the whole truth.’ He sighed and raked his hands through his hair. ‘I wasnae expecting to become Earl. Travelling with you gives me the time to
think about it. You are an inconvenience, but a pleasant one,’ he assured her, giving her another smile to show he meant no insult.
‘Thank you. That is a more honest truth.’
She was looking at him with such compassion that he felt himself growing weak under her gaze. She ran her eyes over his face slowly. Ewan could almost feel her gaze on his limbs as surely as if her hands were caressing him. He was left with the impression she was picturing what he was like, not only beneath his clothes, but also beneath his flesh and into his soul itself.
‘I have not chosen badly.’
Her fingers were still cold and he wondered what it would take to warm them properly. He closed his fist over her hand. ‘Will you tell me now what made you run from your wedding? Please?’
‘I doubt a man would see anything wrong in what he did.’ She spoke with such disgust that Ewan struggled to imagine what debasement she meant. She closed her eyes and distaste twisted her face. He could hardly bear to hear the words to confirm what he suspected.
‘He made me kiss him.’
‘A kiss? Is that all?’ Ewan had been imagining rape, degradation, a beating. He shook his head, incredulous and relieved. ‘You ran away from Stirling and caused all this trouble over a kiss.’
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 14