A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘What must you think of me for behaving so wantonly!’ Marguerite said. She leaned back against him and sighed. ‘I am quite ashamed of myself.’

  Her expression said otherwise. The hand that strayed to his chest and spread wide across his heart indicated she was not sorry at all. She rested her hand in his lap and he felt himself spring to life again. Her eyes widened, full of desire and impishness. Ewan’s conscience began to demand he listen to it and stop now before they began again, but another part of his body was also speaking and he knew which would win if she touched him again.

  Anxiety flickered in his belly. He’d reassured her he would not get her pregnant. He had intended to break free before his end came, but she had held him so tightly and her touch had dizzied his senses so greatly that he had been lost before he was able. He could not let that happen again. Next time he would be stronger. It did not surprise him that he was already thinking of a next time, or that with the way she was gazing at him, eyes full of intent as she ran her fingers over the folds of his brat, that next time was rapidly becoming now. He covered her hand and held it firmly. She flashed him a look of reproach.

  ‘Do you not want me now?’

  He faced her, running his hand over her upper arm. She half-rolled on top of him, her eyes radiant and her lips already forming into a bud that he yearned to taste once more.

  ‘Maggie,’ he said, ‘you are the most infuriatingly desirable creature I have ever seen. I burn to touch you. I have since the moment I saw you when I thought you were a spirit, insubstantial and beyond my reach, but you’re not. You’re real and alive and you drive me to distraction. You have no idea how hard it was for me to leave your bed last night. How hard I have to strive to keep my hands off you.’

  ‘Yes, I do, for I feel the same.’ She slipped her hands around his shoulders, under the neck of his shirt to touch the bare flesh of his back, and put her lips close to his mouth. Her scent filled his nostrils and his mouth twitched to capture the taste of her.

  ‘We need to stop this.’ He sighed. ‘Once was unwise. Twice would be reckless.’

  ‘I feel reckless,’ she said, stroking her hand along his arm and sending pulses of excitement coursing through Ewan. ‘I like being reckless.’

  She really did, he realised. After all, she had stolen away from the castle more times than he knew, spent the afternoon in his company and then stowed away in his cart, prepared to find her way back to France. She was not the timid creature he often thought of her as, but had an impetuousness that excited him. She was still determined to return to France; that was clear enough and his throat tightened with anguish at that thought. The time had long passed when he had seen her as an inconvenience or a distraction.

  He was beginning to care for her and the pit of grief that he had fallen into since hearing of Hamish’s and John’s deaths had been slowly shrinking. If he allowed himself to fall in love with Marguerite, he was not sure his heart would survive a third loss.

  Take care, he cautioned himself.

  ‘What of your reputation?’ he said.

  ‘While we are here who is to know apart from us?’ she whispered. Her husky voice reached deep inside Ewan and woke all the senses he was trying so desperately to ignore. ‘After this there will be nothing but memories for me.’

  Care could go to the devil! She wanted him. He wanted her. Why should they not give in to what they both craved?

  Ewan rolled over so they were lying side by side, fully touching.

  ‘Here and here alone,’ he murmured. Marguerite began to rake her hand down his back. Blood heated Ewan’s face. He felt himself swell and harden. He was ready to take her now, but held back. The first time had been so fast and frenzied they had not even removed any clothing. He grew hot at the thought of seeing all of her, touching all of her, tasting all of her. He intended to take his time and show Marguerite how much pleasure could be gained through a slow discovery of what the other enjoyed. He reached down and caught her wrist, lifting it to his lips and pressing them over the pulse. Still holding her hand, he eased her on to her back and when she raised her head he captured her lips, leading her back down as he kissed her.

  ‘The best thing about the brat,’ he murmured against her ear as he reached down to unbuckle his belt, ‘is how easily it can be removed.’

  Her giggle of delight was music to his ears and the gasps of pleasure that flowed shortly afterwards would live in his memory for many years to come.

  * * *

  Afterwards they lay together, wrapped in the brat and a jumble of clothes, both sated and weary.

  ‘Ewan, do we have to leave soon?’ Marguerite yawned, twisting round to face him. ‘Only, I don’t think I can ride my horse just yet.’

  The sky was cloudy but rain free and they were sheltered from the wind. To leave would mean to leave Marguerite’s arms, which he could not bear to do.

  ‘It will delay us, but if you’re happy to we can sleep here for the night.’

  ‘I’ll sleep anywhere if it is in your arms,’ she said, her eyes full of promise.

  Talk of horses reminded him that he had completely disregarded them. Reluctantly Ewan dragged himself away from Marguerite. Fortunately they had discovered the stream and were still there. Naked and barefoot, he unsaddled Randall and Grincheux and tethered them to a bush. Marguerite watched him as he walked back and forth with an odd smile on her lips that Ewan could not interpret. He slipped back beneath the brat and took her in his arms, letting her body warm him.

  ‘Ewan,’ she murmured as she rested her cheek against his neck. ‘I think your knife handle is not at all true to life.’

  He kissed her, moving his lips over her skin to the soft spot at the base of her hair. She craned her neck like a cat so he could reach better and began to tease her fingers down his belly. There would be precious little sleeping done tonight.

  * * *

  Sleep had come for them eventually. Wrapped around each other, perfectly content and perfectly warm despite the cold wind. They stayed slumbering so long past the dawn, in fact, that it was late morning by the time they finished the slow descent on foot and reached the beginning of the road at the base of the pass alongside the loch.

  ‘Are we on your land now?’ she asked him as he helped her mount the pony.

  He rested his hand on her thigh, trying to forget the way it had been wrapped around his waist the night before, as he answered.

  ‘Not mine. This land belongs to the Laird of Clan Campbell, Earl of Argyll. We’ve another two days before we’re home.’

  They were half a day later than they should have been, but Ewan would not have exchanged a moment in Marguerite’s arms to be back in Lochmore immediately. All the same, Ewan travelled with a growing sense of unease. There was only the one road to follow now and if Duncan had come this way again it was possible he might encounter them. Ewan would have nowhere to hide Marguerite from him this time and, though he was reluctant to shed blood, he would spill Duncan’s entire supply before he let Marguerite be taken from him.

  He mounted his horse and fell in alongside Marguerite in a quick trot. The road was good and they would make up some lost time, as long as he was able to resist Marguerite when they stopped to eat.

  ‘We’ll travel through Argyll’s land before we come to mine.’ Ewan brightened, remembering that Struan MacNeill lived close by. They would pass his manor house in the village of Ballinorchy by nightfall and, with luck, would find a welcome fire and bed there for the night.

  ‘We’ll be on my land tomorrow,’ he explained. ‘Do you recall I have been granted new holdings? We reach the lower edge of those before we come to Kilmachrie and Lochmore.’

  A small furrow appeared between Marguerite’s brows. ‘I remember. Duncan was angry that you were given the land belonging to the Earl who died. He told me it had been promised to his cousin Donald.’

  A chill r
aced down Ewan’s spine. ‘Promised? When?’

  She shrugged, sending her hair rippling across her shoulders. ‘I do not know. Before the battle, I assume.’

  Ewan said nothing. How could Duncan have known that McNab would die during the battle? How could anyone ensure a particular man would die? Unless, of course, someone was passing information and an account of who should fall victim on the battlefield. Ewan had been so caught up in keeping Marguerite safe that he had forgotten to think about the identity of the spy. Now he was surer than ever that Duncan was the man he sought. The way he had reacted in Druinnun when Ewan had mentioned Morayshill, the fact he was planning to visit Berwick, his boast to Marguerite of eyes and ears everywhere: everything pointed to him. It would be Ewan’s duty to bring him to justice but first he had to return home.

  He felt for the pouch of alms money in his saddlebag and tried his best to ignore the guilt that flickered in his belly. Families were waiting for him to bring what they needed. He had lingered too long enjoying himself with Marguerite while his tenants and clansmen waited for their Earl. Though his heart begged him to ride beside Marguerite in a leisurely fashion he broke into a gallop, trusting her to follow.

  Lochmore Castle and duty called.

  * * *

  As Ewan had hoped, they were welcomed at Struan MacNeill’s home that evening. Ballinorchy huddled between the end of the loch and the base of blackthorn-covered hills. The castle was a tower keep, similar to Lochmore Castle, but Struan’s family lacked the wealth to extend it as Ewan’s ancestors had and it remained a squat tower with a hall on the lower floor and a pair of rooms for the family on the upper floor.

  Struan greeted them in person. He clasped Ewan’s hand, but frowned as Marguerite passed up the staircase in the company of his young wife, who was promising Marguerite hot water and fresh linens. Janet had definite ambitions regarding Struan’s status and did her best not to turn her pert nose up at Marguerite’s travel-soiled skirts and arisaid. Struan waited until the women had left before speaking.

  ‘Unless I’m in my dotage and mixing faces, that’s Duncan McCrieff’s missing bride.’

  ‘Aye, it is Mademoiselle Vallon.’

  Struan’s face darkened. ‘Are you addled? McCrieff nearly tore Stirling apart hunting for her and swore death to the man who had stolen her and dire retribution on the maid herself.’

  A chill froze Ewan’s limbs at the idea he had considered returning Marguerite to the brute.

  ‘I didna know till too late that she had stowed away or I’d have taken her back. I took a risk by bringing her with me to your home and I’d thank you not to give her away. You know McCrieffs have long hated Lochmores, but they’re no friends to the MacNeills either. Our clans both owe allegiance to the Campbells and the McCrieffs have fought against them in the past.’

  ‘Dinna fash. If he comes searching again, he willnae find her from me,’ Struan said. ‘I believe he passed on his way to Castle McCrieff, but I was off in the high fields and missed him.’

  Ewan sucked his teeth. If Duncan had gone to Castle McCrieff, he must have given up his search for Marguerite. He was closer than Ewan liked to Lochmore Castle, but would be occupied with his uncle.

  Struan eyed him darkly. ‘Be wary, Ewan. Donald McCrieff is said to be in high fury over the McNab grant of land and vowing revenge. If he decides you’ve stolen Mademoiselle Vallon from his cousin, it will add to the insult.’

  Ewan debated briefly sharing his suspicions that Duncan was the traitor Robert Morayshill sought. He decided against it. Why involve his friend in dark dealings if he didn’t need to?

  Struan had a wicked glint in his eye. ‘The lass is pretty, which must have made your journey a little more interesting. You did say you were looking for a woman, but I didn’t expect you to steal one.’

  Ewan’s neck grew hot. He didn’t like what Struan was implying and caution warned him to hide his ever-increasing infatuation. ‘Pretty or not, I could have done without her bursting out from among my luggage,’ he said curtly. ‘Mademoiselle Vallon will be returning to France as soon as I am able to be rid of her. She’s been nothing but trouble to me.’

  A sound made him turn. Janet and Marguerite stood in the doorway. There was no point hoping she had not heard his words because her expressive eyes were tight with misery.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Master MacNeill,’ Marguerite said, curtsying to Struan. ‘I shall be leaving your country at the earliest opportunity. I have already wasted far too long here when I should have been returning home. As Lord Glenarris says, I have been more than troublesome to him with very little compensation.’

  Ewan greeted her formally, bowing over her hand and calling her Mademoiselle Vallon. She curtsied, but her eyes slid past his. She ignored his proffered arm and walked to the table alone. Ewan followed miserably. How could she know that the prospect of her leaving filled him with a dread far greater than any relief?

  Chapter Sixteen

  The food was more plentiful and better than the sparse meal Moira had offered them, but the night was not as relaxed. Marguerite acted as if they were strangers to each other, sitting at the furthest corner of the table from him. It was a far cry from the closeness they had shared in Moira’s small cottage and much less than the intimacy of the night before. He was realistic enough to know that once they reached Lochmore Castle the closeness they had shared would be nothing more than a memory, but he had hoped it would last beyond nightfall.

  Struan talked for most of the evening, telling them of the increase in tensions that had arisen between local septs since only half the men had returned from Flodden and families were struggling. He tried to explain the long history of the clans and their rivalries to Marguerite, as if she would be interested in feuds stretching back decades.

  ‘But why do you fight?’ Marguerite interrupted. Her eyes were cold, reminding Ewan of the disdain with which she had viewed Scotland when they first met. He tried not to feel the annoyance that surged inside him. He had wondered that himself oftentimes. Raids were a regular part of life. With borders so close together, memories long and tempers made fiercer by ale, it did not take much for one clan to offend another. A group of Lochmores would descend on a McCrieff village or vice versa on some pretext. There would be a brief skirmish, with heads and fists or clubs and swords playing a part depending on the nature of the men and offence. Honour would temporarily be satisfied, compensation agreed and matters ended. A knot of anxiety filled his belly. Clan Lochmore would be expecting him not only to mediate in these quarrels, but, if necessary, to take arms and lead them. When Hamish had sent him to study law that had been so there was an extra arrow in the clan’s quiver, not for Ewan to become the sole one.

  ‘It’s the way it has always been,’ Ewan explained. ‘I don’t even know how the hatred between Lochmores and McCrieffs started. Over lands granted or spoils unfairly divided, I imagine. A woman or livestock might have been taken.’

  Marguerite looked down her nose at him. ‘You equate women with sheep, Lord Glenarris!’

  ‘Not at all, Mademoiselle Vallon.’ Ewan lifted his chin. ‘Sheep are much more useful than a woman.’

  She frowned, then softened slightly. ‘You’re teasing me.’

  Ewan raised his cup at her and smiled as the coldness between them thawed slightly. They shared a private moment that made him shiver inside. ‘A little, but there’s truth in it, too. Sheep give a man wool and meat.’

  ‘Livestock is a man’s livelihood,’ Struan explained. ‘Often his only way of putting food in his family’s bellies. A woman doesn’t do that.’

  ‘She roasts his lamb and weaves his wool into blankets for his bed,’ Janet broke in. ‘She gives him children. In the best marriages she comforts him and soothes his worries.’

  ‘Aye, she does that,’ Struan agreed. He took Janet’s hand across the hearth and kissed it. ‘She keeps him awake half
the night, then gives him a soft place to lay his head.’

  A lump filled Ewan’s throat at the sight of their obvious affection. He found himself unable to meet Marguerite’s eye lest she see the emotions that were ravaging him. A soft place to lay his head. Arms to comfort him and lips to drive him to ecstasy. He’d seen glimpses of them all too briefly with Marguerite, but never would again. She was beyond his reach and if he did not harden his heart it would break.

  ‘Mademoiselle Vallon, it is growing late. I wish to be back at Lochmore Castle before nightfall tomorrow so I intend to leave early. Perhaps we...’ He paused and collected his thoughts, not wanting to suggest he had any expectation of sharing her bed. ‘Perhaps you should retire?’

  She opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly. ‘Of course, Lord Glenarris. I shall bid you goodnight.’

  She rose and curtsied to Struan and Janet. As she passed Ewan hurt flashed across her face. He managed to control himself long enough to watch her vanish up the staircase, wanting nothing more than to follow her. Janet retired shortly afterwards, leaving the men alone.

  Struan sighed. ‘You’re walking a dangerous path, friend.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not scared of what McCrieffs vow to do when they’re in their cups.’

  Struan gave him a pitying look. ‘I wasnae talking about them.’

  Ewan swallowed the last of his wine and banged his cup on the table. ‘The sooner Mademoiselle Vallon is back in France, the better it will be for all.’

  ‘Yes, I can tell from the way you stare at each other that you’re already looking forward to the day you part.’

  * * *

  When Ewan eventually went upstairs Marguerite was lying on her truckle bed facing the wall. Ewan’s had been placed at the opposite side of the room, beneath the window, but he crept over to stand beside her. Her hair fell over her face and in the darkness he could not make out her features.