A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  His heart lurched with the almost physical pain of not touching her. Struan and Janet would have no knowledge of what went on outside the heavy curtains that surrounded their bed. There was nothing to stop Ewan slipping into Marguerite’s bed as he wished to do. Nothing, except from the chill that had developed between them. He turned back to his own bed, shrugged off his brat and climbed under his covers. Marguerite rolled over with a sigh, but Ewan could not tell if he had disturbed her peace or if she had been awake all the time and pretending to sleep. He had started the morning deliriously happy with Marguerite wrapped in his embrace. He ended the day alone and miserable, trying to convince himself that the distance between them was for the best.

  * * *

  When they met soon after the break of dawn, Marguerite was wearing her stiff-bodiced French dress with her hair captured beneath a linen cap and veil. It might not have been a signal that she was putting Scotland behind her and looking to France, but Ewan took it as such. She greeted him with the newly renewed formality that matched her choice of clothes, curtsying deeply and keeping her eyes down as if they were strangers.

  ‘Good morning, Lord Glenarris.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Ewan snapped. ‘Haven’t we travelled long enough together to greet each other as friends?’

  ‘I had thought so,’ she murmured with a downward twist of her lips that made Ewan desperate to kiss a smile back on to them.

  He took her by the elbows, lifting her upright to face him. Through the close-fitting sleeves of her dress Ewan could feel the soft contours of her arms. Her dress was tighter than the loose Scottish dress she had worn and showed off her slender frame in more detail than Ewan remembered it doing. Now he knew precisely what lay beneath the stiffly laced bodice and waterfall of skirts he could think of nothing else beyond the silken creaminess of Marguerite’s skin. He spread his fingers wider and Marguerite gave a little shiver. The longer they were together the harder it would be to part.

  ‘We’ll be in Lochmore before nightfall if we ride fast, but you don’t have to come that far,’ Ewan said. ‘Struan is sending a servant to Stirling with a letter. I am sure he will escort you back to where you need to go if you choose. Duncan has passed by here to Castle McCrieff so you are in no danger of meeting him.’

  Marguerite was silent for far too long. She looked at Ewan with eyes brimming with challenge. ‘Would you prefer me to do that?’

  ‘Do what makes you happy,’ he said, not wishing to induce her to make any decision. ‘I only suggest it so you don’t have to make an unnecessary journey.’

  She gave him a slight smile and his spirits raised. ‘I would like to see your home before I return to France as I have travelled this far.’

  Ewan moistened his lips, but at that moment Janet entered the hall. Ewan and Marguerite sprang apart and Marguerite became engrossed in straightening her veil. She arranged her airsaid over her shoulders and smiled at Janet, now looking a curious mixture of Scottish and French.

  Ewan held out his arm and she slipped hers through it.

  ‘Then let’s be on our way.’

  * * *

  Ewan really did intend to go straight to Lochmore Castle, but Marguerite’s change of clothing meant she could not ride with the ease they had become accustomed to. It was hardly surprising, given how the stiff bodice pinched her waist to nothing, and though she made no complaint, she grew pale and fell behind frequently until Ewan was forced to draw Randall into a gentle trot that she could keep pace with. He did not mind, in truth, knowing that these hours spent riding alongside the loch would be the last they would spend together. In the end he could not resist one final detour as they crossed into Lochmore land to his favourite place. He spent a stolen hour sitting on the edge of a stretch of white sand by a small loch and watched the gulls fly lazily overhead with Marguerite at his side.

  ‘It smells of the sea,’ Marguerite said, inhaling deeply.

  ‘This is Loch Mora. It’s saltwater,’ Ewan explained. ‘If we sailed along it we’d reach the Firth of Clyde, but we follow the hill over the top of this loch all the way to the sea where Lochmore Castle stands.’

  ‘The sea. Of course. On the west coast. Something else you have taught me.’ Marguerite’s eyes shone with amusement, then softened. She gave him a smile of such sweetness Ewan felt his heart was being ripped from his chest with the longing for her that was overwhelming.

  ‘You don’t mind that you came so far out of your way?’ he asked.

  ‘If I had not, then I would not have seen the sights I have. I would not have done the things I have done.’ She reached for his hand. ‘Thank you for all you have done for me and shown me. I have lived more with you in this past week than I ever had—or will again. I shall miss you when I return home.’

  He had no words. They would have to part, but he would treasure the time they had spent together. He raised her hand and briefly touched his lips against the back before pressing them into her palm. That was all he dared to do. He was surprised he was not visibly shaking at her touch and if he gave in to the impulses that were fighting to be heard he would end up bedding her on the shore.

  ‘Let’s get going. We’ll be eating roast mackerel and sleeping in a proper bed tonight.’

  His ears caught up with his mouth and he bit his tongue. Not a bed. There was no question they would be sharing a bed. If Marguerite noticed his slip, she chose to ignore it.

  * * *

  It was thanks to that detour that they did not reach Castle Lochmore until dusk. It was thanks to this that Ewan received a warning that prevented him riding straight into danger.

  A blood-red sunset turned the sky over Loch Arris to flames, but as they rounded the foot of the hill and finally came upon the flat marshland that surrounded the spit of land where Lochmore Castle stood Ewan realised there were true fires outside the walls.

  ‘Bonfires,’ Marguerite murmured. ‘Are they celebrating the harvest?’

  Ewan’s heart stopped. He swore, sitting up in his saddle, the blood draining from his face. He shook his head mutely. There should be no fires here, only dark, peaceful fields where sheep and cattle grazed.

  He did not know which enemy had surrounded his home, but Lochmore Castle was under siege.

  * * *

  Something was wrong. Ewan grew tense and his face drained of all colour. He hurled himself from the saddle, unsheathing his sword with a snarl as he began to run down the road, leaving her alone.

  ‘Ewan, stop!’ Marguerite dismounted and chased after him. The stomacher of her dress bit uncomfortably into her waist and prevented her drawing breath. Cursing the restrictive dress, she picked up her skirts and ran after him.

  ‘Wait for me,’ she pleaded. ‘Please!’

  He stopped at her cry and she would have collided with him if he had not shot his hands out and grasped her around the waist to hold her back from him. Even this touch was enough to turn her into a quivering mass of lust, but Ewan’s lean face was twisted in anger and his eyes were wild with despair.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she panted. She clutched his free arm to prevent him from leaving her.

  ‘Can’t you see?’ He shook his hand free and waved it towards castle.

  Even though it was some distance away, Marguerite could make out sturdy walls, above which a tall, square tower rose, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The flames Marguerite had taken for lights of the castle were outside the walls.

  ‘Those are no welcoming fires. My home is under attack!’

  Marguerite’s legs became straw. A gentle wind would have blown her away. She took hold of Ewan’s shoulders, cleaving to him for strength.

  ‘Duncan?’ she whispered. ‘He’s found me!’

  ‘It could be.’ Ewan eyed her darkly, sending a chill through her. He snapped his head up. ‘Or mayhap this has nothing to do with you. Yours are not the only affairs of concern in the
world. I think you forget that sometimes.’

  He had been confusingly and heartbreakingly switching between aloofness and warmth since they had arrived at Struan MacNeill’s home, causing Marguerite to feel the first regrets that she had allowed her passion to override her sense. Now more than ever his expression chilled her.

  ‘That isn’t fair!’ she exclaimed, stepping away.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Ewan’s face was grim, reminding her of when they had first met and he had seemed to hate her. ‘I delayed my return to Lochmore because of you. I should have been here.’

  Marguerite dropped her head. She was unable to deny the truth in what he said, yet his accusations scorched her heart.

  ‘If I had been here, I would have been able to prevent this,’ he said. His voice cracked with anguish and Marguerite could not bear it. She rested her hand on his cheek.

  ‘You don’t know that!’ she whispered.

  ‘You think I could have done nothing? That I would have been useless?’ His jaw tightened beneath her fingers. His voice was low and tore into her heart.

  ‘I didn’t mean that!’ She stamped her foot, wondering if he was deliberately misunderstanding her. ‘I mean you would have tried, but you might have been hurt or killed. Now you are safe. You don’t have to fight.’

  ‘Should I run away like you did?’ he asked angrily, staring down at her with his blue eyes that were chips of ice. ‘We can’t all evade our responsibilities.’

  Marguerite gasped in shock at his cruel words. She dropped her hands and spun away from him, staring instead out to the castle and the sea beyond. The small fires were dotted about the wide, flat expanse between them and the castle. No wonder he was furious and despairing. She could not blame him. The sound of steel scraping from a scabbard made her jump. Ewan, standing behind her, had drawn his sword. She flinched and saw his eyes flash with irritation. They seemed remarkably good at offending each other, as if the intense closeness they had shared had opened a doorway to other, angrier emotions.

  ‘Don’t look so frightened,’ Ewan said. ‘I need to get closer and see what is really happening. Stay here.’

  Marguerite opened her mouth to protest and demand he take her with him. Sitting alone in the dark when an enemy might be close terrified her, but what right did she have to object when she was the reason for his troubles?

  ‘Be safe,’ she whispered.

  He grimaced. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  He pulled his brat over his head and crept away, leaving Marguerite with the horses. She sat on the bracken and hugged her knees, trying to glimpse him, but he kept to the thick tangles of bracken among the trees and she lost sight of him far too quickly. She could not get comfortable. Midges attacked in droves until she pulled her airsaid over her head and the laces of her gown felt too tight and uncomfortable. Her gown was designed for sitting on chairs or dancing, not squatting among wet undergrowth.

  The moon moved slowly from one side of the tallest pine to the other and she began to fear Ewan was not coming back. Her imagination created a thousand horrific situations in which he succeeded in entering his castle and forgot he had abandoned her, where he revealed her whereabouts to Duncan, or, worse, that he was captured or killed.

  The imagined loss of him was almost too much to bear when their fragile friendship had shown hints of turning into something deeper. She was beginning to despair and had succumbed to the tears that made her eyes swim when Ewan appeared at her side and dropped on to the ground so silently she cried out in alarm. He flung an arm around her shoulders and pressed a finger to her lips. It served to silence her, but also to remind her of the way he had traced the shape of them with a touch as soft as a feather as they had made love. She hurled herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head on his chest. He rocked, caught off balance, and embraced her back.

  ‘Maggie, what’s wrong?’

  Through her sniffs she told him some of what she had feared. He laughed gently before growing stern and holding her away to face him. ‘Do ye really think I could forget you? Or that I’d hand you to that bawbag! What do you take me for?’

  She bit her lip and shook her head, guiltily wondering why she had ever doubted him. He had never failed her yet. She noticed how weary he looked, how gaunt his lean face had become. She found some bread left over from what Janet had given them and passed it to him, along with a skin of wine that he drained with vigour.

  ‘What did you discover?’

  He groaned. ‘It’s bad. They’re McCrieffs. At least thirty of them, probably more, but I couldna get close enough to be sure. I didn’t see Duncan. You are safe at least.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ Marguerite said firmly. ‘What are we to do?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Of course!’ She looked into his eyes. ‘You helped me and this is my fault. If I can do anything to help, I will. Just give me the word.’

  ‘Ah, lass, I’m sorry for what I said earlier.’ Ewan leaned against her. She stiffened, but as his hand settled on her arm she relented a little. ‘It was said in anger more than truth. I don’t blame you for this. It was my choice to travel with you and most likely I couldn’t have prevented it.’

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ she murmured, covering his hand with hers. ‘Can we somehow steal past them and make it as far as the gate?’

  ‘No. Aside from the fact that I’m not going to walk you through a camp full of drunken McCrieffs, we canna get in that way without being seen and I won’t risk trying to get the gate open.’ He began pacing back and forth.

  ‘I have an idea, but it might be a risk. There is a tunnel that leads from the cellars beneath the oldest part of the keep to the seashore. We call it the Water Gate. It was built for circumstances such as these, I suppose when my ancestors needed to leave without being seen. I plan to ride to the village along the coast and take a boat. We can be there within an hour. When the tide turns I’ll row to the beach behind Lochmore Castle and try to get inside.’

  He gave her a smile. ‘The villagers are Clan Lochmore so you’ll be safe there.’

  Marguerite gave him a stern look. ‘Your plan sounds excellent, apart from one thing. I do not wish to be left in the village. I will come with you.’

  Ewan frowned. ‘Maggie, don’t be foolish. It’s far too dangerous.’

  She put her hands on her hips and jutted her jaw out. ‘I’m not a simpering girl who can’t do more than walk around a knot garden without becoming faint. Have I not proven myself capable of enduring difficulties since I left Stirling? I have slept beneath the open sky, climbed mountains and bathed in lochs without complaint.’ He still looked doubtful. She took his hand.

  ‘Besides, if you get into the castle it doesn’t mean you can get out again. I’m safer with you and I’m not letting you abandon me.’

  He laced his fingers through hers; making her skin flutter like a thousand moths brushing against her. ‘You’ve borne everything well. I cannot argue with that. Very well, you come with me if you choose. Be warned, though, the current is strong and if the tide is against us we could be drawn out to sea. We leave now.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Riding along the coast involved returning the way they had come and it was late by the time they reached the village Ewan had spoken of. The stone cottages sat in a row along the bay, hugging the rocky shore. There was no harbour or even a jetty and boats of varying sizes were pulled up on the shingle, their existence only evident from the eerie creaking of the wood as the wind caught them. The village lay in darkness, but Ewan rapped softly on the door of the furthest cottage and muttered something in an accent so thick Marguerite couldn’t understand a word. Eventually it opened a crack and someone evidently appeared because Ewan began speaking faster and gesturing towards the boats. The door slammed and Ewan returned presently.

  They left the horses tethered at
the shore. Marguerite carried the panniers while Ewan untied a small boat and had dragged it to the furthest end of the beach where jagged rocks met the thick woodland. He was silhouetted against the sky, a tall, slender figure tensed and watchful.

  She crunched over the shingle to join him. He placed a hand on either cheek, turning her face to the moonlight and examining her.

  ‘You’re tired. It isn’t too late to stay here,’ he said. ‘I cannae think of you getting hurt.’

  She stifled another yawn. ‘I shall go where you do. I’ve followed you this far.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He grasped her hand, squeezing it reassuringly before dropping it all too quickly for Marguerite’s liking. He held the small boat steady. ‘Best get in. I’ll push us off.’

  Ewan did not speak as he rowed along the coast and round the headland. His only sounds were increasingly weary grunts of exertion as he drew the oars back. Marguerite kept a watch towards the shore as the small craft lurched on the waves, but if any enemy was watching them they were too well concealed. She hoped for both their sakes the boat was not visible and all Ewan’s effort would not be in vain. Ewan steered the craft to shore after what seemed like hours and brought the boat into a bay protected by an outcrop of jagged rocks.

  He took his boots off and jumped from the boat to drag it alongside a low natural jetty of rock with iron rings set deep. Marguerite took the oars and tried to steady the craft as Ewan moored it, but her sleeves were too tight and she was unable to lift her arms as high as she needed to. She sighed in frustration.

  ‘I think we’re safe,’ Ewan said. ‘McCrieff land is on the headland on the opposite side of the sea loch. If they had thought to station men here we would have known about it by now.’