A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘I don’t think they would bother. There’s no way over the rocks up to the castle unless they want to scale the Devil’s Seat.’ Ewan wrapped his arms around Marguerite and lifted her over the edge. She put her hands around his back to steady herself. His leine was damp to the touch as she ran her hands over his shoulder blades. They were in almost total blackness and she could not see his expression, but heard his sharp intake of breath before he lowered her and she found herself standing on soft sand. He released her slowly and stretched his arms upwards, gesturing towards a jumble of boulders topped with a flat rock that stood imposingly at right the end of the beach.

  ‘Let’s find the tunnel entrance,’ he said. He took her hand and led her up the sand, her feet slipping on the uneven ground and her hem trailing. She pulled her hand free.

  ‘Wait. I want to change. I can’t move properly in this dress. I’ll hold you up.’ She took her blue dress from the pannier and untied the laces beneath her left arm. Ewan watched. In the pale moonlight she could make out his expression of out-and-out lust. She had been about to strip naked without a second thought. Shame burned her cheeks and throat, but other parts of her were growing equally hot from desire for him.

  ‘Do you need help?’ Ewan asked in a voice as smooth as cream.

  She nodded slowly. He spread his hand on her right side and began pulling the laces free, hooking his thumb between the braided holes and tugging gently. He bent his head close to Marguerite and his cool breath on her neck drew a soft keening from her throat. He looked up with eyes brimming with sensuality and slipped the fingers of his unoccupied hand to the neck of her gown, fingers playing with the ribbon that held it closed.

  ‘Why did ye wear this today?’

  ‘I wanted to look my finest when we arrived at your home. I did not want to disgrace you in front of your people,’ she said.

  ‘You could never disgrace me, whatever you wore,’ he murmured. ‘I thought you were putting Scotland behind you already.’

  Perhaps she had been. The intense hurt she had felt at Ewan’s sudden coldness and the words she had overheard had made her want to run from his sight and long for the day she was back in France, but now he was in her arms once again she had no intention of letting him slip through her fingers.

  ‘It was stupid of me,’ she agreed. The laces were undone and she took a deep breath of the damp, salty air. Ewan’s warm fingers were playing idly with the soft hollow of her collarbone. She rolled her shoulders back. ‘This is far too uncomfortable. I did not realise how constricting my country’s clothes were until I put it on again. I prefer my new dress.’

  ‘I prefer you in your new dress, too.’ Ewan tugged the ribbon and began to ease the gown down over Marguerite’s shoulders and arms, his eyes never leaving hers.

  ‘I prefer you out of it even better.’

  Marguerite shuddered as the night chill caressed her naked flesh. Ewan’s lips curled into a smile of sensual promise. Was he really intending to make love to her now, of all times?

  ‘We said we wouldn’t after we left the mountain,’ Marguerite whispered.

  Even as she spoke her hands were moving to unbuckle his belt. She tugged it free and let the brat fall to the ground, skimming the palm of her hand over his groin and down his thigh. Ewan stayed her hand and brought his mouth close to her ear. He bunched his fingers in her hair, weaving them into the braid.

  ‘The tunnel...’ she murmured, her voice ragged with the effort of maintaining rational thought.

  Ewan silenced her with a kiss.

  ‘I don’t know who or what we’ll find at the other end of the tunnel,’ he said in a low voice. His breath was hot, his lips firm and moist against her cheek. ‘I hope that the fact the McCrieffs are camped outside means the castle hasn’t been breached, in which case we’ll be safe, but it could be dangerous. Whatever is waiting for us can wait awhile longer, but you’re here with me now and I want you again.’

  Marguerite rolled her head back, guiding his lips to the tender spot at the base of her ear where his touch made her head spin.

  ‘I want you, too,’ she gasped.

  She could feel him swelling, pushing hard against her, and excitement coursed through her. She tilted her hips, angling them so that his hardness was directly between her thighs.

  ‘Then one last time,’ Ewan said. He tore his leine over his head and pulled her down with him on to the brat.

  They knelt facing each other, naked in the mist and blackness. Before, they had made love in sunlight. Now there was little to see save what moonlight revealed. Marguerite ran her hands over Ewan’s lean muscles, feeling her way along his arms, over his chest and down his belly and over the tight V-shape where the skin was softest to touch. He traced the length of her spine. When she arched her back he bent his head to her breast, taking her nipple in his mouth. She cried out in shock at the pleasure.

  ‘We need to be quiet,’ he admonished gently.

  He replaced his mouth with a hand and kissed her deeply with lips that were salt flecked, silencing her moans. Marguerite wriggled forward until she straddled Ewan’s lap. He groaned, pushing forward until he entered her. They moved in unison, faster and harder as layers upon layers of pleasure built within Marguerite. Ewan’s hands moved to her breasts again, his fingers working an enchantment until she could bear the sensations no longer and the walls tumbled inside her. She arched her back and whimpered. As if Ewan had been waiting for this signal he seized her buttocks, wrenching her closer and holding her still as he gave a final, powerful thrust and sagged back on to the sand.

  ‘Maybe one day we’ll find a bed to do that in rather than under the sky,’ he panted, laughing. She pressed her hand against his chest, feeling the powerful thump of his heart, elated that he was contemplating another instance after he had sworn it would be the last time. Marguerite settled into the waiting crook of his arm and Ewan pulled the brat over them both, sending a spray of sand everywhere.

  ‘If I had come to your bed last night, would you have allowed me?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll never deny you that,’ she said, meaning it with every fibre in her body. ‘I will never regret what we do together.’

  Her stomach plummeted. As much as she craved him, she would be gone before long and he had given no indication he would regret her leaving when the time came. It had been another stolen moment and Marguerite was not surprised when Ewan rolled out from beneath her and began to arrange his brat. He had another purpose after all. She bundled her clothes on, needing no help with the looser, freer dress.

  She followed Ewan up the beach, this time without taking his hand. He made his way to what appeared to be a pile of large rocks that had fallen. Tangles of weeds and tree roots fell from the hill, half-covering them.

  ‘Do you know where to find the tunnel?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I used it all the time when I was younger. My brother and I used to come here to meet—’ He stopped abruptly and Marguerite almost collided with him. ‘We used to come here,’ he repeated quietly.

  He began clambering over the rocks, leaving Marguerite speculating who he had been meeting and darkly suspecting she was not the first woman whose company he had enjoyed on the beach.

  The tunnel was wet with moss and stale air, but as Ewan told Marguerite, the purpose was not for comfort. He instructed Marguerite to stay close behind him. She did not need telling twice as they moved in total blackness and she feared she might be left behind. The occasional waft of Ewan’s scent was comforting in the cold, mildewed air. She held tight to the back of his belt while she dragged the other hand along the rough wall that had been hewn from rock. She could imagine Ewan as a boy enjoying stealing out for adventures and smiled to herself in the darkness. They wound to the left, then the right, climbing slightly upwards inside the rock beneath the castle.

  Ewan stopped abru
ptly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Marguerite asked in alarm.

  She felt a gentle squeeze of his hand. ‘Nothing. We’re at the fork. I’m trying to decide the best way to go. The passage goes two ways. The chapel in the grounds is to the right. The cellars in the tower beside the Great Hall are to the left. We’ll go that way. I hope no one has barred the exit with wine barrels, though an open bottle will be welcome!’

  They ducked through a low arch and came out into a vaulted cellar behind piles of sacks and crates. No one had blocked the exit. The moonlight that shone through the air holes set high into the wall was almost too bright after the blackness they had walked in. Ewan gave a sigh of relief, but their triumph was short-lived. Boots thudded, steel scraped and voices growled. Marguerite was seized from behind by arms that held her tightly and her bag was ripped from her hands. Ewan roared in anger as he disappeared beneath what seemed to Marguerite like a dozen assailants, unable to break free before he, too, was seized and pushed against the wall, a sword at his throat.

  * * *

  The curved blade was well sharpened, as Hamish had demanded all Lochmore steel be kept. Ewan drew a shallow breath, knowing that a sudden move would see his throat slit either by accident or design. He stood motionless, unlike Marguerite, who twisted in her captor’s arms. Despair consumed him. Their plan had been in vain and Lochmore had fallen to the enemy.

  ‘Move and it’ll be your last act!’

  The growl was familiar. Ewan’s spirits rose as he recognised Lochmore Castle’s steward and fiercest protector, Connor. They were among Lochmores, but Connor’s next words pierced Ewan’s heart deeper than any sword could.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for ye to come back, ye black-hearted whore-son!’

  Is that what Connor thought of their new laird? Ewan’s stomach tightened at the thought he was so unwelcome.

  ‘Who is this doxy?’ Connor said. ‘Did you think we’d take an exchange for what you’ve stolen?’

  Ewan only began to ponder what had been stolen, because Marguerite’s captor twisted her arm and she cried out in pain, which banished all other thoughts. ‘Ewan, stop them, please!’

  ‘Ewan?’ Connor released the pressure on the sword enough so that Ewan could speak. ‘Ewan who?’

  ‘Ewan Lochmore,’ Ewan thundered. He gripped the tip of the blade between forefinger and thumb and moved it carefully from his throat. The sword dropped. Marguerite was released and rushed into Ewan’s arms. She was trembling almost as violently as when she had been overcome with passion only a short while before. That she had suffered at the hands of his clansmen was intolerable to Ewan. He held her close and glared over the top of her head at Connor and the two servants who stood beside him. Half-a-dozen more Lochmore servants stood ready with swords in hands and Ewan felt a surge of pride that his people were so ready to defend themselves and his home.

  ‘Don’t you recognise your laird, Connor? What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, rubbing his throat. He wiped away a trickle of blood harshly with his thumb. ‘Why is there no light?’

  ‘Pardon, my lord. We’ve all been beside ourselves since they attacked, not knowing what to do in your absence. We feared the passage might be breached, but it has not. We’ve had a watch day and night.’

  Ewan’s stomach plummeted and all strength left him. He clutched on to Marguerite, needing to draw sustenance from her as much as she had from him. The tunnel had been breached, but worse, his absence had caused distress to his people.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ he commanded.

  At his side Marguerite shuddered again and Ewan hesitated. He could tell that Connor was eager to explain and he was desperate to learn what had taken place, but he had to attend to Marguerite. ‘No, first find us some wine and bread. Bring it to...my father’s rooms and we’ll talk once we’re settled there.’

  Ewan led Marguerite by the hand through the series of storeroom and kitchens, and up the stone spiral staircase into the Great Hall. The hall was full of men and women who worked in the castle sleeping on pallets. There were many more than usual, presumably because those who lived outside the walls had taken refuge inside. Rush lights provided a dim glow and the atmosphere was more peaceful that Ewan would expect. The floor above was divided into rooms reserved for guest accommodation and two chambers for the male and female household servants.

  Marguerite gazed around at the tapestries on the walls and thick rugs in rich, autumnal colours, openly curious. Although he would love to show her his home, Ewan steered her by the arm up the keep staircase to Hamish’s private quarters in the original stone keep.

  The rooms on the third floor of the square tower had been the domain of the Laird of Lochmore for generations. By rights they were Ewan’s now, though he felt like an intruder as he held the oak door to admit Marguerite into the panelled solar with the bedchamber beyond. Ewan had last entered this room twelve months previously on a visit from Glasgow and, though the table was free of mess and the clothes chest lay empty, Hamish’s presence still filled the space.

  Ewan gripped the doorway, reluctant to enter. Two deep, high-backed chairs stood close to the hearth. There was no fire in the grate, of course, but the only other place to rest was the great bed in the other room and he had no intention of taking her in there. He gestured to Marguerite to take the chair that had been Hamish’s favourite, unwilling to use it himself. She looked around inquisitively, then started to speak. Ewan shook his head and waved a hand jerkily. He could not bear to answer her questions right now. She closed her mouth and huddled down into the sheepskin that was still thrown across the seat, watching him from eyes that were ringed with dark circles. She looked as exhausted as he was. He rubbed the heel of his hands over his eyes, feeling them sting and prickle with tiredness.

  ‘I’m sorry you didna get a more hospitable welcome, Maggie.’ He sighed, dropping on to the other chair. ‘I should never have brought you here.’

  Immediately Marguerite slid from hers and crossed to him. She knelt at his side on the rug and wrapped her hands around his waist, her skirts spreading wide around her.

  ‘Oh, my heart breaks for what has happened here. For you.’

  She sounded tearful, but her eyes blazed with fury on his behalf. Her perfect lips were drawn into an indignant pout that made them look temptingly kissable.

  ‘You’re bleeding!’ she exclaimed.

  She licked her forefinger and wiped it across the spot where Connor’s blade had nicked him. Her touch both stung and soothed. It was characteristic of the way she infuriated and captivated Ewan by turn. He drew her on to his lap and ran his hand firmly along her arm from shoulder to wrist and back again.

  ‘You aren’t badly hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘No. It was painful only for a moment while he was twisting it.’

  Ewan’s temper surged at the thought she had been mishandled. He held her close. She rested her head on his chest and tightened her arms around his waist. Desire rose, but was replaced by a deeper need to draw strength from her touch. Ewan closed his eyes, his mind crackling like green timber on a fire, but the knots in his body slowly loosening as Marguerite’s presence soothed his soul like nothing else seemed capable of.

  They were friends again after the cruel words she had overheard, but that could not last. He told himself he should guard his heart and build a wall around it as high as that which surrounded the castle, but it was far too late for that and he knew that Marguerite was capable of breaching his defences with an ease that any invader would envy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They were still sitting together when a knock at the door came. Marguerite leapt away like a cat on hot coals and was back in her chair by the time Connor entered with two servants bearing venison stew and bread, and, best of all, a large jug of hot wine.

  ‘Now, tell me everything,’ Ewan instructed as they ate.

  ‘They’re Clan McCrie
ff,’ Connor said. ‘They attacked the gate two days ago, but we think they’ve been slipping into the valley for maybe four and watching. They didna breach the inner courtyard—we fought them off. The servants and guards fought well.’

  ‘I’ll see they’re rewarded,’ Ewan said, pride in his men mingling with guilt that he had not been here to fight alongside them. Two nights ago he had been atop a mountain with Marguerite’s legs wrapped around his back, with no thought for Lochmore Castle. He glanced across to see if she was thinking the same thing. Her expression was solemn and slightly puzzled, and Ewan wondered how much of Connor’s thick speech she could discern. He flushed with anger that he knew was unreasonable. She was the reason he had not been here, but the choice had been his.

  ‘They ransacked the granary and workshops and...other buildings in the outer ward,’ Connor continued.

  Ewan ground his teeth, noting the slight hesitation and wondering what Connor was not telling him. Hamish would have been roaring by now, pulling the truth out, but Ewan wanted to let him tell the tale in his own time. Marguerite poured a goblet of wine and handed it to Ewan. Connor’s eyes slid to her and then to Ewan with an unspoken question.

  Ewan’s elation at hiding and bedding Duncan’s bride was less amusing now she was seated in his quarters and her cuckolded fiancé might be outside the walls ready to exact vengeance, but he could not truly say he regretted his actions—any of them—and he would stand by what he had done.

  ‘This lady is Marguerite Vallon. She will be staying a short while.’ He paused, not knowing how short her visit could be if they were unable to leave the castle. He could hardly send her on her way to Leith in the fishing boat.

  ‘Angus said you were travelling with Duncan McCrieff’s woman,’ Connor said.

  ‘Angus is here?’ Ewan’s flesh prickled. He had imagined Angus could not have broken through the groups of men lying in wait outside, but had retreated to one of the outlying villages. ‘Where is he? Send him to me, please.’