‘Aye.’ He needed sleep, but could not rest when there was so much to be done. He pushed himself to his feet wearily and straightened his brat. He stroked her cheek, then walked to the door.
‘Keep him well.’
He left her, kneeling on the floor with her hand covering the spot he had touched. Ewan went to find Connor, trying to focus on his predicament while his heart called him to Marguerite’s side.
Chapter Nineteen
Angus spoke rarely after Ewan left and much of that was raving and rambling in an accent so thick Marguerite missed most of it. Only once did he seem to see her.
‘You’re the French bride. A McCrieff-to-be.’
‘Not any more.’
‘A Lochmore, mayhap in future.’
She took his hand. ‘What did Hamish tell you? About Rory Lochmore?’
Angus began to laugh, which turned into a wheeze. ‘Ach, Hamish... Hamish.’
Angus closed his eyes and never opened them again. Marguerite sat patiently at his bedside, trying to make sense of his ramblings. Recognising the signs of what was coming, she cooled his forehead, spooned water between his lips and pondered his words.
A Lochmore in future.
Did Angus believe Ewan intended to marry her? She lost herself in the memories of their journey. The security his grudgingly given company gave had grown into friendship, then affection. The transformation from affection to the deeper, alarming emotion that stirred in her breast had been so gradual she had barely noticed it. It had never occurred to her that they might not have to part and he’d shown no indication that he had such thoughts, even after they had grown so close. But could she stay here?
* * *
Ewan returned that evening, looking more haggard and weary than Marguerite had seen before. If there was a time to broach the idea of her staying, now was not it. He had bathed and changed his leine for a fresh one and instructed Marguerite to do the same, promising to watch over Angus while she used his private rooms.
‘You won’t try to wake him to ask,’ Marguerite cautioned.
He gave her an injured look. ‘I swore not to. I keep my promises, even when it means being ordered around in my own castle by a guest.’
* * *
She could have spent an hour luxuriating in the deep tub before the fire, but returned quickly, telling herself she could not leave her patient alone for too long. A fresh dress belonging to Connor’s wife was waiting for her and her jewel casket and clothes had been laid out neatly on the dresser. Ewan was sitting beside Angus, holding his hand. Marguerite ran her fingertips over the neatly arranged possessions and Ewan smiled. It had been he who had taken such care.
‘As you will unfortunately be staying longer than expected, I thought it best to unpack.’
She was not sure if he meant it was unfortunate for her or for him that she would not be leaving soon, but Marguerite found herself glad she could stay longer and that Ewan would not send her back to France too soon. That she thought of being ‘sent’ brought her up short. She was the one who had wished to return there after all.
‘That seems sensible.’
As she combed out her wet hair he watched with an expression of such longing that it made Marguerite breathless with desire. If they had not been in the presence of the sick old man, she had no doubt they would have fallen on each other without a second thought.
‘How is Angus?’ she asked briskly, going round to the other side of the bed.
‘He’s said nothing,’ Ewan said despondently. ‘I must know why. I won’t be at peace until I do.’
‘The body was centuries old,’ Marguerite said gently. ‘Surely they took it for spite, or because the brooch was valuable. Why does it matter?’
She meant her words to console, but Ewan glared.
‘It matters because he was a Lochmore!’ Ewan looked at her sternly; his eyes careworn daubs of blue among dark shadows. ‘I’m the last Lochmore now my brother is dead. How can I prove myself as a laird if I canna even keep my ancestors safe?’
Marguerite bit back her reply that there were greater ways to prove his worth than discovering where old bones had been taken.
‘I keep thinking about the horses,’ she said. ‘We’ve left them alone.’
‘They’ll be well looked after.’
‘If only we could bring them here through the tunnels,’ she mused.
‘I don’t think they’re suited for rowing boats and tunnels, much less a staircase from the cellars. They’re better off where they are.’ Ewan grinned, showing a flash of the humour that had been sadly lacking. ‘Though the tunnel was originally carved out to prevent siege and we may wish to bring them to eat after a day or two. We cannae stay under siege for long without supplies.’
He must be jesting. He would not be callous enough to eat his beloved horse. ‘Why not send men out to bring supplies from the village?’ Marguerite suggested. ‘They could come and go using our boat.’
‘Aye, I might do that. Shall I order venison or beef for you, my lady? Sweet pears or honeyed cakes?’
Her mouth watered. ‘I don’t mind as long as they leave afterwards, otherwise we’ll have more people than food to eat it.’
The change came instantly, but Marguerite could see the moment fire ignited inside Ewan.
‘Marguerite, you’re a marvel. Never mind food or horses, I can send my men to bring more men!’ He seized her in an unexpected embrace. ‘No one is watching the shore as far as I can tell. There are Lochmores who will come to our aid from the outlying villages. If the McCreiffs won’t go of their own accord, we can attack from inside when they’re least expecting it and drive them away!’
He rose with a determined look in his eye. ‘I’ll see to it at once. We’ll have you back in France before you know it.’
* * *
Angus died the following morning. Marguerite pulled the sheet to cover the wound and crossed his hands over his chest. She shed no tears. The old man had not been particularly friendly to her after all, but he had mattered to Ewan, who had already suffered such great losses that Marguerite feared another would destroy him. She called for a servant to watch Angus’s body, but determined Ewan should not hear the news from anyone but her. With trepidation she made her way through the castle, asking where she might find him.
The Long Hall was smaller than the Great Hall at Stirling, with oak-panelled walls and intricate tapestries showing scenes of battles or pageants. It was bustling with members of the household preparing for the evening meal. Despite the recent attack the atmosphere was happy and purposeful and looked a friendly place to live. Somewhere a person could be happy.
She followed directions until she reached a staircase at one of the corners of the keep and climbed upwards, wondering if she might persuade him to let her stay for a little longer than she had planned.
Ewan was standing on the battlements at the top of the tower. He glanced over his shoulder as she approached.
‘When did you last sleep or eat?’ she asked, shocked at the gaunt, unshaven appearance of his already lean face.
He shrugged and continued staring out across the loch and marshland. Marguerite followed his gaze, leaning over the edge of the battlement. The castle was raised on a slight hill with the inner and outer walls dropping away slightly. Distantly to the right were rooftops of the village they had rowed from. Green pines mingled with the orange and yellows of birch and oak trees, reflected in the indigo water, creating a palette of colours.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ Marguerite murmured.
‘It would be more so without McCrieffs polluting the land with their presence,’ Ewan growled. He pointed to their left where the loch stretched from the sea mouth inwards, separating Lochmore Castle from another spit of land. ‘They belong on that side of the loch.’
‘Why have they not left?’
‘I don’t know
. I still don’t understand why they’re here, but I’m content for them to stay if I’m to discover the reason why Rory was taken,’ Ewan replied. ‘I canna stop thinking about what they took. I need to move quickly.’
Remembering her purpose, Marguerite hung her head. ‘Angus is dead,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ewan passed a hand rapidly over his eyes. He stared over the battlements, back straight, head high. Marguerite yearned to embrace him, but standing so straight and tense, he was too forbidding to touch. She allowed him a moment to recover before continuing.
‘He died without telling me anything else.’
‘Aye. And you denied me the chance yesterday to find out for myself.’ Ewan’s voice was bitter.
‘He could have told you nothing,’ she said. ‘He was too ill. I don’t think he knew anything really.’
‘Then the answer is lost.’ Ewan pointed over her shoulder. ‘D’you see that largest group? Donald McCrieff is among them and Duncan is with him. They know why!’ Marguerite reeled at the mention of Duncan, but Ewan did not appear to notice her consternation. ‘Should I open the gates? Shall I go walk among them and invite Donald to tell me? Shall I suggest he bring his cousin, too?’
‘No! They’d cut you down. You can’t go out there!’ Marguerite exclaimed. She seized his arms, worried he might do as he threatened. He looked at her hand as if he did not know what he was seeing.
Two men had separated from the rest of the McCrieffs and had walked closer to the gatehouse. Maybe it was Ewan’s and Marguerite’s raised voices travelling on the wind that had caught their attention. Maybe they were planning to stand in any case. Duncan McCrieff stared straight at her.
‘He’s seen me.’
Marguerite flung herself behind the high wall. Ewan’s arms came instantly about her waist, holding her steady. He was talking, but she could not make out the words for the buzzing that filled her ears.
‘Did they steal Rory in revenge for me leaving? I cannot bear to think it is my doing you have such troubles.’
Her voice came out as a half-sob. She tried to wrestle free, flinging herself towards the door to the staircase, but Ewan held firm around her waist until she stopped struggling.
‘Calm yourself, Maggie,’ he growled. ‘I need you to be strong for me. I have to concentrate on ridding my land of those cursed McCrieffs. I canna do this if I’m thinking of you. I need a clear head.’
Guilt surged through her. She had already asked more than enough of him. She bit her lip and tried to breathe slowly. Ewan took her face between his hands and pressed his lips against her forehead, leaving a trace of heat. His temper had subsided.
‘I don’t think you’re the reason, lass. Duncan is here because his cousin is. A clansman will rally round his Chief, however foolish his actions.’
Marguerite squeezed her eyes closed, hoping he was right, and rested her head against his chest. A body had not been stolen because she had run from Duncan.
‘Have you sent messages to the villages to call your men?’
‘Aye.’ Ewan sighed. ‘I have a handful more men, but not enough. They would have come to my father’s call at least.’
His voice was bitter and full of doubt.
‘And they will come to you,’ Marguerite said firmly. She raised her head, staring deep into his eyes. ‘They will trust in you and follow you. You’re Earl of Glenarris.’
Ewan’s eyes filled with uncertainty.
‘That’s a title that matters in court, but means little to the people who live here. I’m their Laird, their Chief, but I’m unproven. I don’t know that they’ll listen to a word I say.’
She clutched his hands, pulling them to her heart. ‘I know that they will. If you were my Laird, I would follow you anywhere you beckoned.’
‘You don’t do a thing I tell you,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘No. But I do anything you ask.’
They looked at each other in silence. On an unspoken signal both fell into the kiss at the same time, lips meeting roughly, hands tearing greedily at each other. Lust flooded Marguerite and she pressed herself against him, feeling the hardness of his chest and limbs and revelling in the excitement that surged through her. Ewan tore himself away with a violence that was alarming.
‘I cannot do this,’ he groaned. ‘I will not. I want you beyond all reason and you addle my senses, Maggie. I can think of nothing else when you’re near me.’ He raked his hands through his hair and stumbled backwards.
He wanted her, but would not allow himself to have her.
It was unbearable to see his anguish and know she was keeping him from his duty. The guilt intensified.
‘Then I shall not come near you,’ she cried.
She tore herself from his arms and almost fell down the stairs in her haste to be away. She could hear him calling her name, but ran down the stairs and back through the keep. Tears streaked her face and she was conscious of servants looking at her with open curiosity. She could not bear to go back to the room where Angus lay, but there was nowhere she belonged.
A familiar urge came over her that had been buried since she began travelling with Ewan. She needed to be alone and free. In haste she retraced her steps to the cellars and the tunnel. She would take refuge on the beach until she calmed herself enough that she would not hinder Ewan’s attempts to find out what had happened to the remains that obsessed him. No doubt he would not miss her for an hour. He would probably not notice she was gone at all.
She made her way hesitantly through the dim tunnel towards a faint shaft of daylight, remembering which way to turn when the tunnel joined with the one leading to the chapel, and emerged on the beach. The boat was gone, taking or bringing men to aid Ewan. Marguerite strode along the back of the beach as far as she could, hitching her skirts and feeling the wind whipping round her body like a caress. When she reached the rock Ewan had called the Devil’s Seat, she clambered with difficulty upwards and perched on the flat stone. From there she could see the castle wall rising high and forbidding. If there was a path it was too overgrown and when she reached the wall there would most likely be no way in. There should be a gate. She would suggest it to Ewan when she saw him next, assuming he could bear to tolerate her company.
She lay back and stared at the clouds that were gathering overhead, darkening as they rolled inwards from the sea in black and grey that perfectly echoed her mood.
* * *
She lost the afternoon and when she sat up the tide had started to come in and a fine drizzle had begun. She had to wade ankle deep from the rocks back to the beach. She was in danger of being cut off and would have to spend the night on the rock unless she hurried down.
As she stood and surveyed the waves, a small craft made its way around the outcrop of rocks from the direction of the sea loch. Marguerite could make out three or four figures rowing, but the boat seemed to be going past the beach. She waved, thrilled to see that assistance was arriving and made her way to the jetty, intending to meet them. The boat began heading to shore. When it was almost upon Marguerite she noticed something that made her heart stop. The occupants were dressed in plaid of brown and green. The colours worn by the McCrieffs. These were not friends, but spies.
Sense told her not to head towards the entrance to the tunnel. Instead she ran towards the Devil’s Seat. If she did nothing else, she would lead them on to the rocks to be stranded from their boat. Cries reached her ears, accompanied by feet crunching on sand. A hand closed over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound came out muffled and useless. She clawed at the hand, twisting her head back and forth. At one point she managed to force her lips apart enough to scrape her teeth over her assailant’s finger, but she was not freed and the blow to the head she received set her ears ringing.
‘Be quiet, woman!’
A great weight of cloth was pulled over her head, tight across her
face, wrapped around her arms to pin them to her side. Breathing became harder through the swathes of fabric and though Marguerite drew deep breaths, she could feel herself beginning to faint. The most sensible thing was to remain motionless and compliant, so even though terror swam through her veins, Marguerite went limp. Hands grabbed each arm, leading her forward. Blind now and having to place her trust in her captors, she allowed herself to be led on stumbling feet back down the jetty. She was lifted, then placed down at full length on the bottom of the boat. She heard the oars being taken up and then they were moving. She gave a soft moan of anguish as all hope that Ewan or one of his men would see and intervene crumbled.
Lying face up on the hard boards and rocking up and down, Marguerite fought to control the surging nausea. The idea that she might vomit into the cloth that bound her face was unbearable. She would choke and die. She had no such qualms about crying and hot tears spilled from her eyes, blinding her further and stinging her cheeks where they soaked into the cloth.
Chapter Twenty
By nightfall there were thirty more men in Castle Lochmore than there had been the day before, smuggled in through the beach tunnel. They assembled in the long gallery, fishermen and farmers carrying whatever weapon they had to hand. Lochmores all. Ewan had not rested or eaten since descending from the tower, but had spent the hours amassing weapons and discussing strategy with Connor. There were not as many men as Ewan would have liked, but thirty more than Donald McCrieff expected and they had come at his behest. Ewan ached to the bone and emptiness gnawed his belly. He stood clad in his brat and carrying Hamish’s great targe, feeling the ghosts of Hamish and Angus watching in judgement. Hunger and exhaustion were trivial now.
‘Thank you for coming to my call, especially after the losses we have all suffered at Flodden.’ He paused as a wail of shared grief raced around the room. How could he demand more die when they had already lost fathers, brothers and sons? How could that be his first act as Laird of Lochmore? He leaned his arms on the targe. The shield was heavy and weighed almost as much as the load on Ewan’s heart. He swilled the words round his mouth carefully before speaking again.
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 21