A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  ‘Donald McCrieff has violated our home. Our stronghold. He has stolen the greatest of our Chiefs from his resting place and I want to know why.’ He waited while the anticipated uproar died away.

  ‘At first light we attack. Drive as many McCrieffs as you can into the marshland. Let the tide and sands claim them, but leave Donald to me.’

  The first cheers came from the back of the room and were joined from all corners. His name was roared and the cry built in volume until Ewan feared it would be heard by the men camped outside the walls. His heart swelled and for the first time he dared to believe Marguerite’s words. His clan would accept him as Chief. He just had to survive long enough to prove his worth.

  Marguerite. He felt a pang of remorse. He had not thought of her since they had parted, but now his mind was filled with the image of her face twisted with pain as he rejected the kiss he so yearned to lose himself in. He joined the men at the long tables as they fell on the meal with enthusiasm, picking here and there at a dish and exchanging words, but as soon as he could he found Connor and drew him aside.

  ‘Has anyone attended to Mademoiselle Vallon? Is she in the guest chamber with Angus?’

  Ewan pictured her sitting alone with the body, but the answer to both questions was negative. Angus had been moved in preparation for burial and the chamber was empty. A rapid search of the castle found no trace of Marguerite. There was only one way she could have left. Ewan gritted his teeth, remembering her habit of stealing out of Stirling Castle to be alone.

  ‘She’ll be on the beach. I wish she would get out of this habit of roaming about alone,’ he said, trying to ignore the mounting anxiety that she should have returned long before dusk. ‘She’ll have lost the way back to entrance.’

  He picked up a lantern and made his way to the tunnel, Connor and a handful of men in tow. He expected to find her sitting on the jetty or pacing up and down looking for the passageway, but the beach was deserted. Ewan ran from one end to the other, calling for Marguerite to no avail. The tide was high on the shore and the tramping of men as they arrived had obliterated any tracks that led from the jetty to the tunnel. He found three remaining footprints at the rocks topped by the Devil’s Seat. The rocks were now surrounded by water on all sides apart from the thinnest strip of beach and there were no returning prints. She had climbed up there at some point. Ewan scaled the rocks and shone the lantern in all directions but there was no sign of Marguerite. He clambered down and shook his head. Connor joined him.

  ‘There’s no sign of her at the far end. If she climbed the rocks—’

  ‘I know.’

  Ewan cut him off, unable to hear Marguerite’s fate described. He sank to his knees, eyes swimming as he pictured her slipping from the rocks, caught by the tide. Had she called for help before she was swept beneath the waves? Had she fought or was her end mercifully sudden? He clutched handfuls of sand from her footprints and buried his face in them, blinded by tears.

  So many deaths.

  Hamish.

  John.

  Angus.

  Each had struck him so deeply he had believed no more sorrow was imaginable, but the thought of Marguerite’s emptied his soul of everything, leaving him numb. He had loved her too late and too badly. A few weeks more and she would have gone from him in any case, but the finality and cruel manner in which she had been snatched was unendurable. He had pushed her from him and she would have died without knowing how he loved her. He threw his head back and roared to the sky, not caring what Connor or the searchers thought.

  ‘Laird, you canna stay here. You have to prepare for tomorrow,’ Connor urged.

  He wanted to spit his answer in fury. What did he care for tomorrow? What was a day without Marguerite alive?

  Drawing strength from a reserve he did not know he possessed, he pulled himself to his feet. He was not alone. He had a clan who needed his guidance. Marguerite had said they would come to his aid and she had been right. He had responsibilities that he had shied away from for too long. He would prove to the memories of those he had lost that he was worthy of the faith they had shown in him.

  * * *

  Marguerite’s ordeal ended sooner than she had feared. A grinding sound close to her ears told her that the boat was being drawn up on land. Marguerite was hauled upright and again lifted over the side of the boat. She was dragged a short way over rocks, slipping at one point and grazing her knees painfully. No one had spoken aloud for some time, but now her captors began muttering to each other and another voice joined them.

  The cloth was unwound. Marguerite breathed in the salty air, dragging it down into her lungs with relief, resisting the urge to drop to her knees. In any case she could not have, because her two captors held her upright, each holding her by an arm, knives ready in their free hands, presumably in case she might try to run or otherwise misbehave. At the sight of the blades she decided she would do exactly what she was told.

  The light-headedness began to withdraw and finally she looked around. They were still by water, but unlike the wide, sandy bay behind Lochmore Castle, they were in woodland. Four men squatted beside a fire pit with a piece of meat turning on a spit, all wearing heavy cloaks.

  ‘Sweet Lord! Who do you have here?’

  One man stood. He lowered his hood and walked towards Marguerite.

  ‘Duncan!’

  ‘Marguerite! Then it was you I saw on the tower this morning.’ Duncan gave her a charming smile and bowed, as if he was greeting her after only a morning apart. He embraced her. ‘You are unharmed?’

  ‘Beyond what your men did to me,’ she exclaimed. She tried not to recoil, but being held so close was repellent. She wriggled free of his grip before he touched her skin itself. The pleasure of being in Ewan’s arms was not something that would be transferred to another man’s touch.

  ‘We found her on the beach,’ one man called.

  Duncan narrowed his eyes. They did not know about the tunnel, or that men were coming to Ewan’s aid, and Marguerite swore they would not learn it from her.

  ‘I climbed down over the rocks, but could not climb up again. The tide came quickly.’

  ‘You’re safe with me now and we can return home. We’ll be in Berwick within two weeks. You’ll prefer living in England better than this wilderness.’

  Duncan reached for her once more. She stepped back.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  His eyes took on a dangerous light. ‘It took me time and money to discover that you were really with Lochmore after all. I had to send men back to Druinunn to ask a lot of questions before I discovered that Lochmore had lied to me. He purchased a horse and was seen with a young woman in uncommon dress.’

  ‘Lord Glenarris will come for me,’ she blurted out. Her cheeks flamed as she spoke his name.

  ‘Do you think so? How convenient. We had feared we would have to wait until they starved and opened the gates.’ Duncan smirked.

  ‘What are you going to do with me?’

  ‘I shall keep you here until Ewan Lochmore answers a message to meet him so he can have you back. Then I shall take you to him and you can watch me kill him. Once Lochmore Castle has fallen we will return to Castle McCrieff and ask my uncle to bless our marriage. He might grant me this castle as a reward for ridding him of a second Lochmore earl in only a few months of time. My Liza will have a fine dowry one day.’

  He grinned at his brother-in-law, who gave a guttural laugh.

  Ice enclosed Marguerite’s limbs. Duncan’s words contained so many promised horrors, but the thought of Ewan’s death struck her most deeply. The idea of him lying bloodless and cold at Duncan’s feet caused tears to spring to her eyes and made her throat close with torment.

  ‘Why do you hate him? Because he’s a Lochmore and you’re a McCrieff? Because he helped me? Why did you steal the body from the crypt?’

  Duncan looked
confused. ‘I know nothing of any stolen body.’ He barked a laugh. ‘Has Lochmore been filling your head with tales of slights gone by? I thought he was more enlightened than that. How disappointing. I have no time for old feuds that the clans can’t even remember the cause of. He did help you, though, and for that I will not forgive him.’

  His face was thunderous, the red in his cheeks rising. He drew closer to her, jerking his head to the men who held her. They released her and ambled to the fire to join the other men. Duncan slipped Marguerite’s arm beneath his and drew her away from the camp. She considered breaking free and trying to run into the woods, but as she dragged her feet he tightened his grip. He led her down to the water’s edge. Along the coast the walls of Lochmore Castle rose above the dense trees. They had travelled round the castle at the mouth of the open sea and were now behind the McCrieff camp.

  ‘Lochmore accused me of treachery when we met in Druinnun. For that he should die,’ Duncan told her. ‘If that brings me favour from my uncle, all to the better. Do you know of what I speak?’

  Marguerite shook her head, mystified. If Duncan would kill Ewan for an imagined slight, he would not hesitate to silence her, too. ‘We did not speak of you ever,’ she lied. ‘We did not speak at all, at first. He was too angry that I had involved him in my escape and caused him difficulty. It was days before we became friends.’

  Even in these dire circumstances, Marguerite could not help the way her voice softened and her lips curved into a smile at the memories she and Ewan shared. Duncan’s eyes narrowed and his lip twitched.

  ‘You became friends.’ His hand slipped from beneath hers and he seized her by the arm, pulling her round to face him. ‘I see you have finally left off your mourning clothes. What did you do on your journey together? What caused your grief to come to an end?’

  Marguerite bristled at his words. ‘I still mourn my mother.’

  But she didn’t as much now, did she? The heavy grief that she had once thought would weigh on her heart for ever had reduced to something that she was conscious of, but did not consume her. Her journey through Scotland in Ewan’s company, the wonderful, dizzying nights they had spent in each other’s arms and the shock of finding his home under siege had all served to fill her mind with other matters.

  ‘Did you lie with him?’

  Marguerite lowered her eyes. Every moment spent in Ewan’s arms would be one she treasured until the end of her days. To sully it by admitting it to Duncan made her writhe in misery.

  ‘Tell me the truth!’ Duncan demanded.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ She raised her head defiantly. ‘You will not want to marry me now I am no longer a virgin.’

  ‘The state of your maidenhead does not affect the value of your dowry, but I take offence at your wanton behaviour.’

  He raised his hand and she flinched.

  ‘Don’t hurt me!’ She cradled her belly, thinking fast. ‘I may already be carrying his child.’

  ‘Why would that concern me? If you are carrying Glenarris’s bastard that matter can easily be dealt with.’

  ‘You would raise his child as yours?’ Marguerite asked.

  ‘Are you an imbecile? I can delay consummating our marriage long enough to see if you are truly with child, but I’ll suffer no Lochmore mongrel in my kennels. Many infants do not survive more than a day.’

  Marguerite’s legs gave way and she dropped to the ground. She looked up at Duncan in horror.

  ‘You would murder a newborn?’

  Duncan came behind her and rested his hand on the back of her neck, squeezing firmly. Marguerite’s skin began to crawl. Duncan pushed her forward until she was kneeling.

  ‘Unlace your bodice,’ he commanded. ‘Oh, don’t fear I am about to rape you. I’ve just said I won’t touch you until I know you have an empty womb. I just want your laces.’

  Marguerite unthreaded the laces of her dress and passed them to him. Duncan ran his hand from her neck upwards and gathered her braid in one hand.

  ‘You are nothing more than a French whore. Giving yourself to him when you belong to me,’ he snapped. ‘Do you know what they did to women like you in the past?’

  He drew a knife and wrenched her head back. The blade flashed and Marguerite fell forward.

  Duncan had cut off her hair!

  He bound the loose end of her plait with the lace from her dress. The other end was tied with the ribbon Ewan had given as a birthday gift and the sight of it brought tears to Marguerite’s eyes.

  Duncan handed the braid to one of his men.

  ‘Take it to the castle at first light. Make sure you give it to Lochmore himself. I’m sure he’ll recognise it and I want to know what his face looked like.’ He turned to Marguerite. ‘Go sit by the fire and don’t even think about trying to leave. You won’t manage it and I will punish you for trying.’

  * * *

  It was a long night. Marguerite was given a small portion of the meat, but not enough to satisfy her appetite. Duncan boiled a pot of water and cooked oats. The English men turned their nose up at the resulting slop, but Marguerite was too hungry to object to the overly salted mess. She sat shivering in the dank mist that crept around her ankles and invaded her body to the bone. When it began to rain she called to Duncan.

  ‘I’m cold.’

  Duncan shrugged. ‘I have no feather bolster for you, I’m afraid.’

  He pulled his brat over his head and rolled on to his side to sleep. Marguerite hunched down against the trunk of a tree and tried to sleep. Her mind went back to the first night she had spent in Ewan’s arms. Even though he had resented her presence—and with good reason—he had behaved kindly and kept her warm and close when he must have been cold as a result. Why had it taken her so long to see past the brashness to the honourable heart that beat within him? Why had she not told him of the love she bore him?

  He was the best man she had ever known and she would give anything to stay by his side. She hoped she would get the opportunity to tell him how much he meant to her before either of them died.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Dawn was barely light. It rained softly and a biting wind blew from the sea. The last gentleness of autumn had gone, replaced by a hardness signalling the change towards winter. The cold suited Ewan, whose chest now contained a frozen rock in place of a heart. He dressed silently in a leine, thickly padded leather jerkin and brat, and made his way to the hall where his men were waiting.

  He climbed on to the dais at the end and regarded them. Wisely he had rationed the ale and uisge beatha, and was greeted with clear eyes.

  ‘As planned last night, I will leave by the main gate alone. I intend to challenge Donald in armed combat. They won’t be expecting an attack. Ready yourselves for my signal.’

  Ewan raised the targe aloft in both hands to deafening cheers. If he died, the clan might mourn the passing of a man who had been Laird all too briefly, but there were cousins here who would take his place. Lochmore would have a new laird, but he wondered if anyone would truly mourn for Ewan the man.

  * * *

  The main gate was unbarred, but Ewan left through the small door. The crash as it shut behind him sounded ominous in the silence of dawn. He walked along the path, sword and shield in hand, determined not to look back in case he somehow betrayed the presence of the men concealed behind the mighty oak doors.

  ‘Donald McCrieff,’ he shouted. ‘Show yourself.’

  He waited where the road widened into fields, ignoring the stares of McCrieff men as Donald was roused and made his way to where Ewan stood.

  ‘I thought you’d never show yourself.’ Donald smirked. ‘Have you come to surrender?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Ewan spat. ‘Leave my land and take your men with you.’

  Donald bared his teeth. ‘You were given land that should have been mine by rights. Give up the McNab estate to me and we’
ll withdraw.’

  Ewan gripped the sword. All this was for a parcel of land? He glanced over Donald’s shoulder, looking for Duncan, but he was nowhere in sight. Would he grieve over Marguerite’s death if he knew of it? Ewan’s eyes sparked with tears that he blinked away. He must not think of her now.

  ‘Where is the body of Rory Lochmore?’ he demanded. ‘Where is his brooch?’

  ‘Rory Lochmore, you say?’ Donald gave Ewan a sneering grin. ‘Is his wife lonely in her grave without him, or is her brooch enough to keep her company? Maybe you’ll meet him in the next life and you can ask him yourself.’

  Ewan forced himself to breathe evenly. He hadn’t expected a confession, but the description of Ailsa’s grave and remaining brooch was enough to satisfy him that he had the culprit. Rising to Donald’s taunts would only add to the thief’s sense of triumph.

  It was not as if Ewan had expected him to answer, nor did it change what he had come here to do. ‘I challenge you,’ Ewan said. ‘Combat between the two of us, here and now. If I win, you will return the body to its rightful place. If I lose, I will surrender the McNab land.’

  Donald’s eyes rolled and Ewan was left with the impression he was not entirely sane. ‘If you lose you’ll die and we’ll take Castle Lochmore. You can’t hold us off for ever.’

  Ewan bared his teeth, thinking of the men waiting for his signal. Lochmore Castle would not fall even if he did.

  ‘Very well. Ready yourself.’

  He raised his sword. Donald did likewise.

  ‘Stop! I bear a message for Lord Glenarris.’

  Someone was pushing through the crowd. Both fighters looked towards the ragged man, who edged closer, arm outstretched to show a small bag.