Ewan narrowed his eyes at Donald. ‘What trick is this?’
Donald frowned. ‘Not mine.’
Ewan took the proffered bag and pulled out the contents. A long braid of raven hair stared up at him, the ends tied together with a familiar ribbon. Ewan’s body convulsed with terror and elation. He almost dropped the braid in shock, but bunched his fist as if it was the most precious object in Scotland.
The messenger’s eyes were wide with terror. He pointed to the bag.
‘A message.’
Ewan’s fingers closed over a scrap of parchment he had missed before.
You stole my bride. I have taken her back.
The meaning was clear. Marguerite had not died. She had been taken from the beach.
From him.
Ewan bared his teeth. The braid mocked his relief. Marguerite was alive, but she was just as lost to him. Blackness as dark as Marguerite’s desecrated locks filled his vision as he willed some other reality to take the place of this fresh nightmare.
Fury surged in Ewan’s blood and he reached for his dagger with a roar, rounding on Donald.
‘Are you party to this?’
‘Not I. My cousin has been obsessed with that woman since she fled. I might have guessed a Lochmore would have been involved.’
The messenger was waiting. Ewan jerked a thumb. ‘Go back to your master. Tell him to come here and bring the woman. I will bring down the wrath of every Lochmore from now until Judgement Day if she has been harmed.’
The man ran. Donald sheathed his sword. When Ewan raised his eyebrow, he smirked.
‘I can wait. I’ll enjoy cutting you down alongside Duncan.’
Ewan ground his teeth. Duncan had Marguerite. Donald was here, bearing the secrets Ewan needed to discover. When he gave the signal to the waiting men he would have to act fast, but who to take down? He could not fight them both. An impossible choice.
Presently Duncan strolled along the edge of the water, Marguerite’s arm through his, as if he were taking a stroll round the gardens at Stirling. Only the tightening of his fingers about her wrist hinted Marguerite was not a willing companion.
‘I found my bride, as you can see.’
There was no mass of raven hair to hide Marguerite’s face and it tore at Ewan’s heart and guts to see how she had been defiled. She stood silently beside Duncan, her head down.
‘She says she carries your child, Lochmore! Is this true?’
Ewan’s heart seized. If it were true, he could not bear to imagine how Duncan had come by that knowledge. Marguerite had said nothing to him, but he had barely given her the opportunity, as he had been preoccupied with the siege and Rory’s disappearance. It was the thing she dreaded most and she had been facing the prospect alone.
‘I could not say.’
Duncan bared his teeth. ‘I do not allow another man to break in my horse. To deny me that pleasure with my wife is to sign your death warrant!’
The moment Ewan had delayed was here. He gave a shrill whistle and the Lochmore men spilled through the gates, screaming battle cries. They fell on the unprepared McCrieffs. Donald shot Ewan a look of hatred and threw himself into the fight alongside his men. The Lochmores were fewer in number, but defending their home and honour. They fought with a ferocity that the McCrieffs could not match, driving them towards the marshy silt of the low tide as Ewan had instructed. Ewan turned his attention to Duncan. The two men faced each other, circling around.
‘You’re a traitor to Scotland, Duncan. Admit it! Release Mademoiselle Vallon and surrender.’
‘I’ll do neither,’ Duncan snarled.
‘Then fight!’ Ewan screamed, charging forward.
Duncan pushed Marguerite aside and the two men met with a clash of swords. Their feet slithered in the mud as they grappled, gouging at eyes and necks. Both men reached the conclusion simultaneously that swords were useless and hurled them aside. Ewan reached for the knife at his belt. His mind slipped back to the argument with Marguerite by the loch and he tightened his hand on the handle while he delivered a series of sharp jabs to Duncan’s ribs with his other fist. Duncan kicked his kneecap and Ewan’s leg buckled, sending him to the ground. He flailed as he fell, catching Duncan with a glancing cut across the arm that caused him to yell in pain. Ewan reached up, grasped Duncan by the shoulders and butted him squarely in the nose.
As Duncan reeled, Ewan scythed the legs from underneath him and managed to clamber astride him, hands closing over Duncan’s throat. Duncan’s eyes began to bulge, his already florid face turning scarlet.
‘You’re killing him!’ Marguerite cried. ‘Stop!’
Ewan was never sure if he would have choked the life from his enemy because at that moment a hunting horn sounded and a horse thundered along the road, scattering McCrieff and Lochmores men aside.
‘In the name of the Holy Virgin, someone explain what is happening here!’
Malcolm, Laird of the McCrieff clan, dismounted and strode forward, adjusting his brown and green brat. The fighting ceased, men paused where they stood. There had been losses on both sides and in the mix of mud and blood it was hard to tell who fought with whom.
Ewan climbed off Duncan, who crawled on his knees to slump beside his uncle. Donald staggered over. Ewan faced the three McCrieffs. Bald and hawk-like, Malcolm wore his sixty years well and commanded attention with an ease Ewan envied, despite the longstanding feud.
‘I return to Castle McCrieff to discover my son absent and news of a siege. Why?’
‘Your son attacked my home,’ Ewan growled. ‘He stole the body of Rory Lochmore. I want it back and I want to know why it was taken.’
Malcolm laughed unpleasantly. ‘The reason has been passed down through generations of McCrieff and Lochmore lairds, but it isn’t my responsibility to tell you. That’s your tragedy, Ewan Lochmore. Why are you fighting my nephew?’
‘I believe he’s a spy and a traitor to Scotland,’ Ewan said. He could not explain his claim to Marguerite. He didn’t have a right to her by any measure.
Malcolm’s eyes tightened. ‘Explain quickly before I gut you for slandering my clan’s name.’
‘My father knew someone was passing messages to Rouge Croix in the preparation for the invasion of England. He only hinted who it was and I suspect Duncan. He has the connections and the reason to travel. I think he betrayed Scotland to the English with the aim of gaining McNab’s land for your son. He certainly promoted the cause of Margaret Tudor in deciding the Regency.’
Malcolm’s face betrayed nothing. Remembering something else, Ewan sneered.
‘He brought his English kin into Scotland. Do you want it said McCrieffs need English mercenaries to win a fight?’
‘Guard your tongue before I cut it out,’ Malcolm growled. ‘McCrieffs need no aid to win a fight. You’d better be sure of this before you repeat it, Lochmore.’
Ewan raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d swear over the body of Rory Lochmore if you’ll return it.’
Malcolm dipped his head, but Ewan saw a flash of a grin. ‘A good try, but, no.’
‘See for yourself.’ Ewan gestured towards Duncan’s brother-in-law, who had been lurking at the back of the crowd. He looked alarmed by the attention on him. Malcolm shot a look of hatred at the Englishmen.
‘You have my ear,’ he said to Ewan.
‘It may not be enough to convict, but if Robert Morayshill is convinced by what I put before him, there should be a trial.’
Malcolm stared at his nephew, who avoided his eye. ‘Is what he says true?’
‘He’s lying,’ Duncan muttered, but his voice was unconvincing and laden with defeat.
‘Duncan plans to live in England.’ The three men turned to look at Marguerite, who had spoken in a rush. She pointed at her former fiancé. ‘He told me he would take me to Berwick once he had killed Ewan.’
&nb
sp; Duncan bared his teeth. ‘You’d be better to keep your mouth closed, you French whore!’
She lifted her chin defiantly, while moving further out of his reach. ‘You want this castle, but your daughter will not care for a dowry taken with blood.’
‘It’s the French woman Lochmore wants,’ Duncan snarled. ‘That’s why they’ve concocted these lies. They’ve been rutting like deer since he stole her. She belongs to me!’
Ewan glared at Duncan with hatred stronger than he had ever felt for anyone. ‘She belongs to no one but herself.’
‘And what of Mademoiselle Vallon?’ Malcolm took Marguerite’s hand. ‘Donald has a wife and Duncan won’t be marrying her if what you say is true. I’m a widower and a pretty young bride would liven up my final years.’
Ewan finally allowed himself to meet Marguerite’s eye.
‘She can make her own choice.’
Marguerite bit her lip. If Duncan in his thirties was unappealing, Malcolm at almost double that must be more so. She dipped him a curtsy and gave him the coy smile that Ewan recognised now as insincere. She had never used it on him.
‘I will return to France as I planned and, if it please you, Lord Glenarris shall be the one to take me.’
Malcolm gave a strange smile. ‘We shall see.’
He spat on the ground before Duncan. ‘I’m a Scot. It shames me to think this cur is of my blood and I’ll not have it said the McCrieffs harbour a traitor. The clan will deal with him.’
‘That isn’t good enough,’ Ewan said. ‘He’ll be taken to Stirling for the court to decide his fate. Hand him over.’
‘Temper your tongue unless you want to fight all three of us,’ Malcolm cautioned. ‘I hated your father, but I respected him. I know nothing of you. Defy me and you’ll make an enemy for life.’
Ewan smiled grimly.
‘I’m a Lochmore. You’re a McCrieff. I assumed that would be the case anyhow. I’ll fight you if I have to, though I think Scotland has lost enough men already.’
‘Ha! You’ve got balls after all,’ Malcolm said, respect creeping into his eyes. ‘In that case I offer you a choice, Lochmore. Duncan and Mademoiselle Vallon or the knowledge of why Rory Lochmore’s body was taken.’
The choice was impossible. He burned to see Duncan brought to justice, a trial in the open and a sentence of death, if he was found guilty, but he desperately wanted to discover the secret of Rory Lochmore’s grave. There was something he wanted more than either of them and there was only one way to ensure that.
‘Give me Duncan and Marguerite.’ He looked Malcolm in the eye. ‘Take your son and his men and leave.’
Duncan swore. ‘Uncle! No! The McNab land was meant for Donald. To give us more than the Lochmores have. Why should we have so little?’
Malcolm silenced him with a glare. Connor and two Lochmores seized Duncan by the arms and dragged him towards the castle.
‘He’ll be kept safely until an escort can be arranged to return him to Stirling. I’ll see he has a fair trial.’
Malcolm returned to his horse and whistled to Donald to follow. Ewan waited until all the able-bodied McCrieffs had left before turning to Marguerite. Aware that he was being watched by men from both clans, he intended to do nothing more than give her an arm to lean on, but by the time he was at her side he was trembling from head to toe with the need to touch her. He gathered her to him in an embrace he had thought never to have again.
‘Oh, Maggie. Oh, lass. What did he do to you?’
Her fingers were ice against his neck. He pulled her beneath his brat, cleaving to her, and she melted against him. Desire rose within Ewan, but greater than the urge to have her was the need to comfort her, to keep her close. Ewan buried his head in the ruin of her hair, wetting it with tears.
‘You’re crying,’ she sniffed.
He couldn’t tell her about the beach. Not yet, when his heart was still raw from the devastating belief that his world had ended. He had to keep holding her to convince himself she was not a ghost after all.
‘Your beautiful hair,’ he murmured when he was capable once more of speaking.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
She tightened her arms around his waist. Ewan groaned as the sharp stab of pain in his ribs recalled the other injured men. ‘I must attend to my people. Will you help me?’
She stroked the swelling beneath his eye with her fingertips. Her touch was fire on the aching skin. ‘I can be useful here. Let me start by attending to you.’
Hand in hand they walked to the gatehouse, where Ewan issued instructions for the wounded to be taken to the Long Gallery. Marguerite tied a veil round her head and began ordering servants how best to treat the injured, throwing herself into staunching blood and wrapping wounds. Ewan watched with a smile. The small woman commanded his household better than he commanded soldiers. She glowed more than she ever had in court at Stirling. She needed a purpose to come alive.
Thanks to Marguerite’s nursing, death did not claim many men. She worked tirelessly in the company of the castle women. Ewan buried the churlish jealousy that he could not claim her for himself, while relishing the excuse to delay what must prove to be a heartbreaking conversation.
* * *
Ewan threw a feast a week later, gathering the clan from villages all over. Bonfires burned again outside the castle walls, this time in celebration. He distributed the alms owed, adding more to compensate for the lives lost in the siege. There was dancing and feasting long into the night. Ewan walked among the men, thanking them for their service. His heart lifting as each man called him Laird. He had discovered the traitor as he had promised Morayshill. He had fought and won his first battle as Chief of the clan. He had faced down Malcolm McCrieff. Not as an equal yet, but the seeds had been planted.
And yet his heart was lead.
Marguerite was dancing, head thrown back in laughter. She wore a dress of orange and brown. Lochmore colours. She had few clothes to choose from, but Ewan wondered if she had picked the gown to match the brat he wore.
When he was sure their absence would not be noted Ewan beckoned her over and they walked to the chapel. Ewan stopped at the door. He could not face entering the crypt and seeing the empty space where Rory should belong. To be reminded of his great failure.
‘You could have had the answer to your question, yet you chose Duncan,’ Marguerite said.
Was his regret so obvious she could read it on his face? It died instantly. With her at his side Ewan knew there could have been no other decision. He would brick up the tomb and leave Ailsa to rest in peace. The secrets of the past could sleep with her. There would be a new beginning for a new laird. He reached for Marguerite’s hand.
‘While Duncan was free you would never have been at ease. Now you have no need to hide and you can return to France without fear.’
Her fingers stiffened. She slipped her hand free. ‘Yes. Of course. Thank you.’
Ewan bowed his head. What had he hoped? That she would stay here in a country she hated after everything she had endured.
A question burst from him. ‘Did Duncan speak the truth about a child?’
Her hand strayed to her belly, but she shook her head uncertainly. ‘It would be too soon to say. I thought he was going to strike me and it was the first thing I thought of to stop him.’
There was no child. He had no right to ask her to stay.
‘I’ve sent word to Stirling requesting an escort for Duncan. I can appreciate you might not wish to travel with them, but when you are ready to leave, tell me and I will make arrangements,’ he said. ‘They could be here within a week and you can be in France before October is out.’
‘I shall not go immediately, if you permit,’ she replied. Her eyes searched his face and he realised she was looking for the same confirmation he wanted.
‘I would like you to stay as long as you
wish,’ he said warmly.
‘As long as I wish?’ She raised her eyes to his. They were almost fully black in the darkness, but the distant light of the bonfires made them gleam. ‘That might be a very long time, Ewan.’
He had not touched her since the day of the battle, but now he drew her to him. It was a cold night after all. She came to his arms willingly, lifting up on to her toes so that their lips were close. Ewan’s scalp prickled and his stomach flipped over with unbearable desire. He drew a sharp breath.
‘Maggie, what are you doing?’
‘Ewan,’ she breathed, putting her lips close to his ear. ‘I am trying my hardest to seduce you.’
‘Are you saying farewell?’ he asked.
‘No.’ She raised her brows in surprise. ‘Why are you making it so difficult?’
He took her face and gazed into her eyes. ‘Because I experience such joy when I take you in my arms that I do not know if I can bear the pain when you leave me.’
Even as he spoke he was lowering her to the ground and sinking with her. She lay back on the grass, arms raised behind her head and looked at him with an expression that was a combination of trust and desire. He brushed his fingers over her lips, enjoying the way they parted as he touched them.
‘I keep saying no more and I keep breaking that vow.’
‘Then stop vowing something so foolish.’ Marguerite sighed, tilting her head back and closing her eyes so that her long lashes lay on her alabaster cheeks.
Ewan moved his fingers slowly up to her cheekbones, then brushed them over the closed eyelids before replacing his fingers with his lips and following the same path. His hands moved to her hair. He ran his fingers through it as he loved to do, watching the strands catch the light of the bonfires, but stopped when the silken blackness ended far too soon. Marguerite opened her eyes.
‘It will grow back,’ she murmured.
‘It reminds me how I felt when I saw your braid.’ He looked at her bleakly. He withdrew his hand, bunching his fist as cold perspiration washed over his brow. ‘Knowing it meant Duncan had you. It was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced.’
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 23