“Aye,” Ann said, lifting her apron away from her skirt and fanning her face. “I suppose tis true. So, do ye think ye’ll be invited to the wedding?”
“Unlikely. The last time I saw her was at my father’s funeral, and that was already two years ago.”
“Right, when the ninny walked ‘round the house expecting everyone to shower her with praise for taking the single day journey north in order to comfort her poor cousins,” Ann said in a mocking tone. “Oh well, I’m sure ‘twill be a foolish affair. All weddings are.”
“If you keep up that sort of talk, I won’t invite you to my wedding,” Margaret teased.
Ann groaned. “Margaret, do ye really think that marrying—”
Ann was interrupted with a large crash from the floor upstairs. Her entire face went pale before it boiled back up into a steamy hot red that even Mariah could never muster.
“Those girls…” she hissed as she stood and went rushing up the steps.
Margaret watched Ann go, feeling too exhausted to join her as her mind slipped back to Isobel.
There were many days that Margaret envied Isobel; days like today where every muscle in her body ached after a long day of work and all she had to show for it were a few coins and a pair of cheap candlesticks. While she heaved bundles of hides here and there, she would imagine her cousin sitting in some overly stuffed chair, her thin lips pursed and stained red from an afternoon cup of wine while she debated what dress to wear to supper. Her cousin’s life had always seemed so easy, so privileged, with her wanting for nothing while Margaret felt the pain of every small purchase in the calloused crevices of her hands.
Now what was there to envy? Isobel may have been blessed in some ways, but Margaret would always have an edge over her cousin in at least one regard.
A soft, gentle knock on the door roused her, and Margaret stood, ripping the cap off of her head and running her fingers through her hair to loosen the tangled waves as she crossed to the door and pulled it open.
Choice. The word slipped through Margaret’s body like a summer’s breeze, loosening the tightness in her shoulders that she hadn’t even felt building.
The lad standing on her doorstep straightened just a bit when he saw her, his eyebrow rising just a bit as his dark eyes looked her up and down. After a long pause, he said, “How is it that those clothes look better on ye than they ever did on me?”
Margaret blushed and leaned into the doorway. “Be careful, Gavin. You’ll never see me in a dress again if you keep that up.”
Gavin’s smile broadened, and he reached out and pulled her into the darkness, boldly enveloping her in his arms. “I missed ye, lass.”
“You would not have to if you stopped them from taking you on such long trips,” Margaret replied, earning a small grunt of amusement from Gavin that she felt vibrate into her own chest.
For so much of her life, the dark-haired boy next door had been nothing more than a nuisance—her brother’s companion for every practical joke and pull of her hair. She had despised every moment that she was forced to spend in his presence, wishing that he would stop teasing her and giving her strange looks from across the room.
“Someday, you might come to appreciate his attentions,” her mother had said with a coy smile when a twelve-year-old Margaret had complained about his near constant presence in her life. “Every lass will someday need a lad.”
“But,” her father had interjected, lowering his papers so he could give his wife a stern look, “in the meantime, you can do your father a favor by avoiding lads at all cost.”
Though Margaret’s mother had sighed and rolled her eyes, Margaret had taken her father’s statement as if it were law. Whenever she thought she could hear Gavin’s voice echoing through the halls of the house, Margaret had made a point of disappearing. Her father’s office became her refuge, where he would silently pass her some boring tome or another about business, the leather trade, or history, and Margaret would let herself enjoy the comfort and security of her father’s presence.
But then Margaret’s mother had died. And then her father had followed into her the grave a year later. One afternoon, only a week after her father had been buried, Margaret had felt the walls of the house caving in upon her, and the tears had come so suddenly and so fiercely that there was nothing she could do to tame them. That had been when Gavin appeared in the doorway, his face frozen as he watched her try in vain to brush away the tears. There had been nowhere for her to run anymore, nowhere for her to hide. Her safe haven was buried in the ground and all she could do was let Gavin see her suffering.
That had been the first time he had embraced her, pulling her from her seat and into his arms with a strength she hadn’t known he possessed. Though she knew she should have pushed him away, she found herself trapped in his arms, unable to do anything but accept the comfort as he told her that he would take care of her, that he would keep her safe.
Her mother had been right. She now needed his attention nearly as much as she needed air.
When Gavin finally released her, his arms slipping back down to his side slowly, as if he was fighting every inch, Margaret led him back into the house and shut the door behind him with a bit more force than was necessary, hoping Ann would hear the sound from wherever she was in the house and know what it meant. While Margaret had outgrown her distaste for Gavin, Ann had not.
“So,” Margaret started, “what did my uncle have you do this time?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” Gavin said in his usual way as he wandered into the sitting room.
“Where is Alan?” Gavin asked, looking up and around as if he would find Margaret’s brother embedded in the woodwork.
“Who knows.”
Gavin studied her face, as if waiting for her to react, before his eyes slipped away and began to study the room, eventually coming to pause on the mantle. Margaret winced, instantly realizing what he was looking at. Or, rather, not looking at.
Her father had always made a point of bringing her mother back some trinket or bauble from his travels. There had been vials of sand from the beaches of the Mediterranean, amethyst crystals from France, and tiny glass figurines from London, all displayed on this very mantle. But in the years following her father’s death, the collection had slowly dwindled until all that had remained was a small silver box containing locks of her parents’ hair braided together. Margaret had thought that it, more than anything else on the mantle, had been priceless. But it hadn’t been.
Margaret saw Gavin’s face cloud. She watched the change with a heart that felt suddenly like it was carved of stone, hanging both heavily and unsympathetic in her chest. Why had he gone looking for another sign of her house being stripped bare if it was going to upset him?
“When will you take me away from this place?” Margaret asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Gavin took a deep breath and held it for a long moment before he let it slip back from his lips. “I havena earned enough money yet to give ye the house ye deserve.”
“Anything you could give would be better than this,” Margaret said, her voice cracking.
Gavin came over to her, reaching for her face as if he intended to pull it to his own, but his hands froze midair. They hovered there helplessly for half a heartbeat before Gavin cleared his throat and dropped his hand to his side, his fingers balling up into a fist that she was sure was designed to contain them from attempting some other reckless act. Other than the occasional hug, Gavin never touched her out of respect for her uncle.
After a few moments of silence, Gavin finally said, “It won’t be much longer.”
“But—” Margaret started.
“Yer the niece of the laird—a man that I owe more than just my respect. We have to do this right, Margaret. We just have to,” Gavin said, cutting Margaret off before she could make another argument that would test his patience. “Now, tis been a long day for us both, and tis a bit improper for me to be here so late without your broth
er at home. Can I come by again in a day or two?”
“Sure,” Margaret replied, following Gavin only with her eyes as he left the room and then, unceremoniously, slipped through the door and into the dark of the night.
Margaret stood there, staring at the door, her eyes burning with the singular desire to shed a tear. But it had been years since she had cried last, on the day that Gavin had found her at her lowest point. That night, her tears finally dried, and she vowed that the next tear she shed would be a happy one. And, so far, she had kept that vow. She wasn’t about to allow herself to cave to her pain now, for this pain was nothing compared to what she had felt before.
Margaret was so focused on blinking back tears that the door flying open sent her jumping back in fright. A figure shrouded in a filthy woolen cloak came stumbling in, and Margaret raised her fists and gave a small shout of warning, preparing to rush at the intruder before he threw back the cloak of his hood, revealing a matted mop of copper hair.
“Calm down, will ye? Ye really ken how to make yer brother feel welcome in his own house,” Alan said, his words slurring together as he clumsily undid the fastening of his cloak, letting it just fall to a heap on the floor. “Do we got any ale?”
“No,” Margaret said with a sigh. “And I do not think you need any.”
“You’re right, I need whiskey!” Alan said, reaching down to unlace a small flask from his belt. He held it up, his plump red face full of pride, as if he had done something worth her applause. When Margaret just started at him, her arms crossed in disapproval, he shrugged and took a long swig.
“Has the allowance from our uncle arrived yet?” he asked as he wiped away the dribble of dark alcohol that had slipped down into the patchy growth of hair on his chin that he must have been trying to call a beard.
“No,” Margaret said. “You would ken. You only come home the day before tis set to arrive.”
“Ach, how observant of ye. Well, then tomorrow I shall ask ye again.”
“Laura needs new shoes.”
“What?”
“I said, Laura needs new shoes. Perhaps this time, you can leave us just a bit of the allowance so that your sister can have a proper pair of shoes.”
Alan rounded on her, the glossy shroud over his eyes clearing ever so slightly as the recognition that his sister was fighting back sobered him. “Well, I have more pressing needs. I spend day in and day out looking for better opportunities for this family. Do ye think that comes fer free? Ye’ll find a way to pay for Laura’s new shoes. Ye always do.”
Margaret stood there for a long time after Alan went up the steps, every bit of her too exhausted to do anything but breathe.
It won’t be much longer. He promised. It won’t be much longer.
Nearly two weeks later, Margaret walked up the path to her house, the afternoon sun beating down on her face and reminding her that it was far too early to be coming home from work. But there had been so little work needing to be done that day, and while the other men could shrug it off and go offer their services elsewhere for the afternoon, Margaret could not. No one else was willing to hire a lass. So, she was forced to return home with a painfully meager collection of small coins. Laura’s shoes, which Margaret had managed to patch with leather torn from a pair of her father’s old shoes, would have to be made to last another week.
Margaret was only halfway up the hill when Ann burst from the door, her face ashen and her eyes wide and wild.
“Thank God ye’re here. Hurry up, hurry up!” she hissed, rushing forward and grabbing Margaret’s arm.
“What is wrong?” Margaret replied, worry swelling in her breast. “Is it the girls?”
“Nay,” Ann hissed as she drug Margaret toward the door. “Tis your uncle.”
“My uncle?” Margaret replied, pulling her arm free from Ann’s grasp.
“Yes, as in the Laird of Clan Gunn. He is in the sitting room. He showed up this morning and I have had to entertain him all day. Did ye ken that he is an awfully impatient man who despises being kept waiting? I didn’t, but I sure ken now. Come on,” Ann replied, the words falling so quickly from her lips that Margaret could barely distinguish one from the next. “Just run up and change yer clothes as quickly as ye can.”
Margaret let Ann hustle her through the door, and she was halfway up the steps to her room when a deep voice boomed through the house, “Ann? Is that my niece finally home from heaven only kens where? Bring her to me immediately.”
Ann, hovering in the entry to the sitting room, murmured, “She is just going up to change, Laird Gunn.”
“Bloody hell, tis of little importance. Bring her to me now,” he shot back.
Margaret looked down to Ann, who was looking back up at her, her face even paler than it had been a moment prior. With a sigh, Margaret braced herself and went back down the stairs, taking a moment to brush some of the dust off of the undyed brown vest that she had on over her white shirt. Or, at least, it had once been white. Now it was more of a yellow.
Pausing just outside the room, Margaret straightened her posture and forced her face to relax so her expression could soften into ladylike demure. Then, ready to face whatever was about to come, she slipped into the room. “Uncle! Tis so good to see you.”
Her uncle had been sitting with his back to the door, so, when Margaret came in and settled herself into his view, she was able to witness his full reaction as his face morphed from anger to shock to confusion to scorn.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Working,” Margaret replied, trying to give him a cheerful smile. “I help some of the traders down at the docks.”
“You’re a lady, not a dockworker.”
“Yes, well, we all do what we must,” Margaret replied, taking the chair beside his.
“You, a lass, and are wearing trousers to present yourself to the laird of your clan,” he groaned as his hand massaged his temple. “Tis as if you were raised by beggars and not one of the most prominent merchants in Scotland.”
“Well, I did attempt to dress in a way that would have pleased you more,” or at least displeased you less, “but you insisted that I come to you immediately.”
“Aye, because I assumed that my niece wouldn’t be dressed in rags that are not even well-suited to cleaning my floor.”
Margaret tensed, annoyed at the realization that he thought her current state was more shameful for him than it was for her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Uncle?”
He shifted in his chair, clearly not ready to let the topic of her appearance go even though etiquette now implored him to allow her the change of subject. “I would rather discuss that when your brother returns.”
“Ah, so then you plan on staying with us for a while?”
His brows knit together. “Of course not. When will he return?”
“Well, the last allowance you sent arrived one week and five days ago.”
“So?”
“So, that means he is not due to be home for another two weeks and two days. Correction, one day. He always comes home the night before the next allowance comes,” Margaret replied. “Though I am sure you could find him sooner if you are willing to search every tavern, brothel, and gambling house in Thurso.”
Her uncle leaned back in his chair and looked around the room, as if he was starting to understand why things looked so decrepit. “And you just let him take the money and leave?”
“You ken, I never thought about stopping him,” Margaret said, slapping her hand against her leg in mock discovery. “Next time, I’ll just keep him here at sword point.”
His eyes flashed over to her, his face tight with annoyance. “Tis not—”
“Oh, wait,” Margaret interrupted, “you are right. I am your niece and a lady. I should keep him here at needlepoint. Perhaps less effective, but far more appropriate.”
The laird looked suddenly exhausted, as if her words had leeched away the last vestiges of energy left in his bones. Margaret thought s
he even saw a few of the hairs on his head turn gray. “I always thought you to be the perfect image of your father, but here I am finding out that you had your mother’s mouth all along.”
“What are you doing here, Uncle?” Margaret asked, trying not to let herself feel warmed by the comparison to her mother, for he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.
He sighed, long and deep, turning his gaze to the crackling fire in the hearth. “Isobel is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“I believe the meaning is quite clear. We do not ken where she is or when she is returning.” He hesitated, a look of pain coming over his features. “Or if she will ever return.”
“But, why would—”
“Because your cousin is a foolish girl with dreams of grandeur that reach far beyond her means,” her uncle snapped.
“Her and that Mackay lad exchanged one bloody letter and I guess it was not poetic enough for her. She said that the marriage would be pointless. I thought she was putting on airs to show her displeasure at having to marry a Mackay, as any good Gunn lass would, but that foolish lass actually had the nerve to run off.”
Margaret twisted her fingers to keep them from ripping her hair from her head as she processed the news. “But what about the queen’s order? She’ll have her head—all of our heads.”
Her uncle, who mere moments ago had been shaking with rage, was suddenly still. His green eyes, which were a perfect match to Margaret’s own, were twinkling with what looked like happiness. It took Margaret a moment to realize why and, when she did, she felt the color drain from her face. “No, absolutely not.”
“Like your life here is so fine?” her uncle said, gesturing around the barren room with its worn-out carpets and emptied shelves.
“Tis finer to live like this than to wed a Mackay.”
“Is it?” her uncle pressed. “Will it still be so fine when the queen marches north to burn every Gunn she can find to satisfy her anger?”
Highlander's Torn Bride (Highlander's Seductive Lasses Book 2) Page 2