Читать книгу: «A Runaway Bride For The Highlander», страница 3

Chapter Three

Servants swept in and bore away the remains of the meal. The minstrels in the gallery, who had been playing a muted, gentle air during the meal, began to increase the pace. The music of the pipes and drums that floated from the gallery above grew louder and faster. Men were beginning to circle and stamp their feet, calling and whooping along with the drumbeat. It was hard to tell whether the unruly leaps and steps towards each other was dancing or fighting.

Many of the ladies had retired to the far end of the hall, but joining them while they spoke of the men they hoped to marry held no appeal for Marguerite. She followed Duncan to his previous place by the great fire, trying to avoid being jostled aside or seized around the waist and pulled into the circles along with the merry serving girls, who protested that they had no intention of dancing while their eyes and lips said otherwise. Apart from the fact that the steps were unfamiliar and too wild, grief had transformed Marguerite’s feet to lead. She hoped Duncan would not ask. He was so much older than she and dancing must be tiring.

‘Shall we dance?’ Duncan asked, as if he had read her thoughts.

Marguerite declined with the best smile she could muster, which Duncan accepted with a shrug.

‘Ah well. We’ll have chance to dance aplenty once we’re wed.’

Marguerite nodded dumbly, her stomach flipping over. From the inflection in his voice she did not think Duncan meant the sort of dancing they were witnessing here.

‘You seem at odds with yourself tonight,’ Duncan remarked. ‘Are you ill?’

‘My head aches.’ Marguerite clutched at the excuse Duncan had suggested. ‘I would like some air.’

‘You’re better staying close to me so I can tend you if you become faint,’ Duncan replied. He summoned a serving girl and took a cup of wine from her tray. He dismissed the girl with a pat of his hand on her lower back, then leaned close to Marguerite, passing the wine into her hand from behind. His breath was hot on her neck and he let his arm brush against the length of hers in the process as he withdrew it. She tried not to wrinkle her nose too obviously. Usually she tolerated his presence, but tonight it was an endurance. The image of his hand gripping Donald’s wrist was too vivid for her to bear being held by him. Those hands on her body...

She looked again at the centre of the Great Hall where more and more men were joining the dance. Some of them were dressed in clothes that would not look out of place in France, but others were bare legged and wore layers of cloth wrapped over jerkins of leather and padded doublets.

Lord Glenarris was among them. She caught a glimpse of the deep russet-coloured cloth he wore across his shoulder as he leapt high into the air with an energy and exuberance that took her breath away, landing sure-footed on the floor, arms outstretched. His head was thrown back and he was laughing with glee, flashing wide smiles at anyone who caught his eye. Marguerite was determined she would not catch his eye again.

She looked back at Duncan, feeling further explanation of her reservation was needed. She gestured with a hand across the room. Greater numbers of men were joining in the dancing, adding ear-splitting yells whenever the music reached a certain point Marguerite could not discern.

‘It seems so strange. I miss the statelier ways of France.’

‘We are a more expressive people,’ Duncan said. ‘You will most likely prefer the court of England. You’ll discover it is more sedate when we visit.’

He spoke with a hint of disapproval. Marguerite looked back at the dancers, trying to find some beauty in the wildness, some sense of pattern in the steps.

‘I am unfamiliar with these ways,’ she explained. ‘I was not expecting to be brought to Scotland so soon after my mother’s death.’

Her voice caught in her throat. Duncan took her hand and patted it as if he was comforting a child. He lifted it to his lips, but must have noticed the reluctance that made her instinctively stiffen because he released it after only the briefest of touches. He rubbed a long finger across his jaw, stroking his neatly trimmed red beard as he regarded her thoughtfully.

‘The timing of your arrival when my attention is on matters of politics, not love, has not been the best, I must admit. You will grow to learn our ways soon enough.’

‘Should I return to France until matters are more settled before we wed?’ Marguerite suggested.

‘No, we’ll marry as planned,’ Duncan said. ‘It will give Queen Margaret’s ladies something to keep them occupied after the coronation of the new King. They’ll enjoy fussing around with chemises and stockings and suchlike.’

Duncan gave her a smile that bordered on lascivious. Had he deliberately chosen to name items of clothing that were so intimate? It was impossible not to imagine their wedding night where he would expect access beneath the delicate layers she wore beside her skin. Cold shivers stroked down her spine at the thought of submitting to his attentions. She looked again into the centre of the room. Lord Glenarris had danced closer to them as the surging mass moved around the hall and Duncan was staring at him, arms tightly folded across his burly chest.

‘I will go take some air after all, I think,’ she murmured. ‘Excuse me.’

She made her way round the edge of the room. As the dancers came closer Lord Glenarris leapt high into a twist, arms outstretched. He landed just as Marguerite stepped out. They collided and his arm caught her a blow across the shoulder, pushing her forward. It didn’t hurt much, but she squealed in alarm, her foot slipping on the stone floor, and she bumped into a table. Lord Glenarris staggered, but found his feet quickly and righted himself. He clasped Marguerite’s hand and put his other hand on her waist and gently pulled her upright. She tensed instinctively, anticipating the revulsion that followed when Duncan did that, but none came. Instead, her fingers tingled and grew warm. She closed her fingers around his and felt the tension flood from her limbs and core.

Lord Glenarris held her firmly, yet his grip was gentler than she would have assumed from the ferocious way he had thrown himself around as he danced. He spoke rapidly in the language Marguerite was only just starting to speak with any fluency. Every Scot seemed to have a different intonation. His was soft with a melodic roll to the ‘r’s. Marguerite could only catch half the words, but it appeared he was apologising.

The clamour of other voices dimmed and the room seemed to empty, leaving only them together. Marguerite looked up into intense blue eyes and he returned her gaze, unblinking. She began to set her face into the polite smile she had been trained since childhood to show. To her surprise it came naturally and his lips curled in response. It struck Marguerite that he found her attractive. His fingers spread along her inner wrist, resting over the soft spot where her blood thrummed through her veins. Warmth rose to her breast and neck as she discovered this was far from unwelcome. When Duncan showed interest, her body never reacted in such a way. She hoped the fascination she unaccountably felt for him was not equally clear on her face.

Before she could assure him she was unharmed, Duncan had pushed through the crowd that had gathered around them and the peace was shattered.

‘Take your hands off my woman!’

He stepped between them, his elbow coming up to jab Lord Glenarris in the ribs, and he pulled Marguerite away by the arm with considerably more roughness than the Earl had inflicted on her. Both men staggered and came up with fists swinging and angry roars as they threw themselves at each other. They collided roughly. Onlookers reacted quickly and the two men were seized by others and dragged apart.

‘Watch where you’re hurling yourself, Lochmore!’ Duncan growled, shaking himself free of Donald’s hold. His cheeks were a red almost as deep as his hair. ‘I’ll gladly break your arms if you can’t keep them under control. If you’ve hurt my bride, I might do it anyway.’

Lord Glenarris’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with anger. ‘Now’s not the time or place, but I’ll gladly meet you at any other.’

‘I’m not hurt,’ Marguerite said hastily. The idea that they might inflict violence on each other because of her was intolerable. ‘I was not paying attention where I was walking.’

The Earl tore his eyes from Duncan to look at Marguerite. The fury that had filled his face disappeared, replaced with concern. He held his hands up and stepped back from Duncan and was released from the three men holding him back.

‘I harmed you and I am sorry,’ he said to Marguerite. In French.

Marguerite blinked in surprise. His accent was appalling, but he spoke her language. It did not occur to her until much later to wonder how he knew which tongue to address her in. She managed a small smile and replied in rapid French, reiterating that she was unharmed.

Duncan slipped his arm about her shoulder, drawing her close. It was a gross indiscretion to touch her so intimately before they were wed. He glowered at the Earl before guiding Marguerite back to the fireplace. He pressed her gently on to a stool.

‘I told you that staying beside me was the safest course of action.’

‘I’m not hurt,’ she protested. ‘I fell from a tree once and landed much harder than that, without injury. I am quite hardy.’

‘Nevertheless, you had best sit here where I can guard you.’

He called for more wine and bustled round, gathering ladies of the court to sit with her. His anger had subsided and the charming, solicitous man had returned. Despite his vows of guarding her, to Marguerite’s relief he only lingered at her side until she was supplied with wine and a dish of sugared fruits before he excused himself and left the hall in the company of his cousin.

Marguerite allowed herself to be cosseted, and listened to the praise heaped upon him. She nodded as she was told how lucky she was to be betrothed to such a gallant and well-looking man, but said nothing. She had never seen Duncan so incensed as when he had faced the Earl. His anger at seeing her predicament and his protectiveness over another man touching her should be reassuring, but instead made her stomach curdle. She would have to try very hard once they were married not to invoke that anger.

She sat meekly as she had been bidden and stared towards the seething mass of men, flailing and leaping around in the centre of the room, but could not see Lord Glenarris. The dancing showed no sign of coming to an end when Marguerite eventually excused herself and made her way—with more care than previously to avoid the dancers—out of the hall.

The night was very cold. She breathed deeply, relishing the freshness after the stifling atmosphere in the Great Hall. She had intended to return to her bedchamber, but instead strolled the short walk to the gate in the wall. It was locked now, but even if it had swung open, to venture through at that time of night would be foolhardy. Instead she leaned her forehead against it, took hold of the iron bars and looked up into the night. The sky was black as pitch, but clear, and the sky was awash with stars. Marguerite sighed in contentment at the sight of the unending vastness of the sky. For the first time in the night her heart was at peace.

It did not last long. The serenity was spoiled by a needle-sharp pain in her neck. One of the never-ending swarm of midges had slipped beneath her veil and bitten her. She slapped at it angrily and hissed, tossing her head to try rid herself of the plague of buzzing, biting monstrosities.

‘Ugh! Will you horrid creatures never cease to torment me?’

‘They’ll die when the frost comes,’ said a voice in French.

Marguerite jumped, her heart leaping to her throat. Lord Glenarris was standing almost where he had been when he had seen her earlier in the evening. He leaned against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded. He had been obscured by the shadows that fell between the circles of light from the flickering brands set in sconces at intervals along the wall. He had obviously chosen his position with care not to be seen.

‘Twice in one day we meet here,’ he remarked.

‘Were you following me?’ Marguerite asked suspiciously.

‘No.’

He replied in his own language this time. Perhaps the limits of his French had been reached. Marguerite was vaguely impressed that he knew enough of her language to understand what she had said at all.

‘I was too hot inside and growing weary of dancing. I’ve been out here for a while now. You walked straight past me.’

He pushed himself from the wall in one fluid movement and walked towards Marguerite with the same vigour that he had displayed on the dance floor, arms swinging as he took long strides towards her. Conversing unchaperoned with a man to whom she had not been introduced, never mind one who had assaulted her—albeit unintentionally—would be breaking all the rules of etiquette Marguerite had been taught. She should have walked away, but something compelled her to remain exactly where she was: the way he moved, the way he held her eye and grinned, a slight swagger to his walk. She wasn’t sure exactly.

Marguerite stood, hands clasped together inside her wide sleeves, face upturned until Lord Glenarris was by her side, both unable and unwilling to break eye contact with him. He had spread his coloured cloth wider across his shoulders so it acted as a cloak and partly obscured the brocade doublet. His hair fell about his eyes and he appeared a confusing blend of untamed wildness and civilised manners. It was intriguing, to say the least.

He stood beside her and looked out through the iron bars. ‘Were you intending to slip out of the grounds again? I wouldn’t recommend it at this time of night. The curfew in the city is long past and anyone out now will not be your friend.’

She almost told him of nights when she and her brother had sneaked out of their father’s chateau and watched revellers in the roadside inn, of afternoons creeping through the woodlands or walking for hours along the riverbank. She resisted. She had not even shared that private side of herself with Duncan so this coarse stranger had no right to learn it.

‘Did you understand what I said to the moucheron?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘How well do you speak French?’

‘Not very well.’ His face broke into a wide grin. He laughed, showing even teeth. ‘I think accompanied by the flapping hands and tone, the meaning was clear enough.’

‘They are horrible,’ Marguerite said as another swarm of the small, black creatures surrounded them. ‘I hate them.’

He folded his arms across his chest and stared down at her with a grave look on his face. ‘You seem to hate a lot of things. I watched you from across the hall when you arrived and during the meal. You did not look as though you were enjoying yourself at all. Was it the company you were keeping or something else?’

A shiver caused by some sensation she could not quite identify ran down the length of Marguerite’s back. Uneasiness at the thought of being watched unawares, but also a budding excitement that she had caught his attention. She was halfway to answering before it occurred that he was deliberately goading her to speak indiscreetly. There was some animosity between the Earl and the McCrieffs beyond the granting of land. Marguerite did not particularly care to learn the reason, but she bridled at the idea a stranger to her might try to entice her into disloyalty to the man she was betrothed to.

‘This sort of evening is not what I was expecting when I came to Scotland,’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘How were your expectations of my country different?’

Marguerite frowned, biting her lip as she thought of the most tactful way to respond. His eyes flickered from her eyes down to her mouth and a keen expression crossed his face. Her pulse speeded up and she stopped biting her lips, not wanting to draw his attention to them any further in case he decided to steal a kiss.

‘I had been led to believe that although Scottish men are rough and plain spoken, the court of King James was a centre of culture and learning, of science and arts. That he filled it with poets and musicians from all parts of Europe. I was told I would find it not very different to home.’

The Earl’s expression darkened. ‘Aye, it was until recently. It will be again, no doubt, given time, but James has been dead only ten days. The country is in mourning for our King. You can’t expect life to continue as if nothing has happened.’

‘I did not mean to criticise. But this, this...’ She waved her hand in the direction of the Great Hall where the dancing was still taking place. ‘That roughness appeared more like a battle than a dance.’

‘You can’t have spent much time in the company of men, I expect. You need to understand that most of these men have been in battle all too recently. Many have lost fathers or sons, brothers or kinsmen, some have lost all.’ The Earl looked away, jaw jutting out and lips downward. ‘I think you could find it in your heart to excuse their wildness.’

When he looked back at her again, misery was etched on his face. Marguerite’s heart pitched in her breast. Didn’t she long to scream until her voice was hoarse and the grief that consumed her burned away? Her beloved mother was only two months dead and Marguerite woke every morning with wet eyes.

‘Forgive me, my lord. I did not think.’

She wondered for whom the Earl was mourning to speak with such raw pain and who would comfort him. She reached a hand to his forearm. His head jerked down to look and she pulled it away hastily, acutely aware she had transgressed.

‘Goodnight, mademoiselle.’

Lord Glenarris swept into a low bow. He strode away, head down and arms rigid by his side until the shadows swallowed him once more.