A Runaway Bride For The Highlander

‘Your face is unusually flushed,’ he said. He finally took his hands from Marguerite’s arms, instead tilting her head and stroking his finger across her cheek. ‘I hope you are not growing ill.’

‘You may be right. I think I should lie down on my bed for a short while until I feel better.’

‘Then I will escort you to your chamber.’

Duncan’s eyes lit up with an expression of open craving that made Marguerite shudder, a hunger that she knew he was eager to satisfy. As they travelled towards her chamber, she reflected that he had not touched her beyond what propriety allowed, but he made no secret of the fact he desired her. The thought terrified her. It kept her awake at night. It made her want to scream whenever he touched her.

‘Rest well, my sweet,’ he said. ‘I shall be counting the hours until our wedding day. In the meantime I shall have your maids sent to assist you.’

His eyes followed Marguerite as she slipped into the room and she did not turn her back from the door until she heard the catch shut. She did not wait for the maids to arrive, but tore the hood from her head and let her black hair tumble the length of her back. She reached beneath each arm to unlace her gown and tore it off, removing her chemise until she stood clothed only in her sleeveless shift. She filled the ewer of water and began to scrub her neck and arms until they smarted, but at least she had rid herself of the sensation of Duncan’s hands.

By the time maids and two Ladies of the Queen’s Bedchamber arrived Marguerite was sitting composed on a low stool before the narrow window with her chemise on and her embroidery in her lap. The maids twittered around her like a flock of birds, brushing and scenting her hair. As Duncan had predicted, the women were more interested in the forthcoming wedding than the coronation of King James. Now the babe was their monarch they were unable to coo over him as they had done previously. They talked of the wedding feast, Marguerite’s dress and her fortune in marrying such a husband. The little French they spoke was halting and worse than her grasp of English so Marguerite was able to shut out most of their conversation and retreat into her head until she could bear it no longer and dismissed them, claiming a headache.

The room was stifling and she felt restless. It was the time of afternoon when Marguerite’s mother would have escaped her pain in a drugged slumber. Marguerite had relished the hour or more of freedom to roam outside and it was as if an internal hourglass had tipped, drawing her outside. She dressed and made her way out of the King’s House and along her customary route to the small gate in the wall that led to the path out of the castle. She paused as she drew near, half-expecting to see Ewan Lochmore waiting for her as he had done the night before, but he was nowhere to be seen. Presumably he was still inside the Great Hall, singing songs about doxies and tanners.

After passing through the gate, the path wound down and around the front of the castle, away from the vertical cliffs and towards the flatter, rougher ground below. From here she was able to walk through the knee-length tangle of bushes and weeds towards what had once been a formal garden. She had discovered it on the second day in Stirling. This place alone reminded her of her home and her mother’s gardens full of lilies and irises stretching down to the lake. As she walked she began to hum the song she had been unable to complete. Now she was alone she could allow her grief to emerge. A small knoll of thick grass faced over the town below and it was here Marguerite spent her days. When she arrived now, she discovered it was already occupied.

The Earl of Lochmore was sitting on the bracken. He had his back to Marguerite and sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands cupping his chin as he stared out over Stirling. She would have fled, but he looked round as she approached.

They stared at each other.

‘Why are you sitting in my spot?’ Marguerite demanded. It was unbearable to think that her refuge had been discovered and invaded by this man of all people. ‘Are you spying on me?’

Lord Glenarris unfurled himself from his huddle like a long-limbed marionette being taken from a case. He faced her and ran his hand through his hair. ‘I wondered when I came here whether this was where you had been creeping away to. No, I’m not spying on you, or waiting for you.’