A Runaway Bride For The Highlander. Elisabeth Hobbes

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СКАЧАТЬ wept when her father told her she was to marry a man of thirty-five, she was thankful that Duncan, with his deep blue velvet doublet and close cut hose, seemed to possess an air of sophistication that would not be out of place in the French court.

      She realised Duncan was speaking and she had not been paying attention.

      ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking of the peace of the chapel and my mind wandered.’

      This was closer to a lie and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Duncan smiled again, though with a touch less warmth, Marguerite noticed. He bent over her, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to see into his face.

      ‘I said that to prefer prayer over a feast seems overly devout in one so young. You should stay close to me now we are here. We will be eating before long.’

      She nodded meekly and looked down demurely. She had no appetite to speak of.

      She looked away and as she did her eye fell on a figure that was standing at the other side of the room. Her breath caught, her ears began to buzz and she felt as though she might faint. It was the man from the courtyard and he was staring right at her.

      Their eyes met briefly. His flickered in recognition and the muscles at the side of his mouth twitched. She thought he was going to smile, but his expression remained solemn. His brows knitted. He crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side slightly, regarding her with only a little less curiosity than he had in the courtyard. Her cheeks grew hot again and a faint fluttering in her belly spread out through her torso. It felt as though he was slowly drawing his fingers across the inside of her ribs in a caress that reached to her heart itself. She looked away, dropping her eyes down demurely and hoping that would be the end of it.

      * * *

      Duncan spent the greater part of the meal talking to Donald, who sat at her other side, and Marguerite was left in peace. She tried to muster enthusiasm for the dripping trenchers of roast venison and beef and platters of goose and pigeon that passed before her. She sighed, craving the freshness of delicate white asparagus with lemon sauce, or the gigot of lamb with red and black peppercorns that had been her favourite dish at home rather than yet another night of greasy meat lacking in sauce or spice.

      When she had eaten as much as she could stomach, she spent her time looking around to see if she could recognise any of the faces about her. The man from the courtyard was sitting at the furthest end of the table at the other side. Marguerite watched him as he ate. He was solemn faced, bordering on surly, and kept his head down and his wine cup close as he devoured a great plate of beef. He spoke only occasionally to the men on either side of him and Marguerite only noticed him smiling twice. The men all wore the same pattern of plaid so she decided they must belong to the same clan.

      * * *

      The meal was drawing to a close when the grave-faced man sitting at the centre of the high table stood and began to speak. These men were the General Council of Scotland, the noblemen who had survived the recent battle against the English. A hush fell on the hall.

      ‘The Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, His Grace the Duke of Rothesay will be crowned King James V tomorrow. The matter of the Regency will be decided forthwith. Tonight we gather and remember those we have lost.’

      He paused as a great noise that began as a groan and transformed into a cheer surged around the hall. The man smiled, acknowledging the mix of emotions that all men must be feeling.

      ‘The Parliament has been in session for the past two days. We have decreed that honours will be announced tonight so that tomorrow’s coronation may proceed with each man in his rightful place.’

      He explained that new titles would be created to compensate for the loss of life in the recent battle, that some lands would be granted to them and others were to be presented to existing noblemen. A black-robed man sitting at the nearest table began to read from a long list detailing which land would pass to which surviving man. Most of the names meant nothing to Marguerite, but she listened in case McCrieff was mentioned.

      ‘The estate between Loch Carran and Gailsyth that was in the possession of William McNab, Fourth Earl GlenCarran, is to be granted to Ewan Lochmore, Third Earl of Glenarris.’

      Donald swore beneath his breath and his usually mild expression was thunderous. Duncan leaned past Marguerite to grasp him by the wrist.

      ‘Is that bad?’ Marguerite asked.

      Duncan whipped his head round and Marguerite recoiled at the anger she saw directed at her. She fumbled with a piece of bread. Duncan seemed to gather his thoughts. He patted her hand, then reached for his wine and drank deeply.

      ‘It is...unexpected. That land was promised to my cousin in the event of McNab’s death at Flodden. Now it is to pass to that young pup.’

      Duncan nodded contemptuously towards the man from the courtyard. He was sitting at a table among a group who were congratulating him on his good fortune with hearty thumps to the shoulder. He looked remarkably solemn for a man who had been granted lands unexpectedly.

      Marguerite eyed him with interest now the attention of the room was on him and it was acceptable to do so openly. He was beardless, with angular cheekbones, and his light brown hair was shorter than the men surrounding him, curling slightly below a narrow chin with a small dimple in it. He was still young and if Duncan had been the same age as this man, Marguerite had no doubt her fiancé would be the better looking of the two. Lord Glenarris was handsome in a lean-faced way, but what really distinguished him from the other men in the room was his eyes. Oh, they were the reason Marguerite’s heart raced and a previously unknown sensation woke within her. They were so very bright blue. They were currently grave, but Marguerite could imagine how appealing they would look when he was amused and the fine lines at the edge crinkled.

      So he was an earl. She didn’t know where the places mentioned were and his name meant nothing to her. She should feel the injustice dealt to Duncan, but the glee on Earl of Glenarris’s face was delightful to behold and even though she did not know him, Marguerite was happy for him. Further names were announced. Donald McCrieff scowled when his name was called.

      ‘A spit of barren rocks!’ he said petulantly. ‘Why did I not receive the McNab land? You told me you could arrange...’

      ‘Be silent, you fool!’

      The fury in Duncan’s voice made Marguerite quake. His hand tightened on Donald’s forearm. They glanced towards Marguerite, who gave a simpering smile and twirled her fingers around her sleeve. She had learned early that men spoke more freely when they believed a woman did not have the wit to listen. She tried to ignore Duncan’s whitening knuckles as he gripped. The hand that would lift hers so gently had become a claw.

      ‘I will not let this insult pass,’ Donald muttered. ‘There will be a reckoning.’

      He glared across the room at the Earl, who looked deep in thought, his blue eyes unfocused. A chill ran down Marguerite’s spine. She felt the urge to warn Lord Glenarris. Of what, she was not certain, but she knew that Donald and Duncan McCrieff meant him nothing but ill.

       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 СКАЧАТЬ