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.
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?’