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.
With a throbbing head and churning stomach, Ewan watched a babe of seventeen months crowned King of Scotland. James V seemed unaware of the significance of the ceremony he was the centre of, biting his fingers and wriggling about in clothes that looked far too formal and uncomfortable for a small child to endure. Ewan wondered if he even understood that his father was dead. He envied the boy if he did not. He felt as equally uncomfortable in the close-fitting doublet as the boy looked. He pulled on his high collar to loosen it and shifted on his seat, feeling queasy. The Chapel Royal was far too hot and crowded and the ceremony was unendurably unending.
Perhaps that was the intention. The nobility of Scotland would remain seated here long enough for the King to grow to adulthood and for the question of who would act as Regent to no longer be an issue.
As the bishop intoned his sermon, Ewan let his attention wander around the faces of the assembled multitude. Most of them displayed eyes that were dark ringed and complexions that were slightly waxen. The heavy drinking had gone on well into the night and Ewan had not been the only man who had indulged far too copiously the night before. Everyone had fasted before attending the coronation and he craved a cup of milk to soothe his stomach and something plain to stop it churning.
Queen Margaret knelt beside her son, stiff backed and iron faced. Now there was a woman who would not easily relinquish control over her son or the throne. The next few months would be interesting indeed. Ewan let his eyes rove further back into the congregation. Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting sat to one side of the aisle behind their mistress. They were dressed sombrely in blacks and deep, wintery colours, but among them on the final row of seats was one white headdress and veil that stood out in contrast to the darkness that surrounded it.
Ewan’s