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?’ 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
