that he found her attractive. His fingers spread along her inner wrist, resting over the soft spot where her blood thrummed through her veins. Warmth rose to her breast and neck as she discovered this was far from unwelcome. When Duncan showed interest, her body never reacted in such a way. She hoped the fascination she unaccountably felt for him was not equally clear on her face.
Before she could assure him she was unharmed, Duncan had pushed through the crowd that had gathered around them and the peace was shattered.
‘Take your hands off my woman!’
He stepped between them, his elbow coming up to jab Lord Glenarris in the ribs, and he pulled Marguerite away by the arm with considerably more roughness than the Earl had inflicted on her. Both men staggered and came up with fists swinging and angry roars as they threw themselves at each other. They collided roughly. Onlookers reacted quickly and the two men were seized by others and dragged apart.
‘Watch where you’re hurling yourself, Lochmore!’ Duncan growled, shaking himself free of Donald’s hold. His cheeks were a red almost as deep as his hair. ‘I’ll gladly break your arms if you can’t keep them under control. If you’ve hurt my bride, I might do it anyway.’
Lord Glenarris’s jaw tightened and his eyes flashed with anger. ‘Now’s not the time or place, but I’ll gladly meet you at any other.’
‘I’m not hurt,’ Marguerite said hastily. The idea that they might inflict violence on each other because of her was intolerable. ‘I was not paying attention where I was walking.’
The Earl tore his eyes from Duncan to look at Marguerite. The fury that had filled his face disappeared, replaced with concern. He held his hands up and stepped back from Duncan and was released from the three men holding him back.
‘I harmed you and I am sorry,’ he said to Marguerite. In French.
Marguerite blinked in surprise. His accent was appalling, but he spoke her language. It did not occur to her until much later to wonder how he knew which tongue to address her in. She managed a small smile and replied in rapid French, reiterating that she was unharmed.
Duncan slipped his arm about her shoulder, drawing her close. It was a gross indiscretion to touch her so intimately before they were wed. He glowered at the Earl before guiding Marguerite back to the fireplace. He pressed her gently on to a stool.
‘I told you that staying beside me was the safest course of action.’
‘I’m not hurt,’ she protested. ‘I fell from a tree once and landed much harder than that, without injury. I am quite hardy.’
‘Nevertheless, you had best sit here where I can guard you.’
He called for more wine and bustled round, gathering ladies of the court to sit with her. His anger had subsided and the charming, solicitous man had returned. Despite his vows of guarding her, to Marguerite’s relief he only lingered at her side until she was supplied with wine and a dish of sugared fruits before he excused himself and left the hall in the company of his cousin.
Marguerite allowed herself to be cosseted, and listened to the praise heaped upon him. She nodded as she was told how lucky she was to be betrothed to such a gallant and well-looking man, but said nothing. She had never seen Duncan so incensed as when he had faced the Earl. His anger at seeing her predicament and his protectiveness over another man touching her should be reassuring, but instead made her stomach curdle. She would have to try very hard once they were married not to invoke that anger.
She sat meekly as she had been bidden and stared towards the seething mass of men, flailing and leaping around in the centre of the room, but could not see Lord Glenarris. The dancing showed no sign of coming to an end when Marguerite eventually excused herself and made her way—with more care than previously to avoid the dancers—out of the hall.
The night was very cold. She breathed deeply, relishing the freshness after the stifling atmosphere in the Great Hall. She had intended to return to her bedchamber, but instead strolled the short walk to the gate in the wall. It was locked now, but even if it had swung open, to venture through at that time of night would be foolhardy. Instead she leaned her forehead against it, took hold of the iron bars and looked up into the night. The sky was black as pitch, but clear, and the sky was awash with stars. Marguerite sighed in contentment at the sight of the unending vastness of the sky. For the first time in the night her heart was at peace.
It did not last long. The serenity was spoiled by a needle-sharp pain in her neck. One of the never-ending swarm of midges had slipped beneath her veil and bitten her. She slapped at it angrily and hissed, tossing her head to try rid herself of the plague of buzzing, biting monstrosities.
‘Ugh! Will you horrid creatures never cease to torment me?’
‘They’ll die when the frost comes,’ 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
