A Runaway Bride For The Highlander. Elisabeth Hobbes

      ‘McCrieff.’

      The girl was looking at them, surprised by the openly hostile tones they spoke in.

      ‘I hope you are not assaulting my bride again.’ McCrieff held up his hands in a parody of submissiveness. ‘Wait. I jest! I jest!’

      Ewan eyed him coldly, wishing he had a sword to hand. ‘I merely stopped to speak with her to confirm she had not been injured last night,’ he said.

      Duncan looked suspiciously between Ewan and his bride. She spoke rapidly in French, too quickly for Ewan to follow every word, but he understood she was confirming what he had said. It gave him a curious pleasure that she was joining him in the lie.

      If Ewan had to gamble on anyone betraying Scotland, he’d bet every piece of silver plate in Castle Lochmore it would be a McCrieff. He tried to curb his prejudice, reminding himself that he had no evidence and the only reason for this was the longstanding enmity between the clans.

      Duncan was the middle son of the Chief’s brother. He spent his time travelling around Malcolm’s lands, assisting when his cousin Donald was not capable, or venturing abroad or across the border into England. By any measure Duncan was nobody, yet he had risen high and risen fast. He’d had the knack of being in the right place at the right time. Some men were born with a kiss from Fortune herself. Duncan McCrieff was one such man, it seemed, and now he had won that delicate little blossom of a woman who looked up at him with nervous eyes and lips that were quivering.

      ‘My congratulations on your betrothal,’ Ewan said. ‘It must be five years since Elizabeth died.’

      ‘Almost six,’ McCrieff said, referring to the death of his first wife. ‘My congratulations to you also. You’ve acquired yet more land, I see. You’ll be hard pushed to keep it all under control.’

      If Ewan hadn’t genuinely feared the same thing he’d have had his dagger at McCrieff’s throat for the slur without hesitation.

      ‘Fortunately there are men I can trust to ensure the tenants are well cared for and safe from attack by raiders.’ He let that hang there. They both knew it was from McCrieff men the Lochmore farmers were most at risk where their lands shared boundaries. ‘It’s a shame you weren’t equally fortunate yesterday.’

      Duncan smirked. ‘I don’t crave land. It’s my wealth I’m trying to increase. It’s less bothersome to keep control of and doesn’t require me to throw a costly feast at it every autumn and spring.’

      Ewan laughed. The twice-yearly gatherings of as many of the clan as could make it was one of his favourite traditions. ‘Some of us enjoy the feast and dancing. Perhaps your new wife would enjoy it, too.’

      ‘I think Mademoiselle Vallon has experienced enough of your dancing.’ Duncan gazed down at her and patted her cheek affectionately. Ewan tried not to show his disgust openly at the sight of a man of thirty-five leering at a girl young enough to be his daughter. Mademoiselle Vallon simpered. Disdain crept into Ewan’s heart that she could appreciate such behaviour. To think he had been on the verge of feeling sorry for her when, with her fine clothes and jewellery and silly opinions of his country, she was nothing more than a pampered pet.

      ‘Where is your cousin?’ he asked Duncan.

      ‘Donald left at first light for Castle McCrieff to take news of the land he was granted. I’m sure he will pass on your good fortune to Malcolm.’

      Ewan was sure of it, too, and that the reaction would not be favourable. The land he had been granted was at the meeting point of both the McCrieff and Lochmore borders. It was fertile land further inland from Kilmachrie Glen and would provide a good income.

      ‘I’ll be leaving myself in the morning,’ he said, preparing to bow farewell. ‘I need to distribute the alms to my tenants.’

      ‘We’ll be staying a few days longer,’ Duncan said. ‘I’m interested to see who becomes Regent for our new King.’

      ‘It will be Albany, surely,’ Ewan said, his intended departure delayed by the opportunity to discuss the impending regency. There had been such great losses at Flodden that there seemed to be barely anyone left who was able to stand to the role. ‘He is closest to the throne.’

      ‘Possibly the widowed Queen will wish to rule in her son’s name,’ Duncan suggested.

      ‘An English Regent?’

      ‘Aye, it will be unpopular at first, but she has friends here and the backing of her brother in England.’

      ‘But a woman!’ Ewan scoffed.

      ‘Why should she not be Regent? Are women incapable?’ Mademoiselle Vallon had spoken. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes were bright. She looked at him sternly, her straight, dark eyebrows coming together, and Ewan was astonished to see fierce intelligence in the dark brown eyes that flashed in his direction. It gave her an earnest air that he found surprisingly endearing. He didn’t want to argue as much as coax her into agreeing with him.

      ‘Do you think the English Widow Queen should be Regent for Scotland?’ Ewan asked, giving her his full attention. ‘Isn’t your allegiance towards a French faction?’

      She looked delighted that he had answered. She raised herself to her tallest, straight backed and chin tilted up. ‘Why should I feel more allegiance towards my country than to my sex? Besides, your country is my country now, or will be before long.’

      She tailed off, her fierce expression replaced by a furrowed brow and look that Ewan could only interpret as disgust. His hackles rose to hear her casting yet another slur on Scotland. She seemed to gather her thoughts and dropped her eyes.

      ‘I merely question your belief that a woman is not capable of ruling.’

      ‘You are best suited to ruling our hearts, Marguerite, my sweet. Best keep to your sewing and playing. To give you our kingdoms would be unwise.’ Duncan gave an indulgent laugh and patted her hand again. Ewan wondered that she did not ball her fist and give him a blow to the ear for his cloying pawing at her. She merely gave him another simpering smile, but her eyes were dull and placid. Ewan wondered how often her intelligence was allowed out to play and once more felt a stab of frustration that she was to be married to Duncan, who would not appreciate such forthrightness in a wife.

      ‘As for the Queen,’ Duncan continued, ‘while her husband lived he guided her. I am sure she will be able to make her case well. She has friends as well as enemies at court who will doubtless support her claim.’

      ‘Do you count yourself as one of her friends?’ Ewan asked. ‘Your first wife came from England with Queen Margaret. You must have some inclination to believe she has a claim.’

      ‘Ah, but as you can see, my new bride is French.’ Duncan smiled, but his eyes were steel. ‘No one could doubt my support of the Auld Alliance with such a treasure at my side.’

      Ewan smiled back, equally frostily. ‘An admirable cause for a wedding celebration.’

      ‘It would be, if I had not fallen deeply in love the first time I saw her and begged her father to give her to me.’

      The future bride gave them both a brittle smile that did not reach her eyes.

      ‘Then I wish you good fortune on your wedding,’ Ewan said. He had never wished anything less.

      ‘That reminds me, my sweet,’ Duncan said. ‘I was telling Her Grace how well you play the clavichord and she is eager to hear you. She plays herself, as you know.’

      Mademoiselle Vallon shrunk back. ‘I don’t think...that is... I have not played for a month at least. I am sure to disappoint.’

      The expression of modest denial of her skills could be an affectation, but Ewan thought not.

      ‘That won’t matter in the slightest.’

      Duncan took her arm under his. She glanced at Ewan in appeal, but as much as